july 16th: coincidence or Christ?

i was going to let the day pass without pointing out that it's special.

but that's hard.

(okay, it's hard for me).

because special days are special days. and i can't help but think, they are worth mentioning. at least a little. at least to someone.

it's july 16th...

and our bella woke this morning in silky blue pjs with bright pink flowers. barely awake, she curled up in my lap and smelled like sunshine from last night's bath. 

she ate raisin bran and apple slices for breakfast.

she watched cartoons.

she played with her dolls.

i painted her toenails pink.

she had swim lessons with her pal, emme.

she picked strawberries from "her bush."

normal things. all of it good and beautiful, but nothing special about this day so far.

looking at today it's not a day that looks too differently than any other summer day. but it is. 

it's one of the days that we celebrate. even kind of quietly.

i whole-heartedly believe God is at work every day. He doesn't take a break on mondays or fridays or holidays. He's always behind the scene orchestrating and ordaining our lives. each and every day.

but on july 16th i have to think God was especially inspired.

it was on july 16th, 5 years ago, bella was found in a stairwell. it was her finding day. attached to bella was a letter from her biological parents who clearly said they loved her, but couldn't care for her medical needs and were leaving her in the hope that someone "with loving arms" would help her. can you imagine this day for those dear ones? even now ... all these years later, i can't help but stop and think about them. think about the sacrifice they made for their daughter. they left her so someone could find her. not because they wanted to, but because they needed to do. 

it was on july 16th, 4 years ago, our family had made the final decision and written a letter to friends asking them to pray for a little girl in china whom we had fallen in love with and had plans to pursue. we, like her biological parents, also humbly asked for help knowing we couldn't do this on our own either. we felt overwhelmed, unsure, ill-equipped. we knew we needed our community to come alongside us and walk with us. 

and...

it was on july 16th--3 years ago--rick and i boarded a plane in atlanta and headed for china to meet our new daughter. we didn't orchestrate that travel date.  not even the plane ticket -- that was set by china approving us for adoption and the adoption agency determining our flight time and day.  i'll never forget the feeling when i connected all those dots a couple of years ago.  i wrote about it then, but felt today, like i just had to tell y'all again.

because it doesn't just speak to the awesomeness of bella's adoption.  it speaks to the awesomeness of our God. it speaks to His incredibly perfect plan.

why is it sometimes easier to believe in coincidences than it is to believe in Christ?

maybe that's why i'm writing today. you guys know bella's story.  y'all think it's pretty cool. i don't have to convince you of that. but maybe today, you need a reminder of how good God is and how grand are his plans. even when we can't see just how He's working.  He is. oh, He is.  and friend, if you're ever tempted to doubt your Creator's concern for the details of your life...

think about bella and think about july 16th.

it wasn't a coincidence.

it wasn't a cool occurrence.

it was Christ.

"and we know that in all things God works for the 
good of those who love him,
 who have been called according to his purpose." 
 ~ romans 8:28

a weekend away

birthday girl waits at home.
i must remember to grab her cake on my way from the airport.
she likes chocolate.  my middle girl has turned into a teenager while i was away for the weekend.

kids do that, you know.  look away for even a tiny minute and tiny child turns teen.

it is early, so early, on this palm sunday morning as i sit pressed up against rain-dripping glass in a sleepy south carolina airport.  time to leave. time to head home to birthday girl and her sisters, their wild brothers and, of course, a rather worn out husband.  i’ve been gone maybe a little longer than a mother should be. leaving for a day takes planning; four days, takes much planning and even more praying.  my family has been generous with me:  gifting me with this time away, this time to go back south; to be warm in the weather and warmer still in the dear friendships i’ve missed in these 8 months past.

rain slips fast down the massive window, overwhelming the wisp of gutter below and, oh, i know that great-overwhelming. i know it well.  i, too, am all dripping and wet this morning as i leave behind these friends and this place and this chance to feel deeply the deep, deep love of Jesus.  my eyes watch water fall wild, while lips taste the salt of my own tears on this side of glass.

soul-overwhelmed.  flooded full-up with what His filling brings. what it always brings when we open our thirsty selves to it. what He always desires to bring when we open our fist-tight hands to Him.  soul-overwhelmed in the watering of His overwhelming love. unrelenting rain.  the shower of His dripping goodness.

and, oh my!  how He has showered goodness all over these women this weekend.

why must we travel away to sometimes find what is always available anywhere we are?

it works that way, i suppose.  perhaps it is in the taking us out of that which tangles us up: our own invented distractions.  taking us away from that which tackles us back into our own made-up busy-ness.  on occasion, we must go away.  Jesus, Himself, showed us the need to go. “in the early morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house, and went away ...” mark 1:35.

