tired of this

i spent the better part of this late afternoon curled up on the couch.  i'd like to tell you that i was cozied up to the comfort of a blazing fire.  but alas, not today. for you see, we are out of wood.  winter has, officially, run just a little too long.  the two "ricks" of wood we ordered last fall have dwindled -- six months of winter will do that to the wood pile...to the woman as well.  dwindled.  that's how i feel today curled up near the cold of naked hearth.  no fire, no warmth...just winter.  we are in the midst of some kind of wicked storm on this 14th day of april -- an incredible mix of snow and sleet and rain. at the moment, our entire back wall of windows is being pelted with ice -- like great handfuls of marbles tossed upon the glass.  a-rat-a-tat-tat. it is unbelievable to hear, inconceivable to see.  it is april.  the weather can't seem to make up its mind:  one minute we have flurries and the next we have rain.  in between there is ice.  a-rat-a-tat-tat it taps and taps and taps.  the pounding, the pelting, the pulsating all in perfect staccato seeming to say: winter. winter. winter.  just won't go away.

i'm not going to lie, we're all a little tired of this.

and tomorrow's unappealing agenda isn't helping the ice-storm of today.  tomorrow morning i go back into surgery to remove another mass from my breast.  remember i had to do that last spring?  just one year after a double mastectomy in may of 2011 i had to head back in for another biopsy.  and this spring (i'm using that seasonal word loosely here) the scar tissue has come back.  again. and surgical removal is required. again. rat-a-tat-tat. a woman doesn't plan on annual surgical biopsies after she's had a bilateral mastectomy.  she just doesn't.  but we have to take out the mass and biopsy it one more time. we must. i'm not overly concerned about it.  my oncologist and surgeon are both pretty confident it is nothing but gnarly, miserable scar tissue, but because it's in the same spot as the original tumor, it is prudent to remove, test and be sure.  of course it is.  so back to the hospital.  back under anesthesia.  back on the operating table. back into the biopsy waiting game.

i'm not going to lie, we're all a little tired of this, too.

the weather.  the cancer.  both feel pretty darn yucky on this sunday evening as i stare out the darkening window, listening to the cold smack of weather against glass. fragile.

so, i guess what i want to know on this wild night is this:  what's your thing?  what's got you feeling weary tonight?  what's got you a little worn out this evening?

my guess is we've all got a little something.  something which wears us out...wears us thin...wears us all the way through.  what is tapping belligerently at the glass window of your life? rat-a-tat-tat. what is pelting you with fear and frustration on this april evening? rat-a-tat-tat.  perhaps you've got something you've been dealing with just a little bit longer than ever expected.  you thought you were done.  you thought it was over. but, somehow, in someway, it continues to gnaw or plague or pelt.

we all know it is in these worn out places which the devil wants to dwell.  he wants to climb right into our thoughts through the tired thread-bare holes in our head.  he wants to whisper his lies and make us believe the sky is falling.  rat-a-tat-tat.  he wants to pelt us with pain of hopelessness. rat-a-tat-tat.  he wants to weaken us with the weapon of fear.

don't let him.

don't give in to the weather or the cancer or the anxiety or the betrayal or the bitterness.

i know it seems hard right now.  i know it full well. i feel the terrible tired in my bones tonight, too.  but friend, i want to encourage you to find that sliver of hope.  you won't find it in yourself.  you won't find it in the forecast.  you won't find it in the results. you'll only find it in Him.

and if you're feeling at all like i am tonight, then it's time to go looking.

yesterday i snapped this picture of my boys down at our lake.  a small rim of water had finally melted after this half year of winter.  finally, we could see a thin sliver of open water.  it wasn't much,  but it was enough to send my boys to the basement in search of their kayaks.   and before i knew it, my two crazy sons had launched a kayak into this mere slice of stream -- like they were chasing spring.  like they were chasing hope.  it tickled me to see it.  to see them go looking for spring in the midst of the massive, frozen lake minnetonka with nothing more than a kayak and a good dose of boy-hope.

we're all a little tired of some stuff,  aren't we?  

but that's exactly the time to get into the boat.  find that small sliver in the worn out places of life and go looking for hope.

His Hope.

"but those who HOPE in the LORD 

will renew their strength. they will soar 

on wings like eagles;

they will run and not grow weary, 

they will walk and not be faint."

