We've Raised Awareness, Now it's Time to Raise the Bar

As "PINKtober" begins its final week, I’d like to share why this isn't necessarily an easy month for some women with stage 4 breast cancer--this month where we see the breast cancer pink ribbon on everything from tennis apparel to trash cans ... from police cars to every form of packaging. 

I've always been on board with raising awareness and heaven knows I love a good event. But friends, I've been struggling in the past weeks as everywhere I turn I see pink. I would really love a chance to help others see, maybe not red, but just a little more clearly. 

It's hard to explain--I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it--but allow me a minute to at least attempt what it feels like to sit on the other side of this not so rosy line. I’m still processing, but I’ve spent a few weeks learning about why women with stage 4 breast cancer aren’t exactly excited about all aspects of the PINKtober campaign. It’s not just the constant pink reminders of our incurable disease, but it's, more so, for many, some misleading messaging and, unfortunately, maybe even the misallocation and misrepresentation of funds raised. 

Yes, the pink ribbon campaign has done amazing things to raise awareness and dollars, but most people do not realize how little of that includes stage 4 breast cancer. The percentage is in debate--Some say less than 2% ... others claim it's now risen closer to 7%--But, regardless, 2% or 7% going toward research for stage 4 breast cancer is simply not enough. 

Metastatic Breast Cancer (MBC), also called stage 4, is the ONLY breast cancer which kills and yet only a tiny percentage is allocated for this research. 

Read that again.

Furthermore, 1/3 of women who "beat" early stage breast cancer will at some point in their life become stage 4/metastatic. Yes, you read that correctly, ONE-THIRD. 

Like me.

No one really likes to hear my story because it doesn't fit any of the things we know or like to believe. 12 years ago I was "early detected" and “barely stage one." I had pretty minor cancer and, yet, chose aggressive treatment. Did all the things. Fought like a warrior. Was told I was "cured" and had "beaten it."  Was called a "star patient" and assured because of my early detection and fighter mentality I WAS "the poster girl for beating breast cancer.” I remember my oncologist saying early on, “Jody, you’ll be just fine. You’ve nothing to worry about.” 

His words sometimes haunt me. 

I had less than 1% chance for this beast to reoccur. 

But, against all the odds, it did. It reocurred.

Now as a woman with MBC (stage 4) I will never "be cured" or "ring the bell" or "kick cancer's ass." Nope. Never. And so all that warrior and battle and victory talk is tricky for women like me. The messaging in this month makes it sound like if we (only) fight hard enough we can achieve victory. The problem with this is that the opposite then also feels true when we lose--and those of us with stage 4 will lose. “According to the American Cancer Society (ACS), the 5-year survival rate after diagnosis for people with stage 4 breast cancer is 28%.” Another not so gentle way of saying that is 72% of women diagnosed stage 4 will not live past five years. 

So what does that mean in the face of all this pink? We didn't fight hard enough? I don’t know. At best, it's confusing. I do know our main hope (now) is not going to be curing cancer or kicking its ass, no, it’s going to be buying time and praying for more treatment options to give us more years. That takes research. That research takes dollars. 

In the meantime we hope to prolong life.

And that is exactly why I don’t “look” like a stage 4 patient. That’s a topic for another post, but I know this confuses some people. "Well, gosh, Jody’s busy planning events and posting photos of her chickens and she has all of her hair. Seems like she’s doing great. She looks good. Surely she can’t be THAT sick." Well, it’s because, for women like me, it is no longer a sprint to be healed, it’s a marathon to stay alive. It’s the long game. We strategically are given medicine and treatments to keep the cancer at bay and keep us living life. At some point cancer will outsmart my current treatment and those meds will fail me. And at some point, I’m sure you’ll see me looking a whole lot more like a stage 4 patient. I know that’s a lot to process. I’ve had conversations with many of you. It doesn’t make sense. It’s easy to forget (for you maybe, not for me). But trust me on this, I know what I’m talking about. There isn't a silver bullet when it comes to stage 4. MY PLAN is for the treatments available to work well for me and give me LOTS and LOTS of years, but I have learned too much, I know if that's what happens, I will not be the statistic, I will be the outlier.

Sometimes learning things is hard.

I am also learning to understand why PINKtober isn’t an easy thing for women with MBC. As this has, unfortunately, become a big part of my life now, I spend a good amount of time connecting with others walking this same walk.