even Jesus traveled far to be close.

a long weekend away is good for the soul.  i probably can’t say the same for the state of my home.  i will return to large piles of laundry.  i will return to the barrage of children who will wrangle and wiggle for my attention; filling me in on the many years i’ve missed in these eternal four days away.  filling me in on their world.  filling me up with their words.  the refrigerator might be empty and floors, undoubtedly, unswept,  but it will be home and it will be good and i am thankful they let me step away for a moment to breath something different. brooms and groceries can come later. birthday girl, her siblings and sweet husband, will come soon.

and i sit pressed up against airport glass, leaning hard into the emotion of my last few days. it’s hard to put into words as i prepare to travel back across these almost spring skies.  i mentioned in my last post i’d be in the south this week for my former church’s women’s retreat.  it was a chance to be with so many of my most precious friends. a chance to be with so many cool women - 650 ladies in attendance!  a chance to sit in pajamas sipping our coffee or cups of wine.  drinking in the beauty of our togetherness. a chance to talk fast and laugh hard and, yes, even a chance to cry soft.  have you ever attended a women’s retreat?  there’s nothing quite like them.  and because my dear gals were pretty much in charge of the event, i was able to hurry along with them and help out. give this girl a job!

this weekend i had the chance to stand at the top of a 20 foot ladder and help friends hang painted canvases across the back drape of the main stage. canvases beautifully announcing the weekend’s theme:  be still.  be loved.  be his.  i had a chance to arrange greenery and gift baskets, decorate old doors, move boxes and run errands.  it is a treat to be involved,  a treasure to be included. i have been gone awhile, but when i came back, they welcomed me with tasks and something to do.  they know me.   i love these girls and i love serving with them, shoulder to shoulder. heart to heart.

holly, ann, sue and me!

i had the chance to hang out with ann voskamp this weekend. i loved getting to know her and her wonderful assistant, holly.  i loved meeting this woman, whose words have inspired and encouraged me in ways too many to count.  eating dinner at her table and adjusting her mic and chatting casually with her as we traveled to and fro throughout the weekend, a pleasure.  i had a chance to hear her heart and witness up close the loveliness of her spirit, not just through black words on the page of a best selling book, but through the blue windows of her eyes. i had the chance to see her tender tears when she heard the story of a child’s cancer and a mother’s pain.  i had a chance to stand singing songs alongside her, hands lifted high to the God we both praise.  pinch me, did this really just happen?  Jesus, thank you for the time to know a kindred spirit, a fellow lover of words, a sister in Christ.

and then to sit under her speaking this weekend. oh my! to hear her words slice clean through the callous of my too-busy body.  to fall silent and still under the pouring out of Jesus as He poured into ann. to watch a woman transformed into God's vessel spur on her sisters in their life transformation of gratitude.  the weeping of the many women in the room.  the rejoicing of the saints in heaven.  the glorifying of God in His goodness.   it was so much, not too much, just so much. all good.

and the wild beat of rain on a sleepy, south carolina, sunday morning overwhelms me.

it is time to leave.  my family needs me and wants me home and i, even more, need them and want to be home. as we begin to board,  a part of me wonders how this mere aircraft will ever fit all the fullness of love stirred up in me on this weekend away. i am so heavy with it. not the burden, but the great blessing.

and even in my doubt,  i know how my God works:  i need leave nothing behind, for He will stretch it all across the skies, a beautiful bridge in the unrelenting rain of His unrelenting love.

and i don't have to leave behind or forget the fullness of this weekend away, nor the warmth of these friends, nor the depth of His love.

... and especially not the chocolate birthday cake for daughter turned teen.


all of it, transformation.

how blessed we all were to have laura story and her band lead us in worship.   

one of the funnier moments of the retreat was when ann asked us to do a "trust fall" with laura!

a march snow day

it's march 5th and we finally have our first snow day.  you know it's bad out when they cancel school in minnesota.  this is the very first of the season,  but it's not like we haven't had our share of snow.  oh my goodness, no.   we have had snow on the ground since november.  we've had lots and lots of snow on the ground since november. in fact, we haven't even been able to see the ground since november.  but today, march 5th,  is our first official snow day.  it started falling yesterday morning and pretty much hasn't stopped.


everything is buried in heavy white -- gigantic globs of gooey sugar,  frosting every square inch of the outdoors.  i'm at my usual morning post near the fireplace checking as one school after another closes.  preschool closed.  grade school closed.  high school closed.  and those children who should be sleeping in are instead whooping and hollering around the house like it's christmas morning.  i shush them, attempting to send them all back to bed.  they can sleep in. curl up with a good book. snuggle down under the weight of warm blankets and stay there for as long as they like.  suddenly, we have nowhere to be.  magically, we are homebound. pancakes, the only thing on our agenda. and it's bliss.

