Spring [Reclaiming February]

Spring. How early it visits in the South. Might be my very favorite thing about living here.🌱

People like to declare, “The change, it seemed to happen overnight!”

But I kind of disagree. 

It really does not happen “overnight.”

There’s work involved. 

Most people just don’t know how to watch for it. 

Early spring requires a careful looking. 

A stopping. 

A noticing of the small and almost imperceptible.

Maybe the loudest pops of fuschia and bright yellows do explode seemingly while we sleep, but first, they must begin with the tiniest buds of pale green. 

Almost invisible—unless willing to pay close attention. 

We won’t notice them in our rushing. 

And though I love the bold drama of a tree in bloom, I love even more those baby buds so hard to see. 

BECAUSE—

That is actually where hope is truly found.

It’s easy to believe warm weather is fast approaching when staring into the face of sunny daffodils or hot pink saucer magnolias. 

That’s not hope, that’s hard evidence. 

AND — 

Faith isn’t seeing and then believing, it’s believing before seeing. 

Or it isn’t really faith. 

“Faith shows the reality of what we hope for; it is the evidence of things we cannot see.”  ~ Hebrews 11:1

I know we all long for the surety of full bloom. We gaze at those frothy flowers, and, with confidence, proclaim it a beautiful tree and more to come. 

BUT —

Is it possible that Jesus wants us first to trust Him? 

To trust Him for what He’s doing? 

For what He’s bringing? 

For what He has promised?

I’ll admit, this is hard for me. I like the evidence. I like proof, clarity, results!

But this year God has held me in a place requiring me to stop and look more closely. 

To stop and look and have faith. 

The evidence of His love has been a bit harder to see. I’ve had to look more intently for those little buds of blessing—for those tiny gifts of grace. 

Yes, it has been challenging, but it has also been faith building. 

If your trees aren’t yet dressed in bright colors, I encourage you to stop for a minute and look more closely. 

Have faith. Have hope.

See His love.🌸

#reclaimingfebruary #HisLove #new🌱

Monday Mornings [Reclaiming February]

Monday mornings. Sometimes they hit hard. But in Reclaiming February, I am reviewing how I think about this somewhat dreaded day. 

Instead of seeing the weekend over, I want to see the opportunity for another week begun. Another week of possibility. 

And mostly, a fresh start. 

No matter the disaster or disappointment of last week, this week is brand new. 

A blank canvas of do-overs. 

A clean slate of start agains.

And, gosh, I need them!

From the cycle of the seasons to the months of the calendar to the hours in our days, God abundantly gives the gift of New Mercy. Over and over. As messy humans, He knew we would desperately need it. 

He knew we would physically crave the close of day with the setting sun.

He knew we would eagerly welcome the start of another.

He designed us that way. 

Our spirits seek it out. Our bodies lie down and rise up in the same predictable pattern. How beautiful and intentional is our Creator-God. 

How can we not see His fingerprints on all of it?

He is a God of rhythm and flow. 

A God of plan and purpose. 

A God of order and organization.

Psalm 30: 5 reminds us, “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.”

Amen? Amen! 

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” Lamentations 3:22-23 

But, dear ones, don’t miss the main thing—All of this creative order only points to His very heart for us. He has written everywhere in nature, the story of something new. The story of a fresh start. The story of Redemption. 

“Wash me and I will be whiter than snow.” Psalm 51:7 

Talk about a clean slate!🤍

No matter what came before, there is always, ALWAYS His gift of NEW.

“Behold, I am making everything new!” Revelation 21:5

That means Mondays. 

That means me. 

And you. 

New.

Amen.

5 Smooth Stones [Reclaiming February~Day 7]

Not surprising, but I’ve always loved words. As a little girl I kept a list of words I wanted to remember. I collected them like other kids collected comic books or baseball cards. The bigger, the better. I found them fascinating. I’d circle them in books I was reading and work out the pronunciations before google was even a thing. I guess the English teacher gig was always meant to be.

Last year, I began to wrestle with some pretty big words. Only this time, I didn’t want to write them down. I didn’t want them on any of my lists. Incurable. Terminal. Metastatic. Let's not even consider all the medical jargon I've been juggling. Yikes. 

Big words. 

Massive meanings. 

Giant sized implications.  

Metastatic cancer is a massive giant. An ugly ogre. 