I'm in several (Facebook) groups with thousands of women with MBC. I read their stories and struggles every day.  I cannot explain to you the pain and sadness. Women who are alone and unable to work. Women who can't pay for treatment and have to fight with insurance companies. Women who bounce from one brutal treatment to another knowing it will never end. They will always be in treatment. Forever. Women, literally, at the end of their rope. Heartbreaking doesn't begin to explain it. There is nothing festive or celebratory or rosy-pink about it. I don’t really put myself in this category because I AM still living a pretty normal life. Yes, lots of side-effects and, yes, lots of mental/emotional/anxiety battles, but also lots of wonderful stuff too. I’m grateful. And lucky.

But, I don't have to tell you how hard it is for the women who struggle to see companies using the pink ribbon as a marketing ploy to tug at heart strings and increase sales. And, yet, we know that's exactly what happens in some cases. Certainly not all cases, but in some. It feels like gross commercialization. At times it’s hard to see some of the flippant, casual, and sometimes crude, comments made and posted. Those can hit differently when you're fighting for your life. It’s also agonizing to see all the hype and excitement over pink bows and pink socks and pink tennis skirts for a fun-feel-good-event. I once wore the pink tennis skirt and played in the pink tennis tournaments. Now, as stage 4, I am having so much joint pain and fatigue I can’t imagine I’ll be out on the tennis courts ever again. Instead, I brush by my tennis bag every single day when I walk through my garage and have to wonder.

I’m not saying it’s all wrong. Like I stated earlier, there are some great things which have been achieved in raising awareness. We are certainly ALL AWARE.  I’m just saying there’s more to the story. We need to be more aware of asking the question-- WHY aren’t more of these funds raised going toward the breast cancer which kills women? Especially knowing that 1/3 of all women who have "beaten" it, will progress to stage 4 --even the very best case scenarios, like me.

Early detection and awareness are great, but, I was both early detected and (more than) aware and there is not one single doctor who can explain why my breast cancer returned. Not one. Two of my three oncologists didn’t believe it. One of them told me to “go home and not worry about it,” even after the scans showed lesions. Crazy, I know.

Last week, out of my own wrestling, I asked the question to the specific Metastatic/Stage 4 groups of women I am in on Facebook. I simply asked this --

"Why is PINKtober hard for so many of you?"

I received an unbelievable amount of stories and responses to that question. Hundreds, in fact. Most all of them explaining that they "dreaded" this month and felt "assaulted" by the misrepresentation and “gross commercialization” of the pink ribbon. These are women who are in the darkest, deepest trenches of breast cancer. Women fighting for a few extra years of life and dealing with one awful treatment after another knowing there won't be an end ... until there is.

I think their voices need to be heard. 

One woman in this group shared an article she had written on why more stage 4 research MUST be the goal: 

“While the pink ribbon is well-known for representing the fight against early-stage breast cancer, it is not inclusive of stage IV.

It’s a sad fact that today, nearly everyone knows someone who’s had breast cancer. Yet there’s one fact not everyone knows: 

30% of people with “cured” early-stage breast cancer who’ve “beaten” the disease will eventually see it return as stage IV, also known as advanced or metastatic breast cancer (MBC). 

That means the disease has spread to other parts of the body, a diagnosis that carries an average life expectancy of around 36 months. While the average survival rate of a breast cancer diagnosis is 90% over five years, that statistic tumbles for metastatic breast cancer, dipping to 29% over five years.

Many women with metastatic breast cancer will live only a handful of years. But about one-third will live at least five years after their diagnosis. And there are outliers who live for 10-15 years after such a diagnosis.

MBC is the only form of breast cancer that kills. 

Yet while MBC claims the lives of 115 people in the U.S. daily, less than 7% of US breast cancer funds raised go toward researching new treatments for it. 

Worldwide, more than 685,000 people die of MBC annually. 

Those shocking statistics explain why more and more people are embracing a reimagined breast-cancer-awareness ribbon that goes beyond pink — there’s no surviving or “beating” MBC, just buying time via treatment. 

The pink ribbon has done a lot of good. It has reminded people to get screened, and it has helped to raise a huge amount of funds. But at the same time, it has been used to raise money for purely corporate pockets, including the pockets of several prominent breast cancer charities. 

It has become a symbol of the idea that everything will be OK, breast cancer is only an annoyance, just a year out of your life, and you'll go on happily from there. The pink ribbon as a brand is a misrepresentation of the truth of breast cancer. 

And, most importantly, it is not a cure.

