In a few weeks, our friends are moving to Malawi, a country in southeast Africa, where they will be living indefinitely. She will be a physician at a hospital in Blantyre and he will be building relationships with teenagers as they both endeavor to share God's love. Their daughter has much smaller goals: she is simply expecting to see an elephant awaiting their arrival. As I talked with my friend yesterday about both her and her family and friends' anticipation of their departure, I was struck by her response. She said, "It is always easier to be the person leaving for a grand adventure than it is to be the person being left behind."
When she said this, I took a long pause. For me, this represents a lot of how I view my separation from Katie. I have said a lot of things to God. I have talked, yelled, discussed, and questioned him many times. But I can honestly say that I have never asked God to send Katie back. I would not want her to leave her current position, the hope of everything she lived for on earth, the thrill of the presence of God . . . for me. Sure, I miss her something awful. I am sad for you and me, as we are the ones left behind, but I am over-the-moon happy for her. For lack of a better analogy, I have often said that what I feel now is an exaggerated version of what I feel when my kids go away to camp. I notice their absence every day while they are gone, in every little way, but I know they are having the best time, laughing and playing and learning and dancing and serving. Living to the fullest. I really want them to experience that - even though I hate that sometimes the best place for that experience is not in my presence. Jesus says, "I have come that they may have life and have it to the full" (John 10:10). Perhaps we get just a glimpse of that here on earth. A little glimpse of a life of beauty and exuberance. A little glimpse of joy and relationship. A little glimpse of a grand adventure. But the fullness of what Jesus promised isn't here; it awaits us in eternity. One day this past fall, as I walked around my neighborhood, I passed a boy around Katie's age shooting basketball in his driveway. Before I could stop myself, I said to God, It's not fair, God. It's just not fair. I would love to see Katie shooting basketball or setting a volleyball, picking out a dress for formal or taking her driver's exam, preparing for the ACT or cheering from the student section at a ballgame. Why do I have to watch her friends do these fun things while I mourn her absence in all of it? Then God responded to me . . . I'll tell you what's not fair. It's not fair that that boy has to live on a broken earth. He will deal with broken people and broken hearts and a torrent of ugly and evil for the rest of his life here. What Katie is experiencing is so much better than 'not fair.' She lives in life as I created it to be. Some days, as I think of my Katie, the ache in my heart takes my breath away. Every day I miss her laugh, her smile, her biscuits, her independence, her compassion, the way she rolled her eyes, the way she ate her pancakes, the way she loved her friends, the way she bridged our kids together. Every day is different without her here. Living this way isn't easy for me, but there is no way I would ask her to come back. No way would I take this from Katie. For Katie is on a grand adventure. And it is always easier to be the person on a grand adventure than it is to be the person left behind.
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When Jesus came into our world, he was not merely a baby that is sweet to the eyes, but he was hope that is sweet to the soul. He didn't just bring hope - like a bag of toys for good girls and boys. No, he was hope.
Hope for salvation - but not salvation from physical persecution. He brought hope for salvation from spiritual persecution. Yet so many, many people missed it. In Bethlehem, most people were busy. Legitimately busy. They had jobs and tasks on their to-do lists. They had school and apprenticeships. Their kids had activities, and didn't they deserve the opportunity to be involved in a variety of activities? They had family to take care of and a pie to bake for a friend. They had been required to travel to Bethlehem for the census, so why not turn it into a family trip and stop by all the local eateries? Everyone in Bethlehem was busy. Busy doing good things. But they missed Jesus. Not intentionally. They would have dropped off a gift if they had known . . . And seriously, why did they miss it? Isn't this what they wanted? They had been waiting so very long. Over 2,000 years. The prophets had predicted a messiah who would bring salvation. Who would bring hope. Hope for what? The Jews were hoping for political freedom. They had fought for hundreds of years against the oppression of other nations and the evil leaders of those nations. Surely this is what God wanted for them - to reduce their suffering and give them hope. What else would a Messiah be good for? We look back at the people in Bethlehem and throughout Israel and wonder . . . how could they miss that? How were they so busy that they didn't know Jesus, God's son, was born? And once they did eventually hear that Jesus was to be a Savior, how could they possibly have thought that he was on earth to give military leadership or political peace? Hindsight is 20/20, isn't it? I hate to break it to you, but we do the same thing. First, we miss him. We are just so busy - legitimately busy - that we miss him. We might catch a glimpse here or there - maybe even at church - but we lose out on the opportunity to really be with Jesus. Second, we expect him to resolve our struggles the way we see best. We want freedom from whatever