David, in the Psalms, depicts God as a giant slayer. But well before David wrote one word he was just a young shepherd boy. The antithesis of anything large. An average, ordinary shepherd taking care of his sheep until he faced his own giant—Goliath. You probably know the story. 

David, with his sling and his 5 stones standing before the massive Goliath in his 9 feet and his bad boy bronze and his invincible iron. 

Everyone else was afraid. Even King Saul and his army had forgotten who God was. Forgotten what God does. Forgotten His power and His mighty plan. Forgotten what it means to have Him on our side. 

But not David.

After tending his sheep, David was sent to the battle to only bring lunch for his big brothers. Nothing more. Just lunch. He didn’t bring armor or weapons or a finely tuned strategic plan. He brought bread and cheese. But when he heard there was a loud mouth, cocky, SOB, ogre taunting the Israelite army he volunteered to go fight him. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t hurry back to his sheep. He didn’t make excuses. He volunteered.

He was the sheep guy. 

The lunch bringer.

The youngest brother. 

The weak one.

But, regardless of all these things he was or wasn’t, he knew God on his side. And that’s all that mattered when that small stone struck the forehead of that big giant and brought him crashing to the earth.

I loved that story as a little girl, but I NEED that story as woman now. I didn’t want these giant words in my life, but I really do want the giant kind of faith David displayed.

I bring absolutely nothing to this battle. But, the young shepherd boy reminds me, I don’t need to bring anything to this battle. God is on my side. And His word encourages me.

After defeating Goliath, David went on to write the Psalms filled with images of God as our great defender, warrior and protector. In the massive problems and the biggest battles, He is with us and He fights for us. Our own weapons matter little. 

Do you need to be reminded of what God can do? I encourage you to begin with the Psalms. These are the words I now write down, spell out, memorize and cling to. These are the words which—if I was a tattoo girl—I’d tattoo across my skin. Who knows, I still might.

These are the words which matter most. 

“I do not trust in my bow, my sword does not bring me victory; but you give us victory over our enemies.” Psalm 44:6-7

“The Lord is my strength and my shield; in Him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults, and with my song I give thanks to Him.”  Psalm 28:7

Happy Birthday [Reclaiming February~Day 5]

Happy birthday to our birthday twins and book ends, Emily and Bella! 

Truly, this day alone easily reclaims all of February and then some. God brilliantly displays his love in the gift of our Em and Bell. 

This feels like the right time to tell you a piece of their sister-story: When we were first given Bella’s file we were praying through and trying to process God’s call into adoption. It was a huge decision, as Rick once said, “we looked more in need of a nanny than a 5th child!”

One evening, during that time, Emily marched into the room and with hands on her hips exclaimed to Rick and me, “I don’t know what there is to decide. This little girl needs a home, a family and parents … and we’ve got that and can give it to her. We have plenty to share with her so I don’t really know what there is to even think about.” And with a huff, she turned on her heel and marched back out of the room. (I wish y’all could have heard the mixture of conviction and exasperation in her)!

Rick and I stared at each other. A bit stunned. This wasn’t her normal 13 year old behavior. I was pretty sure I’d never before heard her advocate so selflessly. But her little speech impacted us and (obviously) moved us toward the right (best ever) decision.

But there’s more. That same night, unable to sleep, I went back down to our office and opened up Bella’s file again. As I was combing through it more closely, for the first time, I noticed her birthdate. I could hardly believe it —February 5th! The very same as this oldest daughter who had just that evening advocated for a tiny girl on the other side of the world. 

I was blown away. Tears and laughter mixed together that night. God really does give the most beautiful, unbelievable reminders of His love and sovereignty. 

There is absolutely no accident or coincidence in our two girls sharing a birthday. God reclaimed a tiny girl in China, He reclaimed a 13 year old girl’s heart in America and He reclaimed February 5th long, long, long ago. Glory to Him. 

Em and Bells, I love the story your sweet sisterhood tells the world. 

You are so loved. 

Happy birthday!

#ReclaimingFebruary #sisters #GodsLove

Rooftop Friends [Reclaiming February ~ Day 4]

Last year diagnosis day ran right into our daughters’ birthdays. I had a party planned February 4th for our youngest.

How does a woman wake up on her first full day of living with bad news and carry on with a birthday party

She doesn’t.  

She can’t.

I couldn’t. 

But, like they say in show business, the birthday party (show) must go on! I mean I had a really good excuse to hide under the covers and skip it altogether. No one would have argued.