What the ribbon should represent is the need to fund medical research in order to save lives.”

Pink is not a cure.

Research can and has saved lives.

With more and more new treatment options, patients like me have a better chance to live longer.

Thus a tricolor ribbon, for metastatic breast cancer, aims to raise awareness for the need to direct funding toward the development of life-extending treatments. 

In it, green represents the triumph of spring over winter, life over death; teal symbolizes healing and spirituality; and a thin pink-ribbon overlay signifies metastatic cancer that originated in the breast.”

Dear friends, please don’t view this post as sour grapes. Sure, I have some pretty sour moments, but mostly, I do have a lot to be very thankful for. I spend most of my days really trying to focus on the beautiful and the blessings of each day. Those of you who know me, know that my life is truly in God's hands. I trust Him with it. Completely. But I also have felt a prompting to go ahead and share some of my newly gained perspective. I wish I didn't know so much. I wish this wasn't my story. But it is and I believe that our stories and our journeys and our lessons learned are meant to be shared.

 We've raised awareness, now it is time to raise the bar. 

One last thing--there's an organization which does use its dollars raised for MBC research and funding. 

Please check out the METAvivor organization. METAVIVOR.ORG

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

In the past few weeks I got to spend--not nearly enough--but a good amount of time caring for my new granddaughter, my daughter, and my son-in-law. 

I didn't do anything all that ground shaking. Didn't close a big deal. Didn't publish a novel. Didn't get my name in the newspaper. Didn't rescue a puppy. 

Didn't even hardly get all the laundry finished. 

But I did this little thing called caring for family, and, for me, it wasn't a little thing in the least. For me it was probably more like the thrill of my year. 

Maybe my decade. 

You think I exaggerate? 

Though prone to an occasional exaggeration every now and then, in this case, no.

I assure you, a thrill. 

Being there for my first girl as she became a mom to her first girl, and then to watch her tenderly (if not a bit tiredly) navigate these first sacred days of motherhood ... I mean, seriously. No words for the way it all made my heart swell and swoon and simmer and melt.

Truly good. 

A gift. 

A grace.

Thank heaven for little girls. 

And big girls. 

And the beautiful mother~daughter relationship that God saw fit to give us here on earth to make life a little bit sweeter, hard things a bit more tolerable, heavy things a little bit lighter, wonderful things a little more wonderful. 

Hanging on Mimi's nursery door is a little door hanging pillow (yes, that's a thing) declaring this very sentiment--Thank Heaven For Little Girls. I found it at a baby boutique (this is also a thing) and gave it to Emily as a shower gift. 

About 28 years ago I had hung almost the very same pillow on Emily's nursery door. I had saved hers all these years. Why? I don't know, I guess I'm a saver of door hanging things. 

But last week, while visiting them, I knew I had tucked it away so that one day I could put it on my adult daughter's bedroom door as she slept. (Well, sort of slept). 

While staying in their home, I took a special grandma kind of delight walking past both of their doors draped with tiny pillows declaring thanks to God for their lives. 

Door hanging pillows or no door hanging pillows, doesn't much matter, but giving thanks to Him in heaven is a gift most holy. 

Truly, thank Heaven for little girls.

Mimi Grace

It is our absolute joy to introduce to you our granddaughter, Mimi Grace! 

She made her grand entrance early Saturday morning and we haven't stopped smiling.

We are absolutely smitten with this precious little lady. 

And, of course, so very proud of our Emily and Austin. They are going to be just amazing parents. 

The grandchild thing is something marvelous. First, because we marvel at this new life and next generation. But secondly, because, in addition to her new life, we are also marveling at the chance to watch our own children do something so good, so wonderful. 

It's like this double blessing of goodness I wasn't prepared for. 

Rick and I are overwhelmed with the beauty of this next season. 

Thank you Lord Jesus for this indescribable gift. 

               "Every good and perfect gift is from above, 

             coming down from the Father of lights." James 1:17 

Birdy and Grampa Bear love you, Mimi girl!

This Song Is About You (And Me)

You’re so vain

I bet you think this song is about you. 

Don’t you? Don’t you?  ~ Carly Simon

My family made fun of me when I hung this mirror in my coop. Yes, shame on them, they did. I tried to convince my scoffers that chickens really do love to look at themselves. Even roosters! Like handsome Basil here. He stares and stares. It’s quite funny. Perhaps a tad weird.