but they don't go back.  because it's a snow day.

and who doesn't like a snow day?

who doesn't like to take a break in the middle of a busy week and be told, you must stay home and do nothing!  we all need that kind of pause.  it's more than just a day off of school, it's a gift to be grounded, at least on occasion.

in a few minutes i'll go into the kitchen and make chocolate chip or blackberry pancakes, pour another cup of coffee. i'll begin our day slow and quiet and soft  (if i can get these kids back to their beds)! as i'm typing this post, i watch connor with face pressed up against the glass of backdoor.  the snow is impressive.  even after weathering a full winter here, it is still something to see.  connor turns 10 this week, and we declare this snow day in honor of his birthday. double digits.  i bet we are knee deep into the double digit inches of snow today, as well.  it's a gift.

 
my thoughts could easily turn to the warm weather of the south.  i know full well what march 5th feels like in atlanta.  i remember many a first week in march playing or picnicking at the park...sweaty with spring heat.  i can picture the yellow of daffodils and forsythia and the glorious sun.  i could go there in my memory and emotion and feel the grumble begin hard in my gut -- if i let it.  i won't let it though.  my friend, carla, surprised me last week by leaving a pot of daffodils and some wheat seed and soil on my doorstep.  it was such a sweet gesture. she knows winter is wearing long all of a sudden for this woman.  those beautiful daffodils are on my kitchen counter this morning, sunnier than ever with the backdrop of pure white out the window.  are they mocking me? it would be easy to imagine their sunny faces laughing at my winter wrinkled brow.  but no.  only if i let them.  will they mock or will they encourage? the choice is mine.  i've been taking a photography class this past month and recently we had an assignment on focus.  focus changes everything, doesn't it?

so today we will probably sled or build snow forts or walk out on the frozen lake.  again.  we will slide our feet into boots which are looking like they've seen better days.  we will pile on coats which thrilled us in their november newness, but which have now lost the novelty.  we will locate our mismatched mittens and gloves...whatever we can find.  we will make our 10 zillionth cup of hot chocolate and add our 10 zillionth log to the fire.  and though winter in march can feel old and frayed and frustrating, we will do our best to keep our eyes on the yellow of kitchen-counter daffodils.

we will celebrate our snow day.

yes, this major snowfall, this march madness tells us that winter is long in minnesota. extremely long.  we had heard about this very thing.  we knew it.  we now know it, firsthand.  but we also know it is only a season.  God has given us seasons in life and some certainly do feel longer than others.  no matter where we live, no matter what our climate,  we all live in the occasional long season of life. much of the length depends on what we are willing to see.  daffodils or snowflakes.   snow day gift or snow day grumble.

the boys are already outside.

it's time to go make those pancakes.

"for everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven."  ~ ecclesiastes 3:1

no picnic happening here today.

by 10 am the boys had their tunnel built.  

and not that we make these choices perfectly.  i assure you we have also had our share of grumbling.  just yesterday i put up this picture of protest on facebook.  grumble. grumble.  and today, my friend, peggy (who happens to live in minnesota, but winter in florida)! posted this youtube video "the minnesota song." on my facebook wall.  sometimes we just have to choose to find some humor in it all.  

april 19th: the act of forgetting and the art of remembering

it was april 19th, one year ago today, when i sat beneath a giant tree in my friend's front yard and heard "jody, i'm sorry, but the tumor is malignant."  

was that really only a year ago? it seems just yesterday and yet, in a strange way, it also seems somehow a lifetime ago. 
i won't quickly forget that sunny april day. 
those blue skies. 
that giant oak. 
the feel of the phone awkward on my ear. 
the tears hot on my cheeks.  
the breath leaving my body hard and the friends sitting close by, holding my hand tight.  

that day marked me. seared something deep within. it changed a lot.

but now a year later, after surgery and medicine and too many doctor appointments to count, life has gone on. i have plenty of days where i wake and don't even think about the ugly C word. somedays i make it all the way to dinner without giving it a thought. sure, when i pop that tiny white pill in my mouth each evening, i am quickly reminded. but we've moved away from the gut wrenching fear of last spring, from the all consuming cancer and what ifs.

there are absolutely still things i worry about. my friend, beverly (also diagnosed), and i text back and forth at times about the "what ifs" and the worries.  we probably shouldn't do that.  as grown women, we know better...but we have found a little bit of shared comfort in each other's affirming words, "yeah, i think about that too..." we say to each other.  even a good prognosis has its share of concerns and anxieties.  it just does.

