Future blog posts and updates can be found at www.sarahjcobb.com.
You can always view past posts here, but I would love for you to continue to connect with us there. Blessings, Sarah
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Perhaps you have seen me lately and didn't want to say anything. I know that it is sometimes difficult to ask with just the right amount of excitement but not an air of judgment. Oftentimes I am unsure how to broach the subject as well, so I thought it best to simply announce it.
I will be giving birth soon. But not to a baby. I will be birthing a book. It has been a difficult process. Long. Hard. Yet also beautiful. I have spent many hours locked in my bedroom or the local coffee shop or the upstairs of my friend's garage. At times the experience itself has been nauseating. Many times, I wanted to give up. After two years of gestation, I feel much like a mother who is great with child, anticipating the arrival of creation. I wonder whether this progeny, formed from deep within my heart, will be loved and accepted. I wonder what it will look like, who it will impact, and what it will become. God told me to write it, but I wonder what he wants to do with it. Katie's Story is the story of who Katie was and who she became. It is the story of childhood cancer and some of the atrocities it brings. It is the story of suffering and bravery. Fear and courage. It is the story of Katie’s pursuit of God and his pursuit of her. The story unfolds from two perspectives. Mine and Katie’s. My perspective is told in vignettes. These short scenes, snippets of time and emotion, enable you to know this child in a way that goes beyond simply knowing about her. They share small parts of her life, her struggles, her personality and even her death. My perspective tells the true story of Katie. Katie’s perspective is taken directly from her own writings and journals, including her quiet times, sermon notes, Bible studies and blog posts. They are her exact words, just as she wrote them, and in a handwriting all her own. Although Katie’s writings are not in exact chronological order, most of the journals in the first two parts of the book were written before she was diagnosed with cancer. The majority of the entries in the latter two parts were written throughout the course of her illness, right up to the week before her death. Katie’s perspective tells the story of her relationship with God and her desire to reflect his light through her life. Collectively, they are the book we wrote together, although not the story we dreamed of telling. Katie’s life. God’s light. This is Katie's Story. And if all goes smoothly through the final process, Katie's Story will be available in late spring of this year. In conjunction with the book, my blog will be transitioning to a new website: www.sarahjcobb.com. I am excited about the options that will be available with this change, such as subscriptions to receive blog posts and updates. I also hope to devote more time to writing and connecting with women this year as I reduce my work hours to part-time and return to the role of a nurse practitioner. So I guess I am kind of announcing a birth to triplets. Three exciting endeavors for me: a new job, a website, and a book. It's kind of a lot. It's definitely been a lot in recent months. It makes me feel so many emotions, not the least of which is sadness. I would rather have Katie sitting beside me on the couch than to birth any of these other experiences. But today I choose to embrace the pain of labor in order to realize the beauty it can bring. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland. This is what the Lord says. Isaiah 43:19 I am a bit of a Grinch.
Not in a green hair, pot belly sort of way. More in a grumbling, irritable way. For years, I have tried to determine the reason I become Grinch-like in December. Even before Katie's death, Christmas was hard for me. Maybe it's because I do not love shopping or decorating or presents or . . . dare say it . . . tradition. I don't think it's because my shoes are too tight. I do think, perhaps, it has something to do with my heart. Recently, I made the statement, "I don't even need to put up a Christmas tree." And it got me thinking . . . Do I really not need to decorate a tree in order to celebrate Christmas? What would it be like to not exchange any presents? Even though I do not spend a lot of time on the preparations, could I actually celebrate Christmas without all the things? As followers of Christ, we acknowledge Christmas as a day to remember the birth of Jesus, a baby born for the purpose of our salvation. But are the festivities of the season a part of that or a distraction to it? I wonder . . . what if someone (not saying who) took my tree and presents and lights and decorations? If they loaded up my stockings and tinsel and cookies and roast beast onto a sled and dumped it off Mt. Crumpit, would Christmas still come? What if they took the parties and the music? What if they took the nativity set on the mantle? What if they took the voice with which I worship? And the people beside me? Could I still celebrate the birth of Jesus . . . in a poorly lit quiet room . . . alone? And would I? Would Christmas still come without all the things? As much as I want to give the knee-jerk response, "Of course I would still celebrate Jesus!" I think the questions begs for more contemplation. I truly do not know how much my celebration of Jesus depends on all the other parts of Christmas. Perhaps more than I want to admit. But I think one year I would like to find out. One year when my kids are grown enough to plan their own Christmas, I want to skip all the performances and parties. I want to avoid the online stores and the brick-and-mortar ones. I want to pack up the presents, the ribbons, the wrappings, the tags, the tinsel, the trimmings, the trappings. And dump it. I want to try to celebrate Christmas with just me and Jesus. Could I do it? Would I do it? And what would happen in my heart if I did? Jesus, You have promised that I will find you when I seek you with all my heart. And you will give me a new heart and put a new spirit in me. You will take my stubborn heart of stone and replace it with a tender heart of flesh. Do it, Jesus. Grow my heart for you three sizes. And I will praise you, Lord God, with all my heart; I will glorify your name forever. (Jeremiah 29:13, Ezekiel 36:26, Psalm 86:12) Blessings to you and your family as you celebrate Jesus. Lately, I have been thinking a lot about peace and how to get more of it in my life.