we think is holding us down. We want relief for our suffering - whatever legitimate suffering - we are in the midst of. But Jesus wasn't born for that. Jesus didn't come to earth to make life here easier. He came to recover the brokenness of sin - not for a temporary time - but for all eternity. Jesus brought hope. Hope that does not disappoint. Hope that is bigger than my comfort or health or happiness. Hope that is forever. For that reason, I can still find joy in the midst of my suffering because I know that suffering produces perseverance and perseverance produces character and character produces hope. And that hope will not disappoint me. Therefore, as I arise early this Christmas morning, I rejoice in the hope of the glory of God (Romans 5:2-4). Merry Christmas! Today is the first day of Advent. In recent years, I have grown to love Advent even though I do not adore the holiday of Christmas. So today, as I sat in my chair in the early morning silence, I lit the first candle of the season. Advent means "coming," and John 1:9 says, The true light that gives light to every man was coming into the world. The light was coming. This light that shines in the darkness. This light in whom is life (John 1:4,5). So Jesus came. We celebrate his birth on Christmas. He brought light. He brought hope. He brought joy and peace and love. Didn't he? Because, if we are honest, sometimes this life still feels very dark. Below is a journal entry I wrote in July 2017, just a few days after bringing Katie home from an 80 day hospital stay. As I remember what it was like to sit in the hospital room recently and really struggle to find God, I had the thought that it really is like sitting in the dark. God was there - present, almost touchable, communicating with me - before the lights went out. I know he was. And he said he wouldn't leave me. And I trust him. But then there was such darkness. I couldn't see anything. I couldn't see to the next day. I would cry out to God and my voice would just echo. Where is he? I thought. I couldn't see or hear or feel him. All I could feel was darkness. So I would talk to myself, Remember what he said. He said he wouldn't leave. He said he would not forsake you. Lean on what you know. He has been faithful this far. No reason to believe he won't be faithful now. And as the room began to slowly lighten, I could barely see him, and then gradually more and more. Still there. He never left. He was there in the darkness and in the light. But, oh, how I hate the darkness. If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me," even the darkness will not be dark to you. The night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you (Psalm 139:11-12). I love how this all comes together. Darkness is not darkness to God. Darkness is the same as light to him. Because he doesn't just bring light; He is light. So when the darkness of life becomes so pervasive that I can't see anything, I keep looking for Jesus. And I remember what I learned before the lights went out: The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not overcome it (John 1:5). This darkness will not overcome him. And it will not overcome me. For I will stand to declare the praises of him who called me out of darkness into his wonderful light (1 Peter 2:9).
Blessings during this season of Advent. I have enough medical knowledge to understand the final deterioration of Katie’s body. I know what was happening to her lungs as the lymphoma spread rapidly over the course of just a few days, filling every bit of airspace with fluffy tissue and fluid until there was no usable space left for oxygen.
Yet I have enough spiritual knowledge to know that Katie was already breathing in Heaven even as she walked on this earth. For God says in his Word that if the Spirit of Christ is in you, then even though your body is subject to death because of sin, the Spirit gives life because of righteousness (Romans 8:10). Even though our mortal bodies will die, we can still have life. Ephesians says that God has blessed us in the heavenly realm with every spiritual blessing in Christ (1:3). Not that he will bless us with eternal benefits, but he already has. God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus (Eph. 2:6). As followers of Christ, we are already living in the blessings of eternity - that is, Heaven - while our feet are still walking on earth. So when I think of Katie’s last couple days, as her lungs had less and less space available for breathing the air of earth, I believe this is because, spiritually speaking, her lungs were filling more and more with the air of Heaven. She had been balancing the two realms for long enough, and eventually there just wasn’t enough capacity for both. I think Katie would have loved to have experienced more of the joys of this world - and I would have loved to have watched her do it - but if she had to choose, I also believe Katie would have said, “Give me Jesus.” As humans, we cry out as Israel did: God, Our bones are dried up and our hope is gone! But if we stop crying long enough to listen, we will hear the Lord say, You, my people, will know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves and bring you up from them. I will put my Spirit in you and you will live (Ezekiel 37:12-14) You will live. Not in the way you are accustomed to living - with broken bones and broken hearts and contaminated air and contaminated thinking - but in the heavenly realms with Christ. And, in so doing, he will show you the incomparable riches of his grace. Because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even while we were dead. (Ephesians 2:4-5). You. Will. Live. God has led me to so many roles in life to which I never aspired.