But I knew, even on that very first day when I was raw and reeling, that the show really did have to go on. I was going to have to figure it out—one shaky step at a time. One birthday party at a time. One plain old regular day at a time.

The amazing part of this party though wasn’t anything I did. It was what my friends did. A group of girlfriends swooped in and handled the entire thing for me. I showed up, but they showed their deep love for me and God’s love for me by handling every part of the party. 

That’s what exceptional friends do. They carry you when you can’t walk. Like the friends who carried the paralyzed man and lowered him through the roof to Jesus for healing. These girls (and so many others) have been carrying me this past year. 

Meals, messages, carpools and cards. They have driven me to my infusions and appointments. They have read books and articles and done research. They have helped me make decisions regarding my home. They have sent gifts and flowers and food. They have prayed for me through the hours of the night. They have fasted for me. They have read God’s Word to me. They have sent scripture, played music, grocery shopped, and analyzed nutrition. I could go on and on. It’s been unbelievable. I can’t imagine walking this road without them. 

That paralyzed man on his mat, I identified with him this year. He and I don’t just have an illness in common, we also both have faithful friends. My friends carried my mat to Jesus. Even when it wasn’t clear how to get me there. Because like his friends, “They looked for a way to take the man into the house where Jesus was.” Women do that really well. They “look for a way.” When there doesn’t seem to be a way, they keep looking. They look harder. They get creative. They become determined. These men couldn’t get their friend in through the door, so they made a hole in the roof and lowered him to Jesus. There was no way that paralyzed man was going to get himself up on that roof, so his friends got him there. 

Sometimes friends get you through the roof top. Sometimes they get you through the rough stuff. 

And what does Jesus say about this man’s friends?

“When Jesus saw THEIR faith, He said to the man, “Friend, your sins are forgiven.” … “I say to you, get up. Take your bed and go to your home.” At once the sick man got up in front of them. He took his bed and went to his home thanking God.” (Mark 2). 

I am sure this no-longer-paralyzed man thanked God for his healing all the way home, but I am just as certain he thanked God for his friends. 

This year—tonight, in fact—we are having a little party at our house for Bella. I am Reclaiming February today grateful to be able to throw a little party for our youngest, but not for one minute forgetting those friends who carried me through this day last year. 

This morning I had a sweet mom call and ask if I needed her help with the party. 

My answer, “Thank you, but not tonight. This year, we’ve got it!

Dependence Day [Reclaiming February~Day 3 ]

I love anniversaries. Weddings. Homecomings. Happenings. Historical events. You name it, any milestone or notable achievement, and I’m there to celebrate. Will probably throw a party or at least decorate something nearby. Y’all know me.

Most of the time they invite something wonderful and worth remembering.

However, anniversaries can also, unfortunately, invoke pain, panic, and some PTSD.

Today marks one year since learning my stage 4 diagnosis. One year. It’s hard to wrap my brain around that. Four seasons. Twelve months. 365 days of waking up each morning knowing I have this ugly business of incurable cancer mysteriously floating around in me.

Is this one year mark an achievement? Can we really call it that? I suppose it is at least notable. Or worrisome. Depending on how we want to look at time marked and measured. Regardless, I don’t look too closely. I stay in the day best I can. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. The future, simply too much for me to consider most days. 

We don’t understand that until someone tells us it isn’t guaranteed. I mean the future is not guaranteed for any of us. There. You’ve been told. But that doesn’t fully compute until we have been stamped with something serious. I promise you I would very much have claimed no assurance of my days prior to this diagnosis, but I also promise you I didn’t quite get what that meant one year and one day ago. Of course I knew it in my head, but it is an entirely different matter when you feel the very ungluing of it in your gut. 

It is with different ears these days that I listen to the way we talk: 

“Someday I’m going to travel to Spain and watch the bulls run. 

Someday I’m going to organize all those old photos into albums.

Someday I’m going to hike the Appalachian Trail or canoe the Boundary Waters or climb Mt. Kilimanjaro or take a cruise on the Reine River or write a book or organize my Tupperware or be early to carpool or whatever!

We think we will always have it. This someday. 

Elusive and ethereal as it is, we put it in our pocket. We feel quite secure it will stay safely there if we do all the right things and take all the right steps. On occasion, we peek in and we pat it knowingly. Confidently. Expectantly. We might say “God willing,” but we wink at it anyway. 

