Seasons

(Obviously started this a bit before the new year, but it is still fresh. Somewhat.)

2011 is fast approaching, and if you are like me you may be attempting to set goals for yourself, some of which you may even bother to reach. Generally speaking, my workout goals this year are to do a sprint triathlon and run another marathon or two. I may try to fit a half marathon into the mix; we'll see. Following my marathon in November I've wanted little to do with running, my workout BFF. We'd been spending too much time together which has caused some staleness in our relationship. Thus, we've decided to limit the amount of time we hang out to about twice a week. This give us both some time (well, it gives me some time--I can only take this analogy so far) to develop other interests, such as swimming, aerobics, and the like.

Now that the baby-making machine has been put to rest for a while (I haven't been pregnant in 16 months--woohoo!), I have been able to develop some regularity in my training. Since triathlons generally take place in the summer, and marathons in the fall, my training has taken on a sort of a seasonal feel, which suits me just fine. This way when I begin to burn out on one thing, I can switch gears and follow a new direction for a while.

Seasons are good that way. They provide variety while allowing for a large degree of predictability. But what happens when seasons change--permanently? What happens when my body or my schedule tell me that they are no longer going to put up with the ridiculous amounts of running and time a marathon requires? When my knees scream at the mere thought of a four mile run? What will I do then?

Although I hate to admit it, I know that other important things in my life are ephemeral as well, namely being the center of my children's universe. Although I sometimes (often?) gripe about the time constraints and stresses of raising kids, being a mother has proven to be the most important and rewarding work I've done to date. Reading a book to my kids as they both struggle to fit on my lap, kissing away a boo-boo obtained from a beligerant sidewalk crack, comforting one of them when they awaken from a nightmare, receiving more than my fair share of hugs and kisses throughout the day...the joy I receive from these gifts can not be communicated through writing. What a blessing to me my young children are. A blessing, and a very large part of who I am.

So again, there's the question: what happens when this season passes? When my sweet little boys grow up to become not-so-sweet school kids who are more interested in their little friends than they are me, when they go on to become high school boys who find another woman (okay, girl) that takes that coveted position in the center of their world, when they (and this seems too surreal to even imagine, but I know it is the goal) leave my house to venture out into the world at large? What will they do without their mom to help them get dressed in the morning or make them lunch or wipe their tears when they are disappointed? Or the better question: What will I do?

Here's when I have to look reality--and its real, frightening facts that some day I will be too old to run and that some day my boys won't need me any more--in the eye and tell it that although I may be afraid now, I know that when the time comes I will meet it head on--with confidence--and get through it. How do I know this? Because I believe that these real blessings in my life--my passion for fitness and my fierce love for my babies--are from a God who loves me and blesses me with all good things. He gives and takes away, and when the time for these things is up He will fill the void with something new. It certainly won't look the same and it may take a while to adjust to, but the new season He sends will be uniquely wrapped with love and care, for He knows me intimately and thus meets my needs. Blessed be his name. Thank you, Lord, for seasons.

Confessional, part II

Forgive me, reader, for I have sinned.

By blogger standards, anyways. Continue.

It has been, let's see, over a month since my last post.

OVER A MONTH? What kind of blogger are you? And you want forgiveness.

I know, I know. That's a long time. But I have my reasons.

(Wry, unimpressed look.)

I know you don't care about excuses but I think mine are valid.

Really. Let's here them.

Well, for starters, it's December, which--in our consumer-driven society--means I've been busy shopping and baking and decorating and whatnot.

Aren't Christians supposed to be above all that? Whatever. And???

Well, I was training hard for a marathon.

"Was?"

Well, I ran it already. About a month ago.

You did what? And you didn't write about it? Isn't this supposed to be a running blog? And isn't a marathon like, well, the big daddy of runs?

Well, technically yes. I wanted to write about it, about how excruciatingly difficult it was while at the same time being exhilarating; I just never got around to it. But guess what! I set a PR! Granted this is only the second marathon I've run, but still, that's pretty good, right?

(Another wry, unimpressed look.)

Okay, well, since you're already mad at me, I have another confession to make: I've only run three times since the marathon.

Seriously? Okay, I don't know how much more of this I can take.

I know, I know, I'm a terribly uncommitted runner! But you know how it is: you can barely walk the week following the race, I have been sick, and then we went to Wisconsin for a week, where it was, like, 20 degrees and freeeezing! Have you run in those conditions? Yes? Well, I have too.

Oh really, when?

Well, just today, actually. Here in good old supposed-to-be-fifty-this-time-of-the-year Virginia. That doesn't exactly help when you are trying to get back on your feet, so to speak.

Okay, stop right there. This blog is also about embracing the place where you are at. No complaining.