A couple months ago, a friend of mine shared something that has stuck with me. I had asked her to pray about a specific decision I was considering, and she told me that God had been teaching her a lot about peace and feet. She reminded me that when we are taking steps toward spiritual health and preparation against spiritual attack, God wants to come alongside and guide our feet into the way of peace. Luke 1:79 says that is exactly why Jesus came. So, she told me, "when we don't have clarity, sometimes all we can do is let our feet move us into a direction of peace." Wow. I cannot tell you how impactful those words have been for me recently. When I do not know exactly what to do or what decision to make, I can always move toward God by moving toward peace. One morning as I was meditating on this, I began looking up verses about peace to write in my journal. There are so many, but here are a few: Whoever would love life and see good days . . . must seek peace and pursue it. (1 Peter 3:10-11) Peace I [Jesus] leave with you; my peace I give you. (John 14:27) In me [Jesus] you may have peace. (John 16:33) Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts. (Colossians 3:15) Perhaps the verse most referenced at this time of year is from a prophecy by Isaiah. "For to 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). Prince of Peace is translated from the Hebrew words, Sar Shalom. Sar means a leader or captain. Shalom means peace or completeness. Shalom is my favorite word ever (for real - I even have it tattooed on my shoulder), but I had not previously thought about how these two words go together. Jesus really does want to lead me toward peace. When I prepare myself for battle against the brokenness of this world, Jesus wants to be my captain in fighting for wholeness . . . completeness . . . peace. As I have recently considered next steps in several areas of life (career, writing, ministry, relationships), I have returned time and time again to this idea of walking toward peace. Not peace that tries to make everyone happy or avoids conflict or concedes. Not peacekeeping. No, I want to be a peacemaker. Makers are active not passive. Makers invite the mess because they are creating something better. Peacemaking means I may have to walk toward conflict in order to achieve resolution. I may have to plod through something hard in order to overcome whatever has been holding me back. I may have to dig in the cleats on the bottom of my shoes of peace in order to keep Satan from taking any ground from me. Regardless of what effort it requires, I have decided to follow Jesus toward peace. Interestingly enough, during this journey toward peace, I developed a true physical limp. The irony is not lost on me, God. As I have fought with an injury that impacted my literal running (my usual coping mechanism for life), God slowed my pace to a figurative walk and focused my attention on the path ahead of me. Because of the slow and methodical steps of the past few months, I will be making some exciting announcements soon. About the blog. And the book. And life in general. Lately, I have been finding peace in all the right places. Blessings, Sarah That may look like just a collection of Jack-o-lanterns to you, but it represents much more to me.
On Monday evening, one of my kids asked, "Can we carve pumpkins tonight?" I hesitated slightly as I responded, "Ummm, sure." I mean, I had not even bought pumpkins yet and here it was well into fall and just a few days before Halloween. Managing fall decor was just one more thing on my ever-growing to-do list. But Daniel, Annie and I quickly drove to the little produce stand in town to get some pumpkins. Needless to say, they were a little picked over. Daniel kept saying, "All of these have ugly spots on them." And he was right - there were no perfectly sized, perfectly round, perfect Jack-o-lantern pumpkins left. In fact, the man running the stand that evening said, "Those don't look very good, do they? How about I just charge you a dollar for each of them?" I volunteered to scrape the guts out of all the pumpkins and a couple of us got started which eventually led to everyone in the house joining in the fun of carving. That evening, we ate dinner together at our table for the first time in a couple months. The beautiful thing about it was how normal it felt ... so remarkably normal. After Katie's death, the question I asked and the question my kids asked was, "When will I feel normal again?" Well, the answer was not easy: probably never. We will never feel normal in the same way we did before. We might find a 'new normal' or learn how to function in the awkwardness of it, but life will never feel the same as it used to. Sometimes it is our kids' activities taking us in different directions and away from the table where we used to sit for dinner most days. Sometimes it is the ages of our kids and their other relationships which interfere with the fun of a game night in the family room. Sometimes it is the pain of Katie's absence that causes me to let everyone sit in their corners of the house and not initiate any togetherness. I think that must be why last Monday evening felt so good. A bit of laughter, a little teasing, some remembering, and - just like that - it felt like the Cobb 7 again. It felt like normal. It wasn't. But it felt just like it. People tend to think that loss is harder on certain days. You know, "special days" like birthdays, a particular holiday or a death anniversary. Logically, it does make sense that those particular days would trigger more memories or more sorrow or that "special days" would lead to more grieving than "normal days." However, grief has proved itself to be anything but logical in my experience.