This time. This treasure. This someday.

And I don’t want to change that thinking for you one bit. It is a beautiful, comfortable, luxurious kind of thing. But it changed for me a year ago and I am still learning to process. Kate Bowler said it best in her book “Everything Happens for a Reason,” when she wrote, “the future was like a language I couldn’t speak anymore.”

I’ve had a few people ask me what’s been the biggest thing this year. And, without a doubt, that is at least part of my answer — how I speak about the future.

And maybe even that is a luxury. I know some people are diagnosed and thrown immediately into the brutal pain of the right now: Hard treatments and surgeries and side effects. And where I’ve had all of those things this year, they haven’t altered my life too dramatically. Yes, I’ve had to give up some things, but not everything. Not all of it. I’m still me. I’m still living life. I am. 

Yes, the physical has changed a bit, but it’s truly the mental which has been the biggest contender. There’s a battle within which—at least right now—wages more violent than the physical. And there aren’t enough mind numbing distractions to come close to combating it. Not enough Netflix series or trips to Target or suspense-filled novels or house improvement projects. There simply aren’t enough things. There’s no pretending. No spinning. No denying. No disillusionment. There’s no instagram filter which can make it look even one bit more lovely.

So at the end of my day I’m left with the task of wading through it. Wrestling with it. Wondering about it. And, yes, sometimes, weeping over it. And the only way I can do any of that is walking with Jesus in it. It’s the only way. Again, I thought I understood what that meant one year ago. I didn’t. And I probably don’t understand today what I will in one more year, God willing. 

The only way to do this hard thing is walking with Jesus. There is nothing. NOTHING. Which you or I can bring to this level of worry and what-if. I’m not saying my walk looks super shiny these days. Somedays it’s pretty messy. I’m limping. I’m crawling. He’s carrying me. Somedays I sound like I’m hanging out with a big bunch of hooligans and heathens, certainly not the Most High. I’m irritable and anxious and on edge. I’m snippy and testy and tired and, I’m sure if you ask my family, tiresome.

But, crazy thing is, that’s when I know He’s calling me to come walk closer with him. To lean harder on Him. He doesn’t leave me sitting here in my mess. He doesn’t turn away. He doesn’t tell me to go get myself cleaned up and then come back to Him when I’m a better version of myself. He is there. He is right here washing my dirty face, wiping my tears, wrapping His arms around me and reminding me He’s in this battle with me. The physical. The mental. The spiritual. All of it. He’s with me. 

So today’s anniversary doesn’t just mark my diagnosis, but, much more importantly, it marks the day I began drawing closer to Jesus and pressing harder into Him. It marks the day I learned more deeply about my dependence on Him. I’m never going to be able to stray to far from the fact that February 3rd is my diagnosis anniversary, but because I am determined to Reclaim February, I’m declaring this day my Dependence Day Anniversary. 

“I depend on God alone; I put my hope in Him. He alone protects and sees me; His is my defender, and I shall never be defeated. My salvation and honor depend on God; He is my strong protector; He is my shelter. Trust in God at all times, my people. Tell Him all your troubles, for He is our refuge.” Psalm 62: 5-8

Holding Me [Reclaiming February~Day2]

 

God shows His love for me pretty much every day through this guy. This husband of mine who in this past challenging year has been the physical arms holding me. 

Holding on to me. 
Somedays, holding me up.

When I’ve felt things spinning out of control, and even when I’ve acted out of control (and I have) he’s been there holding the line.
Holding me back from the edge. 
Holding me tight in the storm. 
Holding my hand in the sadness. 
And, maybe most importantly, holding me accountable to God’s Truth. 

When the doctor called to say those first awful words last February, Rick’s arms were the first arms to embrace me.

We aren’t a perfect couple. (We argued last night before bed🙄). Seriously, people. This year has tested our marriage in ways unimaginable. In ways too many to count.

But when God joined our hands together 33 years ago, God knew this bitter dance ahead and He knew Rick would hold on tight to me and love me as Christ loves. What more can I possibly say? 

“Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her … In the same way husbands should love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. For no one ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it, just as Christ does the church, because we are members of his body. “Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and HOLD FAST to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.” Ephesians 5

Reclaiming February

 

Happy February, friends. I’ll confess, I was a little hesitant to turn the calendar page this morning. Just the month’s name holds a good bit of PTSD. A year ago, February went drastically off the rails at our house.