this year may have been physically altering for me, but even more so, it has been emotionally, mentally and spiritually altering.  it was a year which taught me the importance of clinging to truth...not just positive thoughts and good wishes, but truth.  in situations like this, boy is the difference crystal clear.   and how thankful i was throughout this journey to know i had a God who was completely in charge...absolutely in control.

just last week our 12 year old, sarah, had surgery -- tonsils and adenoids removed. and as we were driving to her surgery, she was sharing some of her fears about the day ahead.  at age 12 she verbalized the fact that trusting God was in control meant knowing He could even choose to take her life at any time. wow. where do you go with that conversation on an early monday morning in rush hour traffic? 

we had no option but to dig in and address it — "yes, that's exactly what it means. God is in control of each and every breath. He knows the number of hairs on our head and the number of days in our life."  i get why that can be a little scary. but let's talk about the alternative: 
He doesn't know?
no one is in charge?  
life just happens?  
everything is random? 
there is no plan? 
we have no purpose?  
i don't know about you, but to me, that seems infinitely worse.

i've written a lot this year. more than ever before. the stuff just keeps coming, but i'm not surprised.  a year ago, early in the days of first diagnosis, one morning in my devotions, i stumbled across a verse from the psalms: "i will not die but live, and will proclaim what the LORD has done." ~ psalm 118:17

i'm not sure i had ever seen that verse before. but on that morning, it felt like a special message from God.  this verse sort of became my banner.  my battle cry. it became my lifeline.  i clung to it often.  repeated it to myself frequently and relied on it heavily. my oldest daughter, emily, painted that verse for me on mother's day last year, a week before my surgery.  it rested on the armoire in my bedroom and in those days of recovery where i had to lie still and behave myself, i kept my eyes fixed on that verse. soon after, i began writing more than ever before. post after post came pouring out.  part of my healing-soul.  part of my proclaiming-God.

perhaps some of you are tired of hearing from me.  "oh, it's her again. for heaven's sake, doesn't she have five children to feed or something to clean?"  but my dark dance with cancer somehow ripped wide open in me the need for words and a desire to proclaim what God has done... is doing... and will do.  honestly, i think one of the things i am most frightened by is the potential to stop talking and writing and then to forget.  because we are like that.  we are forgetters.  like the israelites in the desert cursing God, stiff-necked and scrambling for their manna, they forgot this God of their exile was the very same God of their exodus. they forgot this was the God who had parted waters and defeated pharaoh and lit the night sky with a pillar of fire -- this was the God of their rescue.  and just like them, we, too, forget what God has already done.  though there are parts about the cancer i'd like to put behind me, i don't ever want to completely forget.  i don't want to forget God's great rescue in my life. i want to move on from my cancer, but not forget what it gave me.  i want to move away from the fear, but hold tight to the lessons i learned.  i want to stay soft to the sweetness of His presence. 

when we were going through that valley, our family began to treat life dearer, closer, kinder. my kids stopped bickering for awhile. i'd really like that to continue. (especially the kid thing). i don't want to go back to that place where we take things for granted or treat each other as if we'll always be here.  but it's hard.  life returns and so does the nonchalance of hurried living. i snap at my husband and snip at my children and race through the grocery store. i grumble over grass stains and get huffy when i have too much to do. forgetting that even grass stains are a gift. and i find myself wading knee deep, again, in the ugly ungratefulness of a woman stretched thin. sometimes it seems i am almost drowning in my failure to remember.

but God remains faithful and patient with me.  and often, just on the brink of blurry living, i am reminded again of God's goodness when He gently tilts my head and turns my eyes in the direction of blessing.

the april blue sky.
a giant oak tree.
hot tears.
soft touches.
kind words.

the glimpses of loving. the gift of learning. the art of seeing. the blessing of remembering. the beauty of living.  

and a year full of healing.

april 19th.

my blessings

seeds of blessing in broken soil

thanksgiving comes at us hard sometimes.  most of us have lived lives from january to november with some kind of trial, some kind of pain, some kind of something other than sweet and easy. and we arrive in this 11th month knowing it is time to pull out our cornucopias of praise and gratitude, but it is possible, some years, our hearts just might feel more thank-empty, than thank-full.  of course there is blessing and bounty all around -- we know this.  and yet, undoubtedly, we have walked in recent sharp places. perhaps some of us this year have wrapped our arms around disappointment or disease or maybe even disaster. 

we can count the blessings of goodness:  the crunch of green apples.  the smell of spring rain. the feel of sand in our toes. the sound of laughter in our kitchens. an unexpected hug from our teen.  the clean of a bath.  the touch of a child.  the love of our spouse.  a soft hand on our shoulder.  a fire in the hearth. the snuggle of family.  fat pumpkins and golden trees and blue skies and sweet words... all beauty.  all goodness.