Oh yeah. I forgot.

So, is there anything else?

Well, I could talk about all the other things I've failed to keep up: relationships with old friends, being consistently in the Word following the completion of my Bible study, resolutions to eat healthier...it seems like the longer you put off doing something the more difficult it is to get back into it.

Girl, you're a mess!

I know! But what can I do about it?

Well, for starters, you need to set some goals. What are your plans for this blog?

I don't know. I mean, I really want to keep writing! It's something that I actually like and am surprisingly okay at. But I'm so busy...

Busy selling out to consumerism...

You aren't helping. But yes, with holiday preparations and what not. I guess a reasonable goal would be to shoot for one post every two weeks.

Okay, sounds fair. And your running?

Well, I'm definitely going to tweak my workout schedule a bit. I need to change things up from time to time so as not to fall into a rut. I guess I'll cut back to running twice a week and devote more attention to swimming.

You're still doing that? Aren't you still getting passed by the senior citizens at that dirty pool you swim at?

Yes, but I still enjoy i!. Something I've learned over the years is that I don't have to be the best at everything I do, so back off!

Okay, okay. Your penance is to perform two hail marys, runner-style.

What does that mean?

I don't know! Wake up earlier than usual to jog or run in this freezing weather. You figure it out!

Fine. Anything else?

Nope. Just be sure to follow through on your goals. I'll check back in with you.

When?

About two weeks.

Smile for the camera!

If you've ever run a race of any distance, you've seen them: the photographers. These professional picture-takers of the anonymous amateur runner sit at various intervals of the race route and snap what I'd imagine to be an endless number of pictures portraying the "runner in action". This is their job, and they don't care that you've been running for the last two hours and your hair has escaped the bondage of its ponytail hold miles ago, your face is contorted into a perpetual grimace of pain, and thanks be to God that pictures can't pick up on your scent. They are bound to see you looking--and feeling--far less than your best.

I've noticed several different approaches people take when dealing with these photographic vultures. Some choose to simply ignore them. They pick a point in the distance and pretend to be studying it with the seriousness of someone studying for the bar exam, paying no attention to the person who is clicking away at their feet. Others fully acknowledge the camera. Upon spotting it, they immediately straighten up their posture, pick up the pace, and greet the camera like an old friend by flashing a toothy grin and a thumbs up or a wave.

I fall somewhere in between these two approaches. Unless the cameraman happened to snap my picture in the first mile, chances are that he is taking my picture at a time when I am not exactly enjoying myself, and it shows. If you observed me during a run, you'd most likely see a girl wearing mismatched clothes with a taut, pained-looking expression on her face, mouth agape, spit flying or perching contentedly from the corners of her mouth, and hair a mess. Generally when I approach a cameraman I have more important things to worry about than how I look, like whether I am actually going to finish this race without dying or where I can pee in private without losing a lot of time waiting in a line. At the same time, I'd rather not have my image posted on some website looking like I just escaped from prison and have been on the run for days. So when I see one of these nuisances, I generally try to pull myself together enough to replace my grimace with a more neutral, less frightening look and--in the case of the one and only marathon I ran--to not be seen crying.

Which, I'll be the first to admit, is silly. Most people realize that you don't run marathons for the fun of it. It goes to reason, then, that you shouldn't be expected to look like you are having fun, or even to look good. If ever you have an excuse to look bad, it's during this ridiculous distance event in which you run for four hours straight all the while constantly battling your mind to convince yourself (and your legs) that you are, in fact, going to make it and that quitting would render the last four months of training a large waste of time. Why, then, do we feel the need to constantly look like we have it all together?

I asked myself this question yesterday after a particularly painful experience at the library. Although the library technically constitutes as being a public place, I consider it more of a quasi-public place. By this I mean that I don't feel guilty if I'm not looking my best. The place is two miles from my house and the only people we see there are other snotty-nosed kids and moms who are in the same boat as me. Simply put, I am not aiming to impress anyone. And I feel like most moms adhere to this mentality.

There is one mom, however, who clearly does not. She is the quintessential perfect mom. For starters, she always looks flawless. I have never seen this lady in anything less than khakis, her hair and makeup are always impeccable, and she even wears lipstick, something I would consider doing only if I were going to, oh, I don't know, a ball. She always wears cute shoes. With heels. The other day I was reading the newspaper and saw her posing in an ad. No wonder she looks like a model. She is a model. Her two girls are following suit and appear to be perfect too. Just slightly older than my own kids, they always are dressed to the nine, with cute hairstyles and stainless outfits. They have never acted up, as far as I have seen. In short, this Supermom and her kids always put me on edge because of the aura of perfection they give off.