In anticipation of certain days, I give myself permission to do whatever feels helpful to me. Sometimes that means working out extra hard and sometimes it means staying in bed. Sometimes that means spending time with others and sometimes it means being alone. I try hard not to force emotions or create waves of grief; I simply accept whatever my grief brings. However, like I said, grief is not logical. Or predictable. October 10th marked two years since Katie's death. Other than taking a day off from work, I planned nothing. Chad and I spent some time alone but together. It was a beautiful day and we walked to the cemetery with flowers. That evening, our kids' schedules worked out to allow us all to go out to dinner together as a family, leaving an extra large tip for our server (#katiecobbneverforgetya). It was a good day to remember Katie, but the day was not filled with tears for me. Memories, yes. But not an abundance of tears. Yet the weeks prior had been very difficult. Some of the days since have been as well. Perhaps that is the anticipation and let down of those "special days," but I think it is simply the illogical way of grief. It is not predictable. It is not linear. It does not get better and better and then resolve. It is not something that anyone ever gets "over," although we can learn to navigate it. And it is so incredibly different from person to person that it is impossible to understand another person's grief. Sometimes I want to hit a heavy bag or pound the pavement under my feet, releasing the anger building inside me. Sometimes I cry at football games and National Honor Society inductions and cross country races, letting the tears wash down my cheeks with no regard to appearing overly sentimental. Sometimes I just cannot handle one more piece of brokenness in my life, and I yell at the dog for coming in the back door with wet paws. Sometimes I am so bereft of the strength to even stand that I go to the cemetery and lay on the ground. But sometimes - a lot of times - I can talk about Katie and her life and her death without tears or anger or even a lot of pain. I believe that, although grief is illogical in many ways, it is also beautiful. And important. In the book, How People Grow, Dr. Cloud and Dr. Townsend describe grief as the most important pain there is because it heals all the other pain. It may seem paradoxical; yet, by embracing grief, my soul is able to release the painful experiences and open itself to enjoy new experiences. I believe that is why the ancient sage Solomon once said, "Sorrow is better than laughter because by sadness of face the heart is made glad" (Ecclesiastes 7:3, ESV). I have learned the value of grief - not only grief over another's death but grief over any loss, any pain, any desire unfulfilled. Acknowledging when life is not what you hoped it would be and embracing the pain that brings is imperative for emotional and spiritual growth. In order to receive the comfort that Jesus promises, I have to allow myself to mourn and grieve (Matthew 5:4). I love my illogical grief, and I will not apologize for it. Because my grief puts me on a path to healing. In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials (1 Peter 3:6). In this you greatly rejoice. In this. In what? Surely we don't rejoice because of the grief and suffering? Is my grief... my pain... my trials the in this? No, when Peter says in this, he is referring back to what he had just described in verses 3 and 4 as our cause for praising God:
a living hope (through the resurrection of Christ) and an inheritance (that can never perish, spoil or fade) We rejoice in the hope that we have because of Christ, and we rejoice in the inheritance - eternal inheritance - kept for us. Because of these two promises, we can find joy even in the midst of grief and suffering and all kind of difficult circumstances. This is very different from the old adage: Just focus on the positive. That works fine when you get a stain on your shirt or a bad grade on a test. But when life is really hard, the "positives" don't make up for the "negatives." Focusing on the positive doesn't always work. However, focusing on Jesus does. When life is really hard... when it doesn't seem fair... when everything is falling apart around you... when you keep getting more and more bad news... when nothing makes sense... when your feet keep getting knocked out from underneath you... when the "positive" is all but impossible to see... Remember the hope you have in Christ. Remember the inheritance kept for you in Heaven. Remember who you love and believe in. Focus on Jesus. Then your faith will be more genuine and real to you than ever before. And your faith may even allow you to whisper a word of praise in the midst of the pain. If you can look at Jesus, you can be filled with an inexpressible ability to rejoice. Why? Because right there in the midst of all the ugly... right there between the sobbing and the pain and the cries for understanding... right there when you choose to see Jesus anyhow, you are receiving the goal of your faith and the salvation of your soul. Do you sleep with a night light? Do you keep just a glimmer of light on when the rest of the lights go out? I do. I leave a soft light on in my family room, a small light in the hallway upstairs, and a night light in the bathroom beside my bed. I have my reasons. I don’t want to turn on the harsh overhead light in the bathroom during the night; I don’t want my kids to be afraid if they get up after bedtime; I don’t want to step on the Legos in the floor when I wake up early in the morning. Oh, and I hate the dark. It is not that I am afraid of the dark. I simply hate the quality of darkness.