It was February 3rd when I received the MBC diagnosis. Normally I love this month. It holds the birthdays of both our oldest AND our youngest (February 5th). It holds Valentines Day and sweet declarations of love. It holds the slightest beginnings of spring (at least here in the south it does). But last year I could barely hold it together as our world rocked with news of cancer’s return and spread. For me, February felt shot to pieces. Cupid and his arsenal of little arrows mocked me. The entire 28 days were a blur as I began digging out from my diagnosis and forming a medical plan, a battle plan and a brand new not-so-quite-so-shiny plan.

So on this first day of February 2023 I’m taking back the month. I’m reclaiming that which felt obliterated and overwhelming. In this “month of love,” my original idea was to share each day “something I love,” but as I was thinking through my plan this morning it occurred to me that’s not really it at all.

Reclaiming this month has little to do with what I love, and everything to do with how God shows His love to me. How even in this first year of an incurable disease, He has, again and again, demonstrated His great, unconditional and incredible love for me. Some of you might roll your eyes and even argue—A cancer diagnosis doesn’t exactly sound like anyone’s version of a love letter. Nope, it sure doesn’t. But stick with me this month and I will hope to offer you real examples of what love looks like even in some pretty unlovely circumstances.

And so today, it feels only right to begin my February Reclamation with Jesus and what He demonstrated for me on the cross. “But God shows His love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:8.

I didn’t earn it. I don’t deserve it. But He came and He chose to bear my sin and become the ultimate sacrifice. He did it for me. For you too. Nothing says true love like someone laying down their life for another. “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” John 15:13.

Today, while working in the woods I thought I’d try to find something that resembled a cross for today’s photo. And can I just tell you it was crazy—everywhere I looked I was finding crosses. My favorite is the two roots with one growing over the other. 1st photo.

I am not sure I have it in me to post every day. I’m not sure YOU have it in YOU to read my post every day!Lol. So some days you might see my stuff pop up, but I’m taking the pressure off the every day posting.

This isn’t just about me though. I’d love you to also stop and think about how God has shown his love for you. Go ahead and begin listing the examples. I bet, like all my crosses in the woods, you’ll be suprised.

Sometimes we just have to look.

Psalm 18 and A Deep Breath

Taking a deep breath tonight, dear friends. PET scan results showed up in My Chart late today. I’ll meet tomorrow with my doctor for more details, but from what I can surmise we are seeing “a favorable response” with my treatment. There has been a notable decrease in uptake and shrinking of several spots in my bones and lymph nodes.

This is a great direction! Great news.

God gets this glory. All of it.

I told my girlfriend group today two things are going on in this battle … (and, believe me, it’s a battle).

1. These scans cause great exhaustion mentally and emotionally. I’m spent. I feel like a boulder has been literally lifted from my back this evening.

BUT …

2. The scans (and the management of this disease) continue to lead me closer and closer to Jesus. Not because I’m all of a sudden super spiritual, but because I’m desperate for Him in a way I’ve never been before. Desperate. He is opening my eyes every day—Through scripture, through the words of others, through constant prayer, through His unexplainable peace. He is leading and He is strengthening. And though cancer is most bitter, there is a sweetness in this closeness to Jesus. It is not the silver lining, it is the very gold.

Psalm 18. If you get a chance, I invite you to go find a Bible and read it. Close your eyes and see the imagery set before you — the vivid images of God fighting for me … fighting for you.

God swooping in to deliver and defend. See Him reaching down and pulling us out of deep waters. Hear his battle cry! Watch the earth tremble! Imagine the blast of rebuking breath from his nostrils! See him soar on the wings of the wind! Taste the victory.

This is battle.

And He is on our side. He is. He is. He is.

“He reached down from on high and took hold of me;

he drew me out of deep waters.” Psalm 18:16

Tremble - The Worship Initiative

TREMBLE

Peace, bringing it all to peace

The storm surrounding me

Let it break at Your name

Still, call the sea to still

The rage in me to still

Every wave at Your name

Jesus, Jesus, You make the darkness tremble

Jesus, Jesus, You silence fear

Jesus, Jesus, You make the darkness tremble

Jesus, Jesus

Breathe, then call these bones to live

Call these lungs to sing

Once again, I will praise

Jesus, Jesus, You make the darkness tremble

Jesus, Jesus, You silence fear

Jesus, Jesus, You make the darkness tremble

Your name is a light that the shadows can't deny

Your name cannot be overcome

Your name is alive forever lifted high

Your name cannot be overcome

Jesus, Jesus, You make the darkness tremble

Resolutions & Results: Trust

I’ve found myself this week in a bit of a holding pattern. As everyone has been declaring their 2023 New Year’s words and resolutions, I’ve felt quiet. Not quick or sure what to say. In fact, not eager to declare or proclaim anything much at all. 