I never planned to be a pastor's wife. The man I married was an engineer. Yet here I am. I didn't always want to be a mom and certainly not one of those moms with all those kids. But God gave me 5 incredible kids to call me Mom. I told God I didn't want to be a nurse, and he led me straight to nursing school. I went back to grad school kicking and screaming because I had no desire to be a nurse practitioner and certainly no time to work that into my life. But I just knew that was what God wanted me to do, and he wouldn't even tell me why. Blind obedience, he kept saying. I did not wish - not once, not ever, not for the briefest instant - to bury one of my children. Yet I did. At one point, I yelled at God, saying, Does this really happen? Do children really die? Yes, they do. God knows the plans that he has for us. For me. He has plans to give me a future and a hope. Plans to prosper me and not to bring me harm. Jeremiah 29:11 This verse is a favorite to many. It is truth. So much truth. But it is not written in the way we prefer to interpret it in our typical American fashion. When Jeremiah shared these words of God with the Israelites, they were in exile in Babylon. The verse immediately prior to our favorite one says, "When seventy years are completed, I will come to you and fulfill my gracious promise." Seventy years. Who will be alive in 70 years? Not the ones who heard the words future . . . hope . . . prosper . . . no harm. This promise is not about today. It is not about me. It is not about all the good things I want to happen to me and all the bad things I don't want to happen to me. God is bigger than that. He sees bigger than that. He wants things for me that are bigger than that. And he knows that when I begin to grasp some of that 'bigness,' and see beyond my own hopes and dreams for today, then I will call upon him and come and pray to him, and he will hear me. I will seek him and find him when I can seek him with all my heart (Jeremiah 29:12-13). But the key to verse 11 is in verse 14, where God promises to "bring [the Israelites] back to the place from which I carried you into exile." They will go back to their place of hope, the future they wanted. They will go full circle. And so will we. So will I. God will bring me back to himself. The most beautiful part of this passage for me is when I found that the word prosper in verse 11 is translated from the Hebrew word shalom. Shalom. My favorite word. My favorite concept. Shalom means completeness, peace, as it was meant to be. God does not have plans to harm me, but to give me hope beyond today. And beyond tomorrow. Through all the paths I walk in this life on this earth - many of which are not what I thought I wanted or even what I hoped for - he plans to bring me back to the place I started. Back to himself. Back to Shalom. God knows the plan he has for me; his plans are for shalom. Can you say the same thing? Blessings, Sarah Middle school cross country (XC) season just finished. In my experience, cross country has a unique camaradarie that develops among the runners and spectators from various schools as they come together to cheer and encourage one another. Ben, our sixth grader, decided to run XC this fall, and I have traveled to several meets with him, watching him work so hard to improve little by little. But as I stand at that finish line each week, watching all those kids run the last few strides of their race, I cry. Every time. I stand there amidst cheering family and friends, trying to eek out a simple, "Run hard!" while my eyes just weep. I was a little taken back by it at first. I didn't expect to cry when I was supposed to be cheering. I didn't know where the tears were coming from initially, but I have accepted that tears can come out of nowhere sometimes because life is just different now. The first time I cried at the finish line, I thought it was because I was remembering Katie running cross country. While that was a likely component, after several weeks of these tears, I asked myself, "What is driving this emotion?" A little introspection led me to - what I think - is the motivation behind the tears. These are middle school and high school kids running two and three mile courses. Long enough to require endurance, yet short enough to require a significant effort. And it's a race. But, of course, not everyone crosses the finish line first, so it's mostly a race against themselves. Or maybe the person closest to them. I watch as these kids run the last 500 yards and give everything they have left in their energy stores. Their legs move faster and stronger. Their arms pump higher. Their faces reflect the effort they are giving. Looks of determination, stress, pain . . . and tears . . . as they use every bit of reserve. More than one will vomit as they cross the finish line. And this isn't just the front runners. I see runners