but can we count the blessings of hard?  the stack of dishes in sink. the whine of small toddler.  the flood at our feet.  the wayward walk of a brother.  the rejection of spouse. the dwindling bank account.  the pain of depression.  the loss of a job. the cancer. the failure. the disappointment. the struggle. the tears. the incredible crush of life... is it really all goodness? 

how might job have handled thanksgiving?  his table empty, his skin scarred, his life spinning out of control.  would he be able to speak the blessings of november after the months of mayhem and the days of pain?  even job’s oh-so encouraging wife tells him to “curse God and die!”  his friends and neighbors would surely have understood, but instead job responds, “shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?” (job 2:10).   really? i read this, and honestly,  i am baffled. how does he even find the breath to give shape to these words?  i know the wallowing pit i would have crawled into, had i been job.  but job holds true to the thanksgiving in his heart, despite the disaster in his house.  he knows God’s goodness. “i will come forth as gold” he declares. (job 23:10). how did this man who had lost everything...this man weeping and wailing...this man sitting alone and bereft in sack cloth and ashes... declare gold? 

in the past year, we have walked a bit on this kind of road. i am not sure i could even imagine a year with such high highs and such low lows.  a year ago last summer, we brought our bella home.  we were completely expecting a challenging transition and immediate medical care.  we knew her heart condition was complicated and we fully anticipated additional surgery.  but instead, 16 months ago,  we met a healthy and incredibly joyful little girl in guangzhou city china.  this little girl who had been abandoned as a baby because of her heart defects and who had been left to live 2 years in an orphanage of 3000 children...this little girl who at 18 months of age spent 4 weeks alone in a hospital recovering from life saving surgery....this little girl melted right into the hearts of our family.    we celebrated wildly in the beauty and blessing of it all.  it seemed too good to be true.  a fairytale blessing hand delivered from our gracious God.  and from our mountaintop, oh how we praised Him for His goodness.

but nine months later i was diagnosed with breast cancer.   it almost seemed too big a swing. how could this be?  within one year we experienced the breath-taking joy of adoption and the breath-stealing blaze of cancer. great good and great grief all tumbled together in a mere year.  we accepted the blessing, could we accept the hard?  that was the question which rolled around inside my head in the days of dealing with my diagnosis. 

but in this place of wondering-wandering, God began to show me how closely trouble and blessing are linked.  He used this time in my life, in my family, in our fear, to lead me to the understanding of how they go hand in hand.  for a while we felt everything in our world was turning upside down.  we felt the sharp dig of blade as He began to break up the hard ground of our comfort--and we didn’t like it. not one bit.  the crumbling hurt.  but, little by little, we began to see, though God was digging deeply into each of us, He was all the while planting seeds of beauty in the turned soil of our pain.  

many came around us.  many brought meals and encouragement and prayers.  some came to cry with us or to just be quiet with us. to love us.  blessing was growing right before our eyes.   tender.  fragile.  but clearly taking root.  life certainly isn't always gentle, but we know with certainty, God is always good and His gifts are good.  this november my family has much for which to be thankful.  it has only been a few months since that april day when we were given the earth-breaking words of breast cancer, but already there is abundant blessing and great harvest in our lives.  the true beauty of thanksgiving is in seeing both.  when we are able to acknowledge the hard stuff and yet watch God working and wonderful through it all.   He brings both for His glory.  good and hard mixing together.  and how much more rich the bounty when first our dirty hands are full of broken ground.  seeds of beauty planted in the broken soil of our lives -- evidence of God digging deep, assurance of God loving us deeply.  thanksgiving.

the thankful tree

it began at first light.  

creeping in with the dawn and rising fast with the sun.

surely it wasn't there the night before. not at bedtime prayers or goodnight kisses.  it wasn't around in the tucking in of tired children and the whispered i love you's of my exit. i didn't see even a trace ...

but when morning arrived, the grumbling came with it.  

full force. all engines firing.  complaint after complaint, coming from child after child. it was that kind of morning... you know the kind where you can't get your kids out of the car fast enough.  where the school bell can't ring soon enough. a morning where the milk tastes odd and the shower runs cold and the shoes feel tight. every one of them had something not right. something go wrong.  something to complain about, argue over, pout upon. and, for some crazy reason, they all felt i was the perfect person with which they might share their morning misery.  

i was the woman just waiting to hear their sad wednesday saga --  or so they thought. by the time they were all buckled into my backseat, i was over it.  i mean it -- D O N E.  and at 8:00 am, i was already lacking the energy to muster one more lousy lecture about gratitude. i just wanted to stop the car roadside and let them out the doors. shoo them forward into their day. fake smile,  weak wave, and mutter under my breath, sayonara kiddos!