But it’s good for us to take a long, hard look at ourselves every now and again. Actually, every day. Funny enough, as flawed humans we tend to not see very clearly our own flaws. The lens blurs a bit when we look at our own stuff. It is just so much easier (and possibly more fun) to see the issues of others.

“Why do you look at the speck of DUST in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the LOG in your own?” Matthew 7:3

Speck versus log. You get the idea. 

Why is it so easy to see the mistakes and missteps of our brothers—and sisters and parents and children and friends and neighbors—and, yet, quickly gloss over our own? I am so guilty of this.

We can effortlessly justify and minimize and explain away our own choices all day every day, but then, oh that speck of dust in someone else’s eye, man, that gets us! That gets under our skin. That gets us all hot and bothered. That gets us up on our high horse. How dare they?

Honestly, I think this is one of the devil’s favorite tactics. He loves to distract us from
working on ourselves. If he gets us focused on someone else’s mess, he knows we won’t have much time to address that pretty messy person in the mirror.  

He doesn’t want us to focus on fixing ourselves. He wants us to keep minimizing and justifying and explaining so we go on living complacent and comfortable in our own stench. Our sin. He does this to keep us from God’s goodness and His best for us.

But God has more for us. Better for us. His best. 

“I ask that the eyes of your (my) heart may be enlightened, so that you may know the hope of His calling, the riches of His glorious inheritance …” ~ Ephesians 1:18

Another version says,

“I pray that your hearts will be flooded with light so you can understand the confident hope He has given.” 

Eyes flooded with light! I love that. 

Of course the evil one wants to keep us in the dark. To keep us afraid. To keep us from looking at ourselves. To keep us from Truth. The very last thing he wants us to know is that beautiful confident hope and the riches of our glorious inheritance we have in Jesus. 

Sometimes, we just don’t want to see. Or hear. Or feel. Or "go there." We choose, instead, to numb and dull and deflect. We harden our hearts and we hide in our dark.

Matthew 13:15 might make it most clear —

“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.’”

Don’t be afraid of that mirror. Don’t be a chicken. Or maybe, DO be a chicken — like Basil. Take a good look. Take an honest look. 

Ask Jesus to flood your eyes with His light.  

That is where truth and beauty become clear. 

That is where hope and healing become ours. 

Dirty Jobs: Car Rides, Kids and Colonoscopies

these dirty boys clean up pretty well!

Last week, beach bound, Rick and I used a free Audible credit and listened to Mike Rowe read his book, The Way I Heard It. 

The deep timber of his gravely voice immediately took me back to the days of raising young kids. His Dirty Jobs show was a weekly classic in the McNatt home. I can still see my boys and husband sprawled out on the sofas in rapt attention to whatever dirty job Mike Rowe was piping into our family room that week. Hanging on his every gross word, like a train wreck from which they couldn’t look away, I marveled at their focus. The more grotesque, the more rapt.

I’m pretty sure they never missed an episode. If memory serves me correctly, we owned the DVD set of all 532 episodes. Okay, I just fact checked —179 episodes. I’m sure we watched them all. More than once. 

I mean is there anything better than a couple of boys and their dad being grossed out together while stuffing faces with popcorn and chips and soda? That was how we rolled back then. After a few days at the beach with my family, I’m happy to report, it’s still how we kind of roll. 

Being grossed out together is real family bonding. 

So as Rick and I traveled alone listening to this iconic voice, I’m sure he had to be thinking the same thing as me: this man, Mike Rowe, and his filthy offerings, were woven right into the fabric of our many years of early parenting. I will never not hear the deep bass of Mike’s voice and not think of my boys. Even if the topic was something absolutely awful, there’s something really wonderful about that memory of them all together sprawled out in our family room. 

I’m not going lie, in our travels this past week, it was nice being able to listen to an Audible uninterrupted. That’s what we get these days with older children—The ability to hear. The oldest kids traveled from their own states and the other three drove together in a separate car.  But as lovely as uninterrupted listening and quiet driving can be, it will always feel strange to be vacation bound without a backseat full of a bunch of hooting and hollering hooligans.

Talk about dirty jobs. Those were the days. Cleaning out our backseat after a long family trip was most certainly an adventure into the world of gross. There was always some kind of something sticky or smooshed or crumbled or crushed. Always something borderline horrifying to pull out from behind us. I easily conjure up the image of my young mothering self staring at an odd item unearthed from between the seats and wondering who and what and, mostly, why in heaven’s name?