After contemplating my strange hesitation all day today I’m pretty sure the reason is that, without even realizing it, I’m waiting for tomorrow. Tomorrow I have another set of scans scheduled. Tomorrow we will measure changes against my previous PET scan last fall. This is definitely not my favorite kind of week.

And it is this worry-ridden pattern that I’m finding myself all tangled up in—Declare nothing until I have some updated information. No resolutions without first some results. Zero January commitments without a concrete picture of what is currently happening inside my body.

As soon as this bit of self-understanding began to unveil itself today, I knew it was time to give my own shoulders a good shaking. This is not how it is supposed to work. I don’t want to be living in 3 month increments from scan to scan. I have never lived like this, why do I believe I should be doing so now? Everything dependent on the next scan’s results. No. No. No.

It’s true, I don’t know the future. I don’t know what these results will be and I don’t know what this year will bring. That is definitely a more pronounced way of thinking these days. But did I really have any guarantees in all of the other Januarys of my 54 years? No. I just thought I did. 

But this year has been different. If I’m honest I’ll tell you that it was kind of a rough weekend and I really wasn’t prepared for it to be so. I didn’t see the attack coming. I’ve always loved the New Year. Always loved to celebrate and anticipate and participate. I’ve always welcomed it with wide open arms and heartfelt expectation. Always. Except this year the New Year’s Eve party felt painful. 

The new year didn’t feel happy, it felt scary. I'm sure that’s true not just for me, but for others out there as well--your own diagnoses, broken relationships, shattered lives, rebellious children, lost jobs, missed loved ones, dashed dreams, and failed plans. 

When you’re not feeling whole, holidays can feel pretty lousy. I’m learning a little more about that these days. All weekend I was seeing and hearing those little New Year’s slogans like, “Cheers to the New Year!” and “The best is yet to come!” And though I tried to rally, I found myself only wanting to run fast from the phrases. 

Because what if it’s not? What if my best years are already behind me? What if. What if. What if. I know what my diagnosis says these years ahead can be, and so why would I ever want to usher them in? Why welcome something so unwanted? What exactly is the future when you are feeling unbelievably fragile?

Now, I realize that last paragraph is fraught with some pretty miserable stuff. Maybe I should have started this post with some kind of disclaimer. But I think it’s possibly important to be aware that not everyone feels like champagne bubbles and fireworks when occasions call for them. I had a little taste of that this year. It was hard to swallow. 

But, you know what’s amazing? Even in these really raw feelings and vulnerable moments, God continues to show up. He continues to show Himself in a myriad of ways. He continues to use others to speak to me. He continues to remind me of His faithfulness and His power and His mercy and, mostly, of His great love.

 Just yesterday when I was sharing some of my feelings with my oldest daughter, Emily, she ministered to me. I told her how hard that phrase “the best is yet to come” has been for me to hear. She stopped me and said, “Mom, but YOU KNOW the best IS yet to come. We will someday be with Jesus in heaven and THAT is the best to come.”  And she is so right. So right. So wise. So spot on. It was like a switch flipped and my darkness literally lifted. What inexpressible joy to have your child remind you that the best years will be our years with Jesus. Honestly, does anything else even matter in the context of eternity? 

I know some of you, on occasion, find little scraps of encouragement in my words. I’m so glad you tell me that. But I want you to know, it’s hard. I’m in the hard. I’m in a fight. A battle. Every day. Every single day. So much of it right now is mental and fear related.  And though God keeps showing Himself to me, I still have some really weak and scary days. I won’t ever lie to you about that. I won’t ever pretend it’s all easy just because I’m a Christ follower. Being a Christian means I have great hope in life, but it doesn’t mean life will be easy. I am learning every day what it means to trust Jesus with the good and with the hard. 

And so tonight as I prepare to think about yet another PET Scan tomorrow, I want to boldly share with you my resolution for 2023 —

To trust Jesus more. 