driving back home, i felt tired in the air of their lingering words. children had exited, but their gripes still hung close. i just knew the evil one was feeling pretty triumphant about this morning's mayhem on buttercup trace. score one for the dark side. he had managed to stir us all into a spirit of complaint.  ingratitude.  thanklessness.  here we were just days into november -- the very month of thankFULLness -- and we were officially, thank-empty.  it was only november 2nd and it was only 8:30 am and i was feeling only exhausted by it all.

the morning outside my car window was looking to be perfectly beautiful. a blue and gold fall day, crisp and cool, except the ugliness  of our ingratitude had my heart in the grip of gray. and as i continued to drive home toward my morning dishes and our morning mess, my thoughts began to stir. what could i do? what could one woman, one mother, possibly do to fix her kids' grumbling?  to grab their attention ... to capture their hearts? what could i possibly do to shift us from thankless to thankful?  i was thinking immediate intervention. boot camp. shock therapy. something drastic.

but as i drove through the morning's crisp beauty, the answer became clear:  we had to start naming again. begin counting again. pick up the pen and write down the blessings. it was simple. it is simple. and yet, we forget. at least in my house, we forget. i have continued with my blue journal,  still filling it with blessings. gifts. gratitude. but oh, i am anything but faithful to it.  some days it goes neglected in the bottom of my bag or wedged between the seats in my car. some days it gets buried under school papers or pushed to the far edges of my desk -- to the far corners of my mind.  and in my carelessness and forgetfulness, i neglect the necessity of naming the grace gifts. i forget to name what's been given.

by the time i parked in our driveway, a plan was already taking shape.  it wasn't anything elaborate.  there would be no need to shop or plan for it.  no hours spent in creation.  without entering the house, bella and i headed for the backyard.  we grabbed branches from the ground.   she cheerfully tagged along. happy to be with mama and happy to pick up branches.  with arms full and toddler in tow, i entered the kitchen.  branches, vase, burlap, jute and paper collected.  now, i didn't for one minute, believe that these craft items were going to solve our issues or save our family.  they weren't the answer.  there was going to be no quick fix for us all.  but something had to be done.  even something small.  and so our thankful tree was formed.  you can see from the picture, it is a project as simple as they come.  but simple was what we needed.  just a simple reminder:  be thankful.  be grateful.  look.  list.  scratch the words on paper and scratch the gratitude in our hearts.

the afternoon arrived, bringing kids home from school and wary looks at the tree.   when i explained how we were going to spend the remainder of november hanging cards of thanksgiving on these branches, i was pleased to see their response - even the teenagers. i mean, there were a couple of sideways looks...some raised eyebrows...maybe an eye roll or two, but absolutely no argument.  no awkwardness.  i guess they know their mother well enough.  i guess the grumbling gremlins of this morning had (thankfully) departed.  

so now, each day, we (try to) take time and write down something -- just one thing -- for which we are grateful. one item. one gift.  one grace.  sometimes they write silly things -- including the husband -- and get reprimanded. "this is not a joke," i say, remembering all too well that november 2nd morning. sometimes friends come over and they write things down too.  the kids know by now, anyone crossing our thresh hold is fair game for their mother.   while the trees outside our window are quickly disrobing themselves of color, our thankful tree is adding foliage each day.  it looks different then the other trees.  and it should.

isn't this how we as christians should look -- different.  in a world that demands its fair share...in a culture that says, me first...in a time which tells us, we deserve more!...we should look different.  when the world is grey and bare and bleak in its spirit of thanklessness and discontent ... i would like to strive for the color of thanksgiving. i'd like us to be rich in our praise, aware of our gifts and lavish in our gratitude. is it possible? i am not asking if it is easy, but is it possible? my silly tree isn't going to grow grateful children, but it is a reminder to me...to all of us... we must be deliberate. intentional.  mindful.  it is not going to just happen.  we aren't exactly bent to be thankful. we don't inherit the gene. we don't come by it naturally.  we must work at it.  we must speak it.  write it.  breathe it.  and then...maybe then...just maybe then...we can live it.

i would maintain that thanks is the greatest form of thought 

and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.

gk chesterton

"be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you."