Recently, I have been walking with a friend through a difficult section of life. She repeatedly refers to her current struggle as a season of darkness. What an apt description of the times when we cannot see a purpose or when we cannot determine the next step or when our eyes are clenched tightly shut due to the pain we feel. Or when we cannot find God in the midst of our current circumstances. It feels so very dark. St John of the Cross calls this the dark night of the soul. I know this place. This place of suffering and pain that cannot be fully explained outside of, perhaps, being referred to as darkness. I recognize that often our mortal bodies need support through counseling, medications, activity, and other therapies - depending on the circumstances - but faith does play a role. Faith is choosing to believe what you cannot fully comprehend. In the darkness, when you can’t even see your own hand, faith is choosing to open your eyes and believe that God is still there. In the midst of Katie’s most intense suffering and, therefore, my most intense darkness, I would cry out to God to show himself. As I drove the long, quiet stretch of road en route to Cincinnati, I would yell out through the front windshield, “Show up, God!! Just show up!!” I imagine the people on the road with me were taken back by this woman with a buzz haircut, screaming and crying while driving alone in the car beside them. Eyes wide open, trying to believe that He was still there. “Just show up, God!” Faith believes that God is there when the night comes and he is the only one who can bring the light back. I found the notes below in my journal. Sometimes it helps a great deal simply to know that you are not the only who has experienced profound darkness and that there is light to be found. Psalm 36:5-9 Your love, O Lord, reaches to the heavens, Your faithfulness to the skies. Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains, Your justice like the great deep. O Lord, you preserve both man and beast. How priceless is your unfailing love! Both high and low among men Find refuge in the shadow of your wings. They feast on the abundance of your house; You give them drink from your river of delights. For with you is the fountain of life; In your light we see light. I love this verse. In your light we see light. There is so much hope in that verse. Sometimes, like King David, I cry out that the light around me is becoming dark and what used to be day is becoming night. I feel lost and hidden in this darkness – this pain, this grief, this sadness, this anxiety, this anger, this fear, this anguish, this world. This darkness. But, God, even the darkness will not be dark to you. Even when I feel encapsulated by this darkness, you will not. For darkness is as light to you. The night will shine like the day (Psalm 139:11-12) You still see me even when I can’t see anything. And because you are the true light that gives light (John 1:9), I can have hope. I can find you in the darkness. I can lean into you and your light. Though I sit in darkness, the Lord will be my light. Do not gloat over me, my enemy. Though I have fallen, I will rise. (Micah 7:8) Before I walked into my daughter's illness, through her death, and then surfaced somewhere on the other side, I had experienced very few significant losses or painful circumstances in my life. Sure, I had been in seasons that tested my faith, but NEVER like that. So, when I recall the words I had said and the ways I had interacted with friends who suffered deep losses before mine, I am heartbroken at my lack of empathy and love. I had no experiences, no training and no guidance from which to speak to them, and it showed. As I have grown to better understand what helps and what hurts when a person is grieving, I have apologized to many of them for my lack of compassion. In recognizing my own failures and seeing firsthand the shortfall of others, I want to share a few thoughts on what to say and what not to say to the people you care about.