Dirty Jobs wasn't just a show, but was also such a big part of raising kids. Sometimes we talk about some of the gross things from those years. We actually laughed about a few even this past week at the beach. Classic stories. Stories which were terrible to live through, but hilarious to remember.  Like the time the youngest brother leaned over the side of his bunk bed and threw up into the mouth of the oldest brother reclining innocently below. Perfect aim, perhaps, but no one forgets the moment when they receive another’s vomit— beloved brother or not. 

I could go on and on with stories. You need only come sit at one of our family gatherings and I promise you won’t be disappointed. We truly could have our own Family Dirty Jobs show--at least 179 episodes.

Because that’s how most families roll. 

Because that’s how most of life rolls. 

It’s a dirty business this living, is it not? I know we don’t like to talk about the dirt. Pictures have a way of hiding it. I’m guilty of that trick. Angles are everything. But most of us with a few decades under our belts know that there’s no such thing as squeaky clean and picture-perfect living. 

Speaking of a dirty job, this week I had a colonoscopy. I know that’s not something most people share publicly, but, it fits this blog topic, so, I’m sharing. Besides, please use this as your friendly reminder to cross that off your list. The night before my procedure I was explaining the process to Bella who, horrified, exclaimed, “But mom, WHO does that??? WHO wants to do THAT job?” 

The next morning as I entered the OR and was getting all “set up” by the team, I shared my daughter’s comments with them. We all had a good laugh over her teenage disbelief. My gastroenterologist raised her hand and laughing, said, “Me! I do that job!” I wished, for Bella, I had taken a selfie with Dr. Julia who looked more like a movie star in front of the camera as opposed to, well, you know …

I know it’s unpleasant. And perhaps not polite dinner table conversation, but it’s something necessary and pretty important. I’m happy to report that procedure went well and at first glance all looks good. Grateful after these past couple of years of not so favorable results. 

But Dirty Jobs, it’s how life is lived. I’ve kind of enjoyed watching my children grow up and have to learn how to do the not so pleasant. I don’t think it’s so bad for us, on occasion, to get dirty. Not just recline on our sofas and marvel at others getting dirty, but to dig in and do it ourselves.

We don’t live pristine lives. And the sooner we realize how messy living is, the sooner we can mature and move on. 

You want a cuddly, cute puppy? 

You’ll have to take care of all things potty training.

  

You want your shower to drain quickly?

You’ll have to learn how to snake out the gobs of gross hair. 

(Or call your dad).

You want to leave your lunchbox contents in your backpack all summer?

You’ll have to deal with that little lovely come back-to-school time.

You (Jody) want to have chickens in a pretty chicken coop?

You'll need to scoop chicken #$%@ every single day of your life!

We have learned a little this year about hard jobs .. rough places … unpleasant things. This dirty cancer diagnosis has, in some ways, taken from us our much preferred rose-colored glasses. We don’t spend too much time dwelling on the ugly, but instead, do what needs to be done and we move on. Have the test or procedure, take the medicine and the side effects, do the next hard thing. And then humble ourselves before the Lord and ask His mercy and strength in all of it. 

But of course, like you, we sometimes wonder:

Why can’t life be easier? More lovely? Better? CLEANER?

The story of Adam and Eve in Genesis 3 gives us a pretty good theological understanding of what sin did when it entered the picture. How it muddied the beautiful garden. How it corrupted the perfect.  How it shattered the pristine.  After Adam and Eve’s sin there’s a lot in those next verses about DIRT —The serpent crawling on his belly in the dust and grit, the man working the ground, the woman in pains of labor. None of it pleasant. And all of it true to the suffering in our lives today. Very real and very filthy stuff.

But, then, Jesus. 

Jesus who came, and carrying our gross sin on His shoulders, agreed to the hardest, most dirty job ever — dying on the cross in our place, for our sin. For us. You. Me.

A dirty, grotesque death, but necessary to bring our only hope for salvation. Our only hope to be fully restored to that which each one of us craves — Holiness. Wholeness, Redemption and Glory.

So, yes, in the meantime, we live pretty dirty lives. Whether it be our job or our chore or our difficulty or our diagnosis. We are pretty much most days groveling in some kind of dirt. 

But, oh how wonderful that, on occasion, we get to be alone with the audible voice of our Father in heaven and the car ride grows quiet and we get to hear His deep voice reminding us that, dirty as this life is, there is so much more to our story … because of the cleansing blood of His Perfect Son, Jesus.