That’s it. Nothing fancy. Nothing elaborate. Just more trust. I’m not asking to better understand his plan for me.  I’m not asking for more clarity. I’m not asking for more certainty. I’m just asking for more TRUST. 

Trust. Yes, I guess that’s also going to settle the question of my word for 2023 --- Trust. 

“You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.” Isaiah 26:3

“The Lord is my strength and my shield; in Him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults, and with my song I give thanks to Him.” Psalm 28:7

“And those who know your name put their trust in you, for you, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek you.” Psalm 9:10

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make straight your paths.” Proverbs 3:5-6

As It Should

 

The oldest have all left now. Left for their homes and their states and their boyfriend and their girlfriend. And it's just the youngest home with Rick and me.

Chinese takeout ordered. Movie ready to play. 
And it is different. 
But it is good. 

Our kids grow up and go on. They go off.
As they should. 
As they want.
As we want.

Life can’t stay the same. Nor should it. 
We make the moments and we make the most of them— the minutes, hours, days and years. 
As we should. 

Soon 2022 will come to an end. An end to this year’s good and to its hard.
As it should.
As we want.

We wait for 2023 with open arms. 
Where there will surely be new good and new hard. 
New comings and new leavings.
New trials. New triumphs.

Like every year before.
And it is good. 
Good. 

Longing for a Cure

“If you were suffering with an illness with seemingly no cure, you would be desperate to receive not only the correct diagnosis, but also news of any effective remedy for your condition … and if the remedy was paid for and cost nothing but a willingness to come, you would be crazy not to receive it. Right? God’s people and all of creation ached with longing for sin’s remedy. They tried everything to no avail; there was no cure whatsoever for man’s brokenness. God waited for the time He appointed in history—the exact moment chose to fulfill His promise—and declared, “Hope has come.” 

And that hope was Jesus, born to do what we could not. Christmas and the anticipation of Jesus Christ, our Messiah, is precious only to the degree that we are desperate to find freedom from what ails us. Jesus was not to stay in a manger, He was born to go to the cross. And this Jesus—He is the answer we have been longing for.”  Emmanuel

For obvious reasons this morning’s writing resonated. Ruth Chou Simon’s devotional Emmanuel is gorgeous. It is thought provoking. It is exactly what I need walking through this holiday season—“an invitation to prepare Him room at Christmas and always.” 

That “ached with longing” part of which she writes, is something I know so well these days. These are not just words to me. This is a physical aching. Palpable. Deeply penetrating. Constantly present. And though my Savior has continued to give me great moments of peace and assurance in this year of diagnosis, the desperate longing for cure and health and hope is always there. It is the breath in my lungs, the beat of my heart, the underlying cadence of my days. 

It is the question asked over and over and over again— What can I do? What can I eat? Drink? Take? Avoid? Read? Believe? Embrace? Sign up for? Subscribe to? Even sacrifice?

Because, as in most things, we make it about us. What we can do. What we bring to the table. What role we have in saving ourselves. And whereas there might be some things we can do to better ourselves and better our situations … we cannot, ultimately, save ourselves. 

We are not saviors. 

We are not even survivors, really. 

We are sinners—the worst of us and the very best of us. Hopeless sinners living in a broken world aching and longing and desperate for a cure. 

For a fix. 

For something.

For a shred of some kind of hope.

We look everywhere. We look at everything. And, without doubt, there are many lovely little things which comfort, console and, even, captivate. But this world can provide no real cure for what truly ails us. 

We collect broken bits which only cause more burden. 

We sweep together pretty pieces which fail to bring true peace.

We gather moments of good and find they aren’t so great. 

This—our human condition playing out on repeat and utterly hopeless without a cure. I guess I can encourage you to go ahead and keep trying. Keep trying to make it better without Jesus. Keep trying to do it on your own. Keep trying to find the answer in self-help books and psychotherapy and, dare I say, stuff. 

It might help, but it won’t work. 

It is as stage four as my diagnosis. 

It is as seriously devastating as my disease. 

These little self-attempts--like putting bandaids on cancer in bones.

There are many, many helps, but only One Hope. 

There are many comforts, but only One Cure.

Many remedies, but only One Who Redeems.

We celebrate Christmas because …

The Cure is the Christ Child. 

Come for us. 

Come in a manger.

Come for the cross. 

Come for our longing. 

Come for our lacking. 

Come for our weeping.

Come for our worries.

Come for our despairing.

Come for our diseases.