in the middle and back of the finishers do the same thing. They run hard. They want to do their best. Be their best. Give everything. It reminded me of something that God impressed on me several years ago. This idea that I want to run into Heaven completely spent and exhausted, having given everything I could give to God's purpose for me in this life. I want to live in such a way that I slide into Heaven, panting and puking and pumping the air all at the same time, and say, "Wow! What a ride!" And Jesus says, "I'm so glad you are here!! You ran so hard!! Now come and rest." I believe Katie lived like that. I'm not saying she was perfect, but I do think she lived full of life and full of God. She smiled, served, laughed, worked, learned, and enjoyed. She gave everything. She loved the race of this life. But her race finished uphill, and the last 500 yards were grueling. Yet, somehow, when she got to the final stretch, she never stopped. She never looked back. She never refused to finish. It was then that her courage rose up. I know. I watched her race. I cheered her across the finish line. I held her hand. I handed her off to Jesus. I want to live like that, too. Sure, there are some days when I don't even want to get out of bed. Somedays I could peace out for a looooong time. But, ultimately, I want to run. Hard . . . and fast. Strong . . . and with purpose. And when I get to the last 500 yards, may I run with more grit and determination than I ever thought I had in me. I want to collapse in a heap at the feet of Jesus, completely exhausted, and say, "That was so worth it." So the tears fall. They fall for Katie. For Cohen. For Luke. For Josie. For the kids who run so hard, who give everything, somehow seeing Jesus through the sweat and pain of their race. I want to live like that. And, by the grace of God, I want to die like that, too. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award me on that day. 2 Timothy 4:7-8 Blessings, Sarah One year ago this morning, we woke up early. It was our last day in Hawaii. We would be leaving that night, our trip having been cut short because of Katie's worsening symptoms, and we were trying to cram as much into our time as possible. I have such sweet memories of that morning at Hanuama Bay. I could recall so many details to you. The trolley ride to the bottom of the hill. The gathering of snorkels and masks and flippers. Katie's deep desire to have that experience, made evident by her willingness to don the swim cap she hated over the bald head she hated even more. The chilly water and how it took her breath away -what breath she had left at that time. Me trying to convince her to just duck under the water and then she would get used to it. Her final submission that it really wasn't so bad to just sit on the beach in Hawaii and watch the rest of us. Seeing Aaron swim with Daniel on his back, allowing him the opportunity to view the fish up close like the big kids. Ben's excitement as he and Chad found surprises in the reef. Annie sitting on a towel with Katie in the sand, no doubt annoying her as much as she adored her. I stood on the shore that morning, the tears rolling down my cheeks then as they do now, thinking, I absolutely love these kids. We stopped for malasadas on the way back to the hotel, then washed them down with a round of shaved ice for lunch. An afternoon in the sunshine, frantic packing for an over night flight, and one last family picture. Which became one last family picture. Lack of sleep over the next few days leaves some blurry patches in between the very vivid memories of one year ago. I had walked by her side for months and would hardly be farther than arm's distance for the next 3 days. I made the decision to get on the plane that night even though I didn't know if she could make the trip. Every transition between flights was tumultuous. It would be a head shaking story even if it didn't involve a girl in a wheelchair whose smile belied the gravity of her situation. Somehow we got her to Cincinnati. I don't even know how her body compensated that long - except by the grace of God. Hidden in those next hours is a lot of pain and some very quiet blessings. Moments of weakness. Moments of strength. A lot of love. We said the hard things. We did the unthinkable. One year later, what do we do now? Some days it's hard to know exactly what to do. Or what to feel. We live in the present while we yearn for the past and grieve what could have been the future. We look through the tears as we cling to the hope that we find in the Gospel, and we wait ... we wait for redemption ... we wait for reunion. We miss you fiercely, sweet girl. We'll see you soon, Katie bird! Forever, The Cobb 7 Katie Cobb
8/28/03 - 10/10/17 There is a certain four letter F word that I hate. It gets used way too often in my world, and it sounds so ugly ringing in my ears.