~ isaiah 40:31

one may go a long way after one is tired. ~ french proverb

* and a big shout out to the husband who in the middle of my writing this piece, braved the dreadful weather and headed out to the store...  for firewood!  we're back in business, my friends.  and it's a good thing.  rat-a-tat-tat!

seeing in snow

another snowfall.

in just a week it will be march and yet winter continues to come. come hard. marching forward. there is no halt.  no holding.  no winding down. no letting up. no light at the end of this long, frozen tunnel.

the novelty of snow-things feels rather frayed today.  worn thin.  shovel rests against garage wall a bit slumped. tired sleds abandoned in backyard. soggy boots piled high at back door. dirty mittens missing their match.  scarves unravelling and abandoned in basket. and, of course, that grimy, grimy car covered in the slush and salt of severe weather.  everything subdued.  all things silently stark. color drained, dull. hushed cold, quiet.  woman, slightly weary.

another snowfall.

i stomp into my boots and bundle up in the down of my coat -- slipping on gloves and hat, my second skin.  and as i stomp and bundle and slip, i am faced with the choice:  embrace this day? greet this gift? or grumble at the Giver? door opens and the question hovers in the rush of icey air.  fist desiring to shake at sky.  flakes falling at my feet.  it's a choice. and it's mine for the moment. mine for the making.

and this white stuff reminds me.  it reminds me that we have choices every day. each day. in all sorts of storms.  do i allow something which seems so much, so heavy, so hard,  even something so hurtful,  to keep me from the gifts that He has left along the way.  i can claim blinding snow, but is it truly a blizzard or do i just choose not to see.

what has the Giver left for me today?

where are His gifts along my way?

blessings can be lost in the continuous swirling of this season. but, seeing is a choice.  even in blizzard conditions.

i have to remind myself. often.

i can claim blindness or i can claim His goodness.

and this reminding makes me think of the israelites when they rebelled and grumbled against the Giver. they shook fists at the flurries of falling manna.  tired and tempted. the novelty worn out, the gratitude worn off. in ezekiel God condemns israel as a "rebellious house."  He says she has "eyes to see, and ears to hear but does not hear." (ezekiel 12:2).  israel had a choice, but she shut her eyes.  she willfully went blind. and what about us? even in the midst of blizzards, God offers up the beautiful.  do i believe that?  am i israel?  am i going to allow myself to freeze in the feelings of winter frustration?

dear one, what is your winter right now?  what are you buried under at this moment?

in matthew 13 the disciples asked Jesus why he spoke in parables. and He answered them, saying:

“‘you will be ever hearing but never understanding;
    you will be ever seeing but never perceiving.
for this people’s heart has become calloused;
    they hardly hear with their ears,
    and they have closed their eyes.
otherwise they might see with their eyes,
    hear with their ears,
    understand with their hearts
and turn, and I would heal them.’

but blessed are your eyes because they see..."

i don't know about you, but i want blessed eyes, not blind eyes.

Jesus is clear.  if we won't see and hear what God gives, the time will come when we can't any longer.  when we willfully choose to look away, when we continually refuse to open wide, we will eventually grow more and more blind.  call it judgment.  call it justice.  call it just plain laziness. for it is only in the embracing and exercising of our spiritual eyes that we learn to truly see God's gifts.  even in a blizzard. especially in the blizzard.

oh, am i israel?

windshield wipers swipe furiously to keep up with the winter whoosh rushing past me.  i peer out at a road covered in white.  Lord, let me see.  allow me see what you bring even in the midst of this wintry mix...this mess...this momentary madness.  minnesota march a week away and all remains in the milky shades of faded color.

give me eyes that see your goodness.  your gifts.

remove the blinders from my eyes, that i may see your beauty.
remove the grumble from my heart, that i may see your grace.

wash any trace of blind rebellion from me...and leave me white.  white like winter.

winter is coming

ask my kids what they are most excited about at the moment, and they will all, without any hesitation, answer:  SNOW!  we have five southern raised children living under our minnesota roof right now and each one of them is dreaming of that fluffy white stuff, those slippery sloping sled rides, frozen snow forts and, of course, a few full-throttle snowball fights.  whether it be snow flakes, angels or men, visions do dance in the eager heads of my warm-blooded brood. they just cannot wait. 

last night, two of them came into the kitchen in full gear:  snow jackets, snow pants, snow boots, snow hats and snow gloves. in their 20 below zero wear, they waddled around the island like two puffed up penguins.  there wasn't the hint of a flake in our forecast, but they wanted to try on all their new gear and model for the rest of the family.  for the past couple of weeks, like an alarm-ready fireman, connor has had his snow pants , jacket and boots all set up and displayed in his room, prepared and waiting for that first snowfall when he plans to jump out of bed and into his winter things. i assure you, he’ll waste no time.

some of you laugh.

some of you shake your heads and wonder what's all the fuss.

some of you whisper under your breath, "oh, honey, you just wait and see."

and then some of you smile and say, "YES!"