  ~ 1 thessalonians 5:18

breathing. seeing. counting.

just a month before cancer my sweet friend, karen, made me aware of a significant book - One Thousand Gifts.  i was taken with it.  head over heels.  completely smitten.  so much so,  i even wrote a review type piece in my Being Still blog, because it seemed one of those treasures i just had to share.  i couldn't help myself.  i bought copies and mailed them off across the country to the females in my family...i left copies on the doorsteps of friends... i cornered anyone i could about this book....i even convinced a group of women to take it on as our next bible study.  and we did.  in fact, we meet again tonight.


i read a lot of books each year.  it is just what i do.  i am pretty sure God isn't thrilled with every novel i pick up or every non-fiction piece i add to my bedside pile.  but i have this hunch He made certain this book was securely in my hands one month before my diagnosis.  ann voskamp is not only brilliant and eloquent, but she's encouraging.  i connected with her writing immediately.  she is a farmer's wife, a mother of six and a lover of beauty. all wonderful things to be sure.  but as much as i like her and think we'd be fast friends, it is the task she set before me which has been most inspiring.  she was dared by a friend to assemble a list of 1000 gifts:  simple blessings she found in the context of her day -- her daily day.  yes, even in her farm-and-mother-life drudgery.  she bought a journal and took the dare and with pen in hand, went hunting through her ordinary moments -  recording the treasures she came across -- one word, one image, one gift at a time.   they weren't all pollyanna-perfect, some of the things she put down on paper were hard.  hard and hurtful,  but this gal named ann deemed them blessing still.   i was wooed with her writing and challenged by this thinking.  i certainly had been taught to count my blessings - even to, as the sunday school song suggested, name them one by one.  and i did.  i do.  but there was something more in this task.  there was the chance to see all the way through to the beauty of things.  things which at first blush were anything but beautiful.


and then there was the listing.  writing things down takes effort.  it is easy to stand in the midst of my disorderly days and nod my head approvingly at things i like....at trinkets which catch my fancy and baubles which win my womanly affection.  that is nice and good and sweet.  but what about holding a pen in my hand and a journal on my lap and bending the back in effort to put ink hard to the paper?  what about pausing the great rush long enough to accomplish this treasure-recording? what about the muscle required to do this day after day, moment after moment, gift after gift? that doesn't sound hard at first.  but what about when the novelty wears off and the three year old hangs on and the journal goes missing and the ink pen dries up and the dinner is burning.  what about then?  you know what i mean.  we've all started lists and resolutions and goals only to find ourselves waning and weighted with the sag of routine.   when the shine dulls and the spark dims the quest takes on a different monotony.   a burdensome doing.  this has been the story of my life.  it is, in fact,  the story of life.

so i write all this tonight to tell you i have a journal.  it is blue.  it goes with me most places.  though i have to confess, i am not quite so picky about my writing instrument.  living in a household of seven, i am often challenged to come up with any instrument of writing.   admittedly, i am a mother who has scribbled out many a grocery list or school note or birthday card in orange crayon -- i use what i find.  and there's blessing in the finding of even an orange crayon.  anyway, i too,  have a list going of 1000 gifts.  i discover them in my day.  they are scattered across the cluttered rooms of our home and in the piles of stuff all around our life.  i find them better each day because i am willing to search.  i am looking.  i find them in the chaos and confusion, as much as i find them in the quiet and the calm.


i started my list on march 22.  i have to say, it was going quite well for me.  i was kind of proud of my ambitious hunting.  even kind of proud of myself.  i took great delight in the way it was coming along, all the while enjoying the challenge and encouraging others.  i was writing easily.  deliberately.  vehemently.   and then on april 19th i heard the word cancer.  cancer brought quite a bit in my household to a halt.  i mean we all kind of Just Stopped.  we couldn't progress any further in anything, it seemed.  not in our laundry or lunch dates or laughter or even in our lists.   we were stuck.  i was stuck.  stuck right there under the frightening and forceful thumb of cancer and no wiggling or will was allowing us breath or escape.  at least not for while.  that is how it felt.  i had stacks of things on my desk...piles of things in my life to address.  a long list of items carefully written under the title To Do.  but there was nothing To Do and nothing got done.  and when i looked at my pretty blue journal sitting neglected on my counter, it made me want to weep.  i finally placed it in a drawer.  i could stand it not one minute more.  i had fallen under the crush of cancer and there seemed to be no possibility for the recording of blessing.


but then something happened.  it wasn't all of a sudden.   just small things....  glimpse of baby girl's brown eyes.  unexpected hug from teenage son.  bird song.  lavender. friend at back door with a meal.  perfect blue of hydrangea.  pink morning light framed in window above dish-dirty sink.  medication.   praying doctor.  gentle husband.  teen girl clearing dinner plates.  fingers deep in spring soil.  rain.  bandaid's calm on angry stubbed toe.  notes and cards arriving daily. my sister's long distance voice. thunder at three am....and there was the old breathing again.  i began to breath and then i began to look.   and when i began to look, i began to see.  and the listing came next.  i felt the cloud lifting.  slowly.  like morning fog which hangs around until well past noon.  little by little the gray was traded for blue.  i peeked into that closed drawer of my desk.  my heart.  my soul.  ever so slightly. and i picked up that journal again and i held it in my hands and i read the things already written and the fog moved even further.  i watched its leaving.  and then finally i began to write.  i began my gift-hunting and the old delight rose up in me.  the cancer wasn't gone, but the blessings were found.