Fine. Fine. Fine. In answering the question, "How are you?" fine feels like a cover up response to me. I know that in our culture we often just ask a casual question, expecting a casual answer - and maybe that's okay - but I think we answer fine so much that it becomes a mask we show to others and even to ourselves. "I'm doing fine," we say, so we can keep going, not slowing down, not letting anyone in, pretending like our world is of superior quality, just like the definition of the word. When people ask how I am doing, I rarely say fine. To me, it's a facade. I may say, wonderful, okay, or even not so good. But not fine. The usage I absolutely abhor, however, is when people (especially Christians) try to use "fine" to cover up the broken areas of life instead of acknowledging them for what they are. I did this when Katie was first diagnosed. I said, "Yes, she has cancer but it is treatable and we live in America where we have healthcare and it's fine." I said that F word so much that I believed it. And I never allowed myself to acknowledge the pain of it all. Even though I was hurt and sad and questioning God, I kept saying, "Its fine. We're doing fine. It's all fine." Well, let me tell you, cancer is not fine. Chemotherapy is not fine. Hospitalizations and radiation and surgeries and losing your hair at 13 years old is not fine! Neither are drunk drivers, drownings, suicide, hurricanes, infertility, or infidelity. Nor sprained ankles, colicky babies, or unkept promises. It is all broken. All of it. It is the crappy brokenness of this world - directly related to sin and Satan - and it is NOT FINE. Can God redeem it? Yes. Can we trust him as we walk through it? Yes. Can I do my human best to look beyond the ugliness of it? Yes. But it is not fine. I spent most of my life believing that, as a Christian, I should not be angry, frustrated, complaining, or negative. I should always count my blessings and look at the positive and make the most of it. I believed that certain emotions were negative - even sinful - and since I wanted to be a positive, Godly person, I avoided all such emotions. While I still believe that it is a great trait to be flexible in life when things don't quite go your way and that seeing the good is the root of gratefulness, I have also learned that it is okay to acknowledge when life isn't what you had hoped. Even in the little things. For instance, saying, "I didn't get to go on a run today because of the rain and that really upsets me. But I hope I will get to go tomorrow," is much more honest than sullenly plodding up the stairs muttering, "It's fine." Because it isn't fine. It stinks. It's a bummer. I can deal with it, but it isn't what I hoped. When applied to the bigger areas of life, fine is even uglier. One time, when all my family was planning to travel to Cincinnati for the weekend to celebrate Daniel's birthday together with Katie, my sister called in tears because her child had a virus with a fever and she thought she would not get to join us. As I was talking with her on the phone, she kept saying, "I know, it's fine. It will be fine. It's fine." I finally told her, "NO. It is NOT fine. It is awful. It is not what you wanted, not what you hoped for. We can get through it. We can figure it out. But it is not fine." Ours is a broken world and that is not okay with me. I know the pushback. James says in his book of the Bible, "Consider it joy when you encounter various trials" (James 1:2). Joy . . . trials. That means pretend, right? Fake it till you make it? Nope. This verse does not say that the trial itself is joyful. Or that there is no pain in it. Or that I'm glad I have it. James is not saying that all the crap in this world is okay. He says that there can be joy because we know that the trial will produce something in us if we let it. Something strong. Something incredible. Something redemptive. Something eternal. I can find joy because I can learn to see from the other side of it. From God's perspective. From the place where he says, "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" (Isaiah 43:19). When I read this, I hear God say, "Look. Look at what I can do. I am not going to waste this." But nothing, nothing, about that means that this is okay. I have begun to consider that verbalizing . . . pretending . . . perhaps even trying to believe . . . that all this brokenness is fine is a way of giving Satan some ground. When I refuse to acknowledge the pain that he has brought into the world and into my life and, instead, convince myself that this is somehow okay or that I should passively receive it, do I give the enemy some of my turf? Does he want me to believe that all the ugly in this world is fine? When God created the world, he looked at it in its perfection and declared it "good". (Genesis 1:31). But he does not look at all that is evil and distorted in this world and call it "good." So why should I look at brokenness and say that it's okay? If it isn't fine with God, why do I pretend it's fine with me? I will not settle. This is not fine. God has something better planned. He will make it good again. Restoration. Redemption. "The old earth had disappeared . . . and the one sitting on the throne said, 'Look! I am making everything new!' . . . No longer will there be any curse. The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in the city (Revelation 21:1, 5; 22:3). As I learn to align my perspective with God's, I refuse to lower my expectations to what this world has to offer. There is something fine and this ain't it. God, you love righteousness and hate wickedness. So let those of us who love you, Lord, hate evil. - Psalm 45:7, 97:10 Blessings, Sarah Today, on Katie's birthday, I want to share two things with