let's face it, we all have different reactions to big snow.  i get that.  but i'm telling you, it will be just like christmas morning when the first snow finally shows up.  we had a scant number of flakes twirl down two weeks ago and even that meager amount caused the 16 year old to dash to our front window.  with her nose pressed up against the glass, she exclaimed, "look, mom, it's snowing!" (it really wasn't...just a few flakes, but i shared her excitement anyway).

my 7th grader, sarah, was in school when those same first few flakes fell.  in the middle of class, her history teacher, sensing her giddiness, told her to go stand outside for a few minutes and enjoy them.  sarah, who ran out willingly (and jacket-less), proceeded to jump up and down outside the classroom window while the born-and-raised minnesota children watched her like an exotic bird at the zoo.  they laughed.  they marveled too. as hard as it is for sarah to imagine snow, these children can't imagine it being this novel...this new.  oh the wonder of it all. 

my boys have already begun clearing a path from the top of our back hill to the lake.  right over the browning bushes and shrubs,  right over the hillside landscape they will go.  they have great plans for the best sledding hill this side of lake minnetonka.  at the rate they are moving, we will, indeed, have some superb sledding behind our house this winter. 



last weekend, rick went out and bought them all sleds.  no one was asking (yet).  he just did it. those waiting sleds are now stacked in the garage. the dad who goes early to work each day in a suit and tie, who pays the bills and manages the family, well, he’s excited too. 

i, in typical mother fashion, am wondering about the house's best entrance and exit points
in order to minimize wet floors and slush covered surfaces. but truly, this mama can't wait either.  i've purchased the extra large hot chocolate cannister and am taking note of our firewood supply this week.  there's extra cookie dough in the cupboard and last night i organized our entire basket of gloves, hats and scarves -- somehow, even coming from georgia, we have enough now to clothe a small army.

and still some of you shake your head and whisper, but, jody, what about the slippery roads and freezing temperatures?  what about that layer of ice on the windshields?" what about rock salt and dead car batteries?  what about the shoveling out and the being shut in? what about the pain of frozen finger tips and the drip of bright red noses? extra laundry and enormous heating bills?  soggy socks and frozen locks? dripping dog and snow-buried newspaper?  what about that, jody mcnatt?  

i know. 

you have some valid points there.  it's not going to be all sled rides and hot chocolate.  there will be some challenges in this new, colder frontier.  i am well aware.  my kids may only have experienced the mild winter of the south, but i grew up in northern ohio (smack dab in the snow belt, mind you)!  it’s been close to 15 years since i’ve lived in this kind of climate.

but, i remember.  

i remember driving to high school with chains on my tires and sandbags in my trunk.  i remember once, on the way to school, i slid right off the road and into a stop sign at the front entrance of our neighborhood.  and much to my younger sister’s dismay, i turned around, went right back home and climbed back into my bed.  i remember the feeling of snow in my boots and the morning when my little red saab wouldn’t start.  i remember bundling babies and pushing cold metal carts through the frozen slush of grocery store parking lots.   i remember black ice and grey skies and the blinding white of sunlight on snow.

there are two sides, aren’t there? that’s it.  that’s pretty much all of life.  two sides to every coin.  but the question is:  how are we going to view it? how are we going to choose to view it?  a lot depends on if we’re that 9 year old boy with new snow boots and a waiting sled to ride.  i’m not really suggesting that we all need to behave like children, but i do think it’s probably good for us to check our perspective every once in a while.  i know i have to do that. a lot.  i could fret and fuss over the wet floors which are coming, but, honestly, i’d like to be a little more like my 7th grade daughter, sarah, who stood outside the classroom window jumping up and down.  sometimes it’s a choice.  

i keep hearing that minnesotans don’t hunker down, they toughen up.  they prepare well and they push forward.  i know sometimes the stereotypes show lots of casseroles cooking and indoor crafts occurring...(and that’s perfectly okay with me)...but i’ve been around these people for several months now.  i’m already impressed.  and i think i’m about to become more impressed with their spirit of survival, their spirit of embracing what comes, their spirit of choosing.  we have a responsibility to be prepared -- no doubt about it.  but don't we also have a responsibility to have a little perspective?  maybe even a responsibility to be positive? -- to work with what we have and maybe even with where we are ... to look for the silver lining, to find the buried blessing?  and maybe, even like a young boy with a sled and new pair of snow boots, to choose joy in the midst of life's cold?

winter is coming.  

the snow, on its way.

the boots and sleds and mittens are waiting.

the choice is at hand.  it always is -- wherever you live.  whatever the climate.  

"what good is the warmth of summer,

without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.” 