And, that is exactly the way I hear it. I hope you do too.

“Behold, I am making all things NEW.” Revelation 21:5

“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear the Lord and put their trust in Him.” Psalm 40:1-3

(a few photos from our beach trip last week. because there really is beauty even in the dirty)! =)

Bringing Cake

 

It’s his birthday, but he’s at the beach with his college buddies this week. I offered to show up with a cake. He was clear, “No, mom. Don’t come to the beach with a cake. Absolutely not.”

“I repeat: Mother. Do. Not. Bring. A. Cake.” 

I honored his wishes, but he doesn’t understand. 

He can’t understand that for all those years I was the one to bring the birthday cake and the ice cream and the balloons. For all those years I made the birthday magic happen.

Even though he is our 4th born. 

I mean, truly, by the time he joined the family, there were birthday celebrations where I thought … can’t we just include the older siblings and wrangle up a few stray neighborhood children and call it a party?

But no. We celebrated. Always. 

We made it as special as we could for as many years as he would allow. There was a pirate party, a trampoline park party, an out-to-the-movies themed party. Of course there was a race car party … or two. 

I think back to all of those parties multiplied by all of our kids and I feel like I could almost have put “party planning” on my resume. There were years where it felt like I just went from one birthday party to another. I’m so grateful I had the time to do it all.

Maybe some of the touches were more for me than they were for the birthday boy or girl. I mean does a 3 year old really care if her balloons are pale pink or hot fuschia? Did she really appreciate the fairy wings that required me to hunt down in at least a dozen dollar stores? 

No, probably not. 

But as this 4th born turns 20 today, I’m pretty sure even though he doesn’t want me to come anywhere near him with celebratory confections, he knows his mom did her best to bring the birthdays. 

He knows I loved doing it because I love him. 

At some point we stop planning things for our kids. Twenty seems a good age. I write that, but I kind of laugh, because if you know Connor, you know he’s been pretty independent for quite some time. It didn’t take a 20th birthday for this kid. 

Maybe it’s a 4th child thing. Maybe that’s why he’s been doing his own laundry since middle school. Maybe that’s why he can make a dinner reservation or a doctor’s appointment (or rent a beach house☺️) and not bat an eye. He grew up knowing his mom was always there, but also always a little busy planning other things—kids’ parties—too. He had to share me. Every day. He had to figure out how to take care of some of the stuff on his own. Sometimes that makes me a little bit sad and sometimes it makes me think maybe that was the best gift I could have given him. 

No, I won’t show up at the beach tonight with a cake and candles for Connor, but I will give thanks to the Lord for allowing me the chance to be his mom and celebrate him always.🎂

Happy birthday, Connor!

Beech Trees

Beech trees. Anyone else a little gaga over them this time of year?

They are the pale copper or light caramel colored trees you might notice scattered in the midst of early March’s muted grays and browns. 

Before spring’s drama fully unfolds is the best time to appreciate them. Especially deeper in the woods. There’s not much else to see out there in winter’s drab dress—at least not to our eyes. 

Though not evergreen, they hold their leaves throughout winter. When every other hardwood has long ago bid hers goodbye, beech leaves remain. 

The reason: MARCESCENCE!

“Deciduous trees that hold onto their leaves through the winter are described as marcescent (mahr-CESS-ent).”

They bring beauty and interest in a place where everything else feels kind of bare and blah. Lifeless and limp. 

There’s a line of them arranged across a ridge in our woods. Like they were planted with purpose. If you happen to live in Johns Creek, my favorite place to view them is along Abbotts Bridge Road. Stunning.🍂

I know their beauty has a biological explanation, but I can’t help but see them as stronger than the other more average deciduous trees. 

They hang on. 

They hold out. 

They have hope.

They hint at beauty.

It seems when harsh winters or unwanted hardships come it might just be easier to let go and let our leaves drop ... to join the rest of the trees in the forest. But perhaps these beech trees can remind us of the strength + beauty which comes with resiliency.

The same Creator of these exceptional trees created you and me. Maybe we can’t do it on our own, but perhaps He has placed within us a similar quality as these trees. 

Not marcescence, but dependence … on Him. On His strength. 

In the deepest woods.

In the depths of winter. 

Dependence on the One who not only reminds us of the next season of life, but who is Life. 

🍂”But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in His law he meditates day and night. He will be like a tree firmly planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in its season and its leaf does not wither; and in whatever he does, he prospers.” 🍂 ~ Psalm 1

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