you. I used to tease Katie and tell her we should write a book together. She thought I was crazy, but I told her it would be easy because we both had so many things that God had taught us and we could just write out our own journals to share with others. Well, I have prayed a lot about this and have decided this is something I still want to do. I plan to write a book (that's a little daunting to say) that includes Katie's story from my perspective and hers, using writings from our journals. It won't be right away, but God is guiding me to make that happen. Second, I want to share something below that Katie wrote. This was written at the beginning of 2017 as an 8th grade class assignment to choose a word that would guide her coming year. For perspective, this was during the time she was still finishing her first round of chemotherapy. She was missing the interactions of friends and activities, having been out of school for a few months already. She bounced around in her beanie, covering that bald head as if it wasn't even there. Notice what she focuses on and what she doesn't focus on in her writing. It's incredible. I did not even find this until several months after her death. Katie has a story and I hope to be able to share it. Blessings, Sarah FAITH
I chose this word because it is something I've pushed away for awhile. It's always been there but my faith has been pushed into the background for far too long now. In 2017, I really want to bring my faith into the foreground. This year, my God time will become daily and I will really develop my life around my faith. It will become what it should've become years ago, my true rock and foundation for my life. I will find a time to spend time in the Word and talking to God, as well as just making time to listen daily. I'll never truly hear God if I don't make time to just listen for him. I need to make time to just rest and rejoice in His amazing creation. I want to slow down my life and look around. I want to thank Him and praise Him for how blessed I am. In the past, I have only spent time with God if I felt like it and to be honest, that wasn't very often. Maybe twice a week on a good week, which is absolutely not enough. I think and hope to see a difference in my attitude towards life and others. I hope to just overall mend my relationship with God. It's like a bridge with some pieces missing and in 2017, I want to put all of the pieces back in place. There were many other words that I could've chose, but I felt that this word encompassed all of them. Wisdom, joy, patience, and love to name a few. Growing my faith will bring me more of all of these. I'm going to fight back with joy. I will make laughter, smiling, dancing, and singing a normal thing to do. I'm going to appreciate the joy bombs that life brings. I don't want them to go unnoticed and unappreciated any longer. In the past, I've thought that joy and happiness were the same thing. However, recently I've realized they are definitely not. I cannot be happy and sad at the same time, but I can be joyful and sad at the same time. Regardless of my circumstances or how I feel, I can choose to act and respond in joy. As I read through the Bible, I want to not just read but devour the words on the page. As I sing on Sunday mornings, I want to not just sing the words on the screen but worship God through song. As I go through life, I want to not just go through life but go through life spreading God's love and joy for us. 2017 will be my year to remember. In the future when I give my testimony, I want to be able to say that this was the year my faith grew stronger than ever before. This is not a New Year's Resolution, this is a New Life Resolution. And it all starts, now! On Tuesday, August 28th, we will celebrate that Katie was born and that her life was part of our lives for a season. That's what a birthday is, isn't it? The opportunity to use balloons and cake and presents to say, "I am just so glad you were born!" Celebration is a loaded word this year because, although we don't expect it to be a lot of fun, we do want to remember the blessing of this girl in our lives. And that blessing was a really big one.
We, of course, have some things planned but we also want to invite others to take just a few minutes to think about Katie on Tuesday. When you do, write her name somewhere. Across the paper you're reading, in the dirt, on your foot, on a brick wall (use sidewalk chalk - not encouraging graffiti). Write it in great big letters, calligraphy, hearts, whatever. Be intentional or be spontaneous. But take a minute to think, remember, appreciate, pray. Then take a picture of it and post it, using #katiecobbneverforgetya. Consider tagging her and me in it. If you have my number, send me the pic as well. I will love having my phone blow up all day with those pictures. We also hope to collect something small and simple every year for her birthday. If you want to join us and spend a few dollars in honor of Katie, our family will receive $5-10 gift cards for Starbucks and iTunes which we will pass on to pediatric cancer patients. Katie loved music and an occasional drink from Starbucks so, as we talked at dinner one day, we decided that would be a perfect gift for her birthday! We will collect these until the first of October and then deliver them as we get close to her death day. You can mail them to 19 Hazel Circle, Winfield, WV 25213 or even leave them in the basket on our front porch. We really appreciate all of you who choose to remember and love Katie alongside us. Look for another post here on Tuesday as we continue to love Katie - only from a distance now. Blessings, Sarah, Chad and the rest of Cobb 7 Forever |
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