i have continued to write and record.  not everyday do i list.  because somedays i can't.  there are certainly days when my eyes won't meet those of my waiting, blue journal.  i find myself at times stuck and stopped and blank. because that is how life comes in hard times...in hard places.  we walk through and climb over in tiny steps.  steps which require pausing and stopping.  there is breath to catch and muscle to flex.  we are often lightheaded and weary.  and we need our moments.  but i am finding even these interruptions can allow for some seeing.  we need only be willing.  this has not been a time for me of great leaping.  i am a woman taking small steps these days.  something new.  but in this smallness i find myself even more apt to see.  we see when we slow.  and i have slowed.


God is good.  He encourages me in the very grand and the most minute.  and both are needed.  perfect fingerprint of my 8 year old on a window pane to our deck.  almost wiped away with a spray of windex and a swoosh of efficient towel.  but i stop.  i see. design of sand on our deck from little girl sandbox.  mother-on-mission ready to spray it fast and furious...but first stopping and seeing and thanking and yes, even recording.  i can give thanks for the gift of small child from china in our sandbox this june.  she is here.  it may be a small scattering of sand but a very large blessing when i truly look.  when i take time to see.  and living is about seeing.  we forget that sometimes.  even in our health and our wealth and our continual comforts.  maybe you don't require a blue journal and an orange crayon...maybe you stop all on your own accord.  i applaud you if this is possible. but for this slowed woman i find myself dependent.  i find myself in need.  and i can find myself thankful.  but only if i look.


that is my encouragement this evening: take time to see.  go hunting.  journal in pocket and pencil in hand.  maybe.  but clear eyes of the mind and the heart and the will.  even when we find ourselves bent double in the hard grip of life, there is something to see.  sometimes it is in the glorious looking up.  and sometimes it is in the desperate looking down.   there is seeing in both.  we need only be willing to look.

blessing

i wake this morning with the taste of dread thick in my mouth.  swallow hard.  lay still.  eyes close fast and heart opens slow.  "Lord, it is monday and this week brings too much and i am not nearly enough." small shift right and my body reminds me of the time.  i am in need of, at the very least, advil.  but a few minutes more i lay.   just still and quiet.  alone in my thoughts.  my prayer continues soft and desperate.  pleading for strength in this week stretched with heavy.  and as i lay hushed and listen close i can't miss the voice - not audible, but clear.  ever so clear:  "look for the blessings,  jody. just look."  it is sort of a "if you build it, they will come," kind of moment.  i believed in that movie.  i certainly believe more in this small, still voice.  i have heard.  i believe in it more today with my stitches of cancer than ever before.  cancer brought the storm.  loud and devastating.  unexpected.  but still... there is the low, sure hum in the midst.   calm.  constant.  and it whispers blessing.  and i believe.  and i get up and know today i will find it.

because each day finds it, if we dare to look.  somedays require looking harder and longer and closer.  somedays it falls at our feet.  pure gift.  i get that.   how many cold mornings have i held hot coffee watching  the pink and orange of  new day wash woods out back.  blessing.  how many evenings have i rubbed the tummies and heads of sleepy-eyed babies and heard breathing slow, then steady.  blessing.  how many meals have been prepared in my kitchen with plenty.  blessing.  how many nights have we all snuggled down deep and slept uninterrupted in seemless peace.  blessing.   how many days has the sun been hot and the laughter been loud and the children been spent.  blessing.   it follows us everywhere.  even in our illness and hunger and cold and pain and poverty and loneliness and depression and failure.  for these are the days and the times which require true looking.  the dare to look closer.  deeper.

this day, as in all days,  i have choice.   i can choose a cloak of heavy or a garment of praise.  i dress carefully.   and i walk down into my morning.  light.  the taste of dread replaced with words for small girl following mama into her kitchen.  babe of my heart.  barefoot in pink pajamas.   she comes to me ready for waffle and fruit and her cartoons.  she knows i still cannot pick her up.  she is as light as a feather, but too heavy on this day.  and so we sit together on wooden floor in our still sleeping house and begin our day down low.  sunlight streaming in through smudged window and the fine coat of our family dirt catches my eye.  and though i sigh and think first of broom and dust pan,  i am quickly reminded, yes,  blessing.  because i have chosen a garment of praise.  i will dare to look. and  i will seek to find.  

it will be that kind of day.  

and then later in day,  after a much needed bath,  i find her wrapped up in blue towel.  still and quiet and calm.  and i run for the camera.   blessing.