 ~ john steinbeck

“winter is not a season, it's an occupation.”  ~ sinclair lewis

snowflakes and flying

when the plane is preparing to take off, i confess, i am one of those who begins to pray hard.  i can't help myself.   i mean i know God and i are good and i'm pretty confident if things don't go well with the engine, my trip will probably end at the pearly gates, but still, i pray without ceasing. from the time the plane picks up speed until it is stable and steady high in the air, i close my eyes, grip my armrests,
and talk pretty intensely with God.  extra assurance? perhaps. or maybe i am just doing my very best to remind Him that though i packed for a trip, i have little interest at the moment, in a one way ticket.  and so i pray.


this past weekend, i flew to minnesota, the land of 10,000 lakes and 10,000 inches of snow.  and what's best, i flew alone.  completely alone.  though i know some people don't relish this thought, i actually like to fly and even enjoy flying by myself.  a few uninterrupted hours on a plane with my book or knitting or laptop is a treat -- a retreat.  though typically kind of social and one who easily strikes up conversation with anyone or anything, it's different when i travel.  while flying, i feign terrific awkwardness and incredible anti-social behavior. i sort of like it to be just me and my thoughts in the little pocket of peace 10,000 feet above the world.  there is something quite lovely about that for a mother who usually has a dog or a toddler or a teen at arm's reach.  even the ridiculously small seats of coach feel wide open and roomy.  no one is asking anything of me.  no one expects anything more than that i buckle my seatbelt and secure my belongings.  as long as i don't tamper with the smoke detector or abuse the carry-on rules, i'm good.  i'm left, blissfully and beautifully, alone.


it probably doesn't surprise you that i am also kind of partial to the window seat.  i keep the shade up and my nose pressed against the pressurized plastic oval. perhaps not completely age appropriate, but i stare and i stare.  i look and i look.  i care little about pretending myself a sophisticated and seasoned flyer. whether it is the city lights at night or the patchwork farm fields of day, there is something to see when the clouds part.  flying this weekend i had an incredible view from my window seat.  as we came across, what i guess was the northern part of iowa, i had my eyes glued to the neutral pieces of land below.  fields and farms, dotted with solitary homes.  i couldn't help but think of those little people inside--near fires, fixing dinner, bathing children, reading books--each one miniature in my bird's eye view.  and as i was considering those hearty iowan farmers, i noticed a distinct line arcing across the land. it was a line of snow cutting straight across the fields, as far as my eyes could see; one side brown and grey, the other side pristine white.  it was so clear from my place high above.  but those tiny people below knew nothing of this massive mark, they were seeing snowflakes. crystal white--each delicate, each different.  they were holding them in their hands, catching them on their tongues, sweeping them from their porches. rejoicing or cursing, but seeing nothing more from their warm kitchen windows or drafty planked barns, but the flurries in front of their face. perhaps they also saw their children grabbing sleds or searching for mittens and boots.  perhaps they saw the family dog's nose pressed to the glass of porch door, but that was it.  limited--all of them. from their minute places they were short-sighted, and thought nothing of that expansive line looming across the wintering midwest.  the line which i could see.


it felt strange and almost serious to be able to see this distinct wrinkle of weather.  my shoulders felt inadequate with the weight of this seeing--like i was peeking into something not entirely my own business.  but it reminded me of my own limited perspective. i don't live life from 10,000 feet above, i live life with feet planted on solid ground.  i can only see the small snowflakes of life, rarely do i get a chance to look out at the width and breath of my personal storm.   how often i want to live acting as if i know what's best and what's right, me peering out from my small kitchen window, my vision stopping in its snowy tracks of human small. is it possible God allows us only to see what we can catch on our tongues and hold in our hands...because it is enough?


the truth is, sometimes when i get a glance of something greater, i am sometimes moved to fear, like that flying woman in her take off posture -- fingers a-tightening and prayers a-whispering.  God has been in charge all along.  there is no difference between my walking the dog on the quiet street of buttercup trace and myself in a plane zooming speedily down the run way.  He is in control in the mundane moments and in the seemingly dangerous.  it is my perspective which colors the scene and the sense of certainty.  His perspective and His control never waiver.  He has the whole picture in His hands.  always. 


and flying this winter weekend, i was graciously reminded again, God holds the sky and the snow and the storm and the line.


later that day, i stood at a glass pane in the minnesota cold and watched the tiny snowflakes drift down.  one by one.  and i could hear God.  "see the beauty." He whispered.  "don't worry about the storm line, but catch the snowflake. i've made you, my daughter, to see somethings small."

"nature is full of genius, full of the divinity; so that not a snowflake

 escapes its fashioning hand."   ~ henry david thoreau