First of all, loss encompasses much more than death, and grief is much more than crying. It could be the loss of a marriage. The loss of fertility. The loss of a dream. The loss of an ability. The loss of a relationship. And yes, the loss of a person. If loss is an event, then grief is a process. A very long, arduous, difficult and variable process of accepting whatever loss has been experienced. Pulling from my own experience and a really fabulous book by Nancy Guthrie, here are my top 3 suggestions for what NOT to say to someone in the process of grief: 1. The absolute WORST thing you can say is nothing. When you choose not to acknowledge a person's loss or pain, they assume that you don't care about it or them. It may be due to discomfort or not knowing what to say or even being afraid of making their day "worse" (as if you could actually do that), but saying nothing is incredibly painful. You are not expected to have answers or to share profound words, but choose to acknowledge their loss just as you would choose to acknowledge their joy. 2. Don't make assumptions or comparisons. You don't know how that person feels, and you don't know what their loss is like - even if you experienced something similar. Don't compare their loss to be more or less than yours. As Nancy says, "You can't really compare pain. It all just hurts." And don't assume that just because they went to the mall or to the gym or back to work that they are "having a good day." 3. Don't say everything that floats through your head - even if it may be true. Everything happens for a reason. It must have been part of God's plan. Something good will come out of this. Or the ABSOLUTE worst one: God must have needed another angel in Heaven. While the first three may be founded on some truth, the last one is not at all Biblical. In the midst of grief, words like that are just hard to receive. Early in my grief, I had trouble accepting that God would have planned for my daughter to die or that he could ever use it for anything defined as good, and it felt very trite to hear words that lacked any component of empathy. So what can you say? It's hard to know. I get it. But here are my top 3 suggestions: 1. Say nothing. I know this doesn't seem to jive with the #1 thing NOT to say above, but stick with me. Don't ignore their loss; acknowledge it. But after that, it is just as important to be able to stop talking enough to listen. Let them take the lead in what to talk about and just listen. Don't try to answer all their questions or fix all their doubts or resolve all their pain. Just show up and listen. 2. Say "I'm sorry." I am ashamed at how old I was before I knew how to simply say, "I'm sorry." I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry you have to go through this. I'm sad with you. I am just so sorry. When you esteem someone's loss - whatever that loss is - you affirm that their pain is real and that alone can actually be a very powerful component in taking steps forward. 3. Say a name. If the grief is related to a loved one's death, the most beautiful thing you can say is that person's name. To hear Katie's name mentioned in a conversation or spoken of specifically is so sweet. Just yesterday, as we ate lunch at a fast food restaurant, one of my kids commented on the saltiness of the french fries, and the other one said, "Oh, Katie would have loved them!" We say names all day long as we speak to and about people, and it is really difficult to not hear the name of someone who still means so much. Just say their name. I hope these suggestions can be helpful as you walk through the brokenness of this life with people you care about. I would encourage you to read Nancy Guthrie's book, What grieving people wish you knew about what really helps (and what really hurts). The people who have been the most helpful and supportive through our journey in grief have utilized many of the principles in this book. Remember: He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. - 2 Corinthians 1: 3-4 (in reverse) I was paying for some items at a retail store this week when the cashier noticed the tattoo on my left shoulder. He commented, "Your tattoo is really pretty. But I have to ask: did it hurt?" That question is asked of me from time to time, and I responded in the same way I usually respond. I truthfully said, "Mostly it stung when they worked right on top of my collarbone."
Did it hurt? When asked that question, I always pause for a second as I consider a quick and appropriate answer versus a deeply honest answer. Did it hurt? Two years prior to my ink placement, I was processing my daughter's diagnosis of cancer. I remember clutching at my chest as if my hands could have possibly supported my heart as it tore apart piece by piece. One year prior to my afternoon at the tattoo parlor, I was lying beside Katie in a hospital bed. As she held my hand, I told her simply and honestly that she would die soon. Every day, I wake up knowing that my daughter is not in her bed. She will never sleep there again. She will not sit down for dinner. She will not wear the clothes that hang in her closet. She will not go to prom or graduation or a wedding. So did the tattoo hurt? Kind of . . . but not really. While physical and emotional pain are different, they do intertwine to a great degree. At times, emotional pain can drown out physical pain; other times, it can be exacerbated by it. But, to be honest, I wanted it to hurt. I needed the physical sting as I worked through the emotional throbbing. It provided a catharsis that day. The other comment people occasionally offer is: "You know, that's forever." What I usually say is, "I know." But what I want to say is, "Duh. That's why I got it." Truth is, I don't know exactly how long a tattoo will last. I mean, I know it is permanent as we define the word. It will stay visible on my skin as long as I live on earth. Beyond that, I do not know. Is a tattoo just for this life? Will God remove it in heaven when he gives me an eternal body? Will it stay with me, truly, forever? I am not sure. I do know that it will be with me at least until I see Katie again. So when someone says, "You know, a tattoo is forever." My honest response is: "I don't know if it is forever, but it is no less than the time until I see my daughter." Painful and permanent. That is what I wanted . . . what I needed . . . when seven flowers were inked onto my shoulder. It was something I had thought and researched and prayed about for many months. It was something for me to see. To touch. To feel. Something to remind me of brokenness. And redemption. In Isaiah 49:16, God says, "See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands." I love the thought of God having my name tattooed on his palm, a very tender part of the body. I like to believe that if he were exchanging money with a cashier and she glanced at his hand, seeing the name Sarah, she might ask, "Did it hurt?" And maybe he would think about me and smile as he answered, "Kind of . . . but not really." |
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