Come for our sinning. 

Come for our salvation.

Come, because He loves us.

Let this be the Christmas you come. Come with dashed dreams. Come with broken hearts. Come with empty hands. Come as you are. 

Come and peer into the wee manger. 

Come and bow down before the rough cross. 

Come and meet the Very One come for you.

“For unto us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:6

“Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28

“Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; …

Incline your ear, and come to me; hear, that your soul may live…” John 3:36

“And whoever comes to me I will never cast out.” John 1:12

O come, let us adore Him,

O come, let us adore Him,

O come, let us adore Him, 

Christ the Lord. 

For He alone is worthy,

For He alone is worthy,

For He alone is worthy, 

Christ the Lord.

            ~ John Francis Wade 1743

Making Space

In the past few weeks I’ve found myself in the same kind of driving situation several times. It seems whenever I’m about to change lanes there’s been a car in that next lane which has sped up to make sure I couldn’t get over. You know that moment when a driver zooms from behind closing off any opportunity or gap for your vehicle. We all know it’s kind of that driver’s prerogative, but it’s also kind of impolite. 

It’s not like I’m trying to cut a line or cut anyone off or anything like that. I’m talking about just a simple tap of my blinker and a clear intention to move on over. Nothing fast or furious or frantic. Nothing exceptional. Nothing exciting. Nothing extra at all. Just an attempt to change my lane. And yet, lately, time after time, the message has been clear:  No way, lady. Not today. There’s no room for you here in my lane. MY. Lane.

Today that streak changed when a kind driver in the next lane and slightly behind, slowed down and, with a smile, waved me right over. He welcomed me into his lane. And what a difference that made. I immediately felt my mood lighten and my stress level lower. It changed everything when someone made room for me. 

Because, it does change everything when we make room for others. 

Driving or living or any-thing.

I know this is a simple little thing that happens a million times a day for a million types of people. But I guess because of my unfortunate personal string of lane changing attempts, it kind of felt like a big deal this afternoon. 

I’m pretty sure the man who smiled and waved me over had no idea the impact he made on me. And that’s when the deeper piece of this hit me—so often we don’t. We don’t always realize how our little interactions and tiny gestures of kindness can sometimes lead to a much bigger impact. 

Of course driving is just one such situation. But it immediately makes me think of anytime we slide over and make room for someone. In our lane or at our lunch table. The place doesn’t much matter, but the grace of it surely does.  

We all know how it feels to be told in words or, better yet, body language, “Sorry, there’s no room for you here.” Most of us have been on both sides of that message. We’ve been the ones to relay it as well as the ones to receive. Neither truly makes anyone feel very good.

I know it’s sometimes even easy to justify the lines we draw—

Sorry, there are only 6 seats in the car. Sorry, there are only 10 chairs at the table. Sorry, only 5 spots or 4 slots or 3 tickets or 2 pieces.  Yes, I know sometimes we do have to draw a line and we can’t include everyone who asks every time. But I’m not really talking about those times as much as the ones where it just requires us to move over, to make room, to pull up another chair, to find another way. To include. To invite. To embrace. 

Those times.

My kids have been on both sides. I’ve seen it play out in their childhoods and teenage years over and over. Either way, I marvel at the opportunity lost when we don’t make room for others. When we don’t invite others in to our circles whatever those circles might be. So often they lose. We lose. 

Earlier this month a group of my girlfriends attended a concert together. The concert (Maverick City Music) was AH-MAZING, but perhaps the thing which amazed me most about the night was finding out that the girlfriend who purchased all of the tickets for us, also chose to purchase an extra ticket. She told me she always does this. It’s her thing. Whenever she buys tickets for a group of her friends or those of her kids, she buys one more than what is needed. She went on to explain she does this because there’s always someone else who wants or needs to be there. Always someone who God kind of lays on her heart to include. She plans for it. She plans to make room for someone extra. But wait!--shouts my practical voice--concert tickets are expensive. Absolutely they are. But, a gracious including, wouldn't you agree, well, that is priceless. I’ve never once thought to purchase an extra ticket to anything. But she has been doing it consistently for years and isn't that so crazy beautiful? 

The word is grace. There’s a beautiful kind of grace when we make space for someone who needs a spot. 

Concert tickets. Seats at the table. Lane changes. 

I guess it gives us something to think about. 

"The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, 

whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, 

you did for me."   ~ Matthew 25:40