Imagine then, if you will, the seen that unfolded yesterday: feeling a little sick and run down, I put off taking a shower and doing the whole hair and makeup thing, and opted instead for a more natural look (read: I looked like death). I was wearing a sweat suit of sorts, not of the "I am about to go to/am returning from the gym" variety, but the "I intend to do as little as possible today and these are the closest things to pajamas that I can get away with in public" variety. We had just finished taking the dog for a walk and it had been raining; hence, my boys' clothes were muddy and had the usual breakfast remnants splattered on them. Our looks alone would give one reason to pause. But we were at the library, for heaven sakes! Anything goes!

Anything, that is, except for what happened next. Jack, upon realizing that I was unable to retrieve his favorite books (Amazing Airplanes and Tough Trucks which, by the way, are riveting reads if you are currently searching for a good novel), decided to throw one of his infamous tantrums. I have dealt with these tantrums far more times than I care to relate, both at home and in public, so the tantrum in itself was nothing new. Nor was the hysterical screaming, or the feet stomping or the head banging on the floor. What set this particular tantrum apart from the others was that Jack, who had decided from the get go that this was going to be a tantrum of the long and drawn out variety, would not leave. Which didn't leave me with a whole lot of options. I had a purse, a stack of books, a 14 month old who isn't exactly the definition of a good listener, and an almost three year old who was screaming bloody murder and none of these things was going to get to the car on their own.

Trying desperately to ignore the stares, I opted to grab Ben and the books and my purse with one hand (thank God Ben is little), put forty-pound Jack under my arm like a football, and somehow made my way to the elevator. I endured the world's longest elevator ride down to the first floor (seriously, there are only two floors. How can it take that thing five minutes?!) where I tried to get Jack to stop screaming so that I could check out my books. He responded by screaming louder and banging his head on the floor. Naturally, Supermom was right there with her two girls, who weren't making a sound. It was beyond obvious at this point that Jack was not about to cease with his antics, so I threw the books on a counter and again grabbed my boys and made our way to the car.

Fortunately, a lady from my church happened to have parked right next to us (a God-thing for sure) and offered to help. I asked if she would stand by and watch the boys who were screaming in the car as I ran back into the library to check out the books and she willingly agreed. As I ran into the library, I passed Supermom who I am sure thought that I had either left my children unattended out in the car or, even worse, left them out in the car with a complete stranger. Mortified, I checked out the books as fast as I could (again, it is a marvel that anything gets done in that place with the speed at which everything occurs) and managed to leave the parking lot before I, too, burst into tears.

Needless to say, it was a rough day. Any previous attempts on my part to look and act the role of a good mom, a mom who has it all together, had been obliterated by this one event. Which goes to show that looking and acting the part of a good mom is a complete waste of time. Anyone with kids--heck, anyone with a pulse--knows that when it comes to most anything in this life, especially kids, we don't have a clue. At best we arm ourselves with knowledge, throw up a prayer, make a decision and hope that by it we aren't going to ruin any body's life. At worst we end up on the kitchen floor, crying right along with our two kids after dragging them out of a public place under our arms.

Blessedly, we don't need to act like we have it all together when we don't. We don't have to smile when we don't feel like smiling, or pretend we know the answers when we don't have a clue. We don't have to do these things because we have someone who really does have it all together, who does have the answers, and who wants us to bring him our tears when we are having a rough day. Our God will supply all our needs according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:19). Not only that, but through Christ we can do all things through the strength he gives us! (Philippians 4:13). When life brings us down, as it surely will, all we have to do is run to Jesus and he will accept us, regardless of what we look like, or what our child just did, or how we just reacted to what our child just did. Not only does he accept us, but he loves us. so. much. I don't know about you, but I would much rather have the very real love of an all-powerful and all-knowing Lord of Hosts to rely on than a supermom-like facade.

Although it would be really great to be able to look even a little like Supermom. And whether I'm feeling up to it or not, next week while running I will probably check to make sure that I don't have any snot on my face when I pass by those photographers.

There's no WE in RUNNING

Lately I've been thinking about how different people are. Not in the "man, she's really strange" different; rather, in the "he likes this and she prefers that" different. Just in personality and preferences alone, the range of diversity among people is staggering. Consider, for example, the vast contrasts between my husband and me: He loves all things meat (I'm convinced he'd order the beef-flavored ice cream if Ben and Jerry's happened to come out with one); I tend to stick with the green, leafy stuff. He thinks that merging into the lane of exiting traffic just prior to the lane's end helps with flow; I tend to be a bit more conservative and politely merge well ahead of time. He never takes things at face value and will question things to death until he understands; I accept things as they are without asking why.

And then there is the matter of sports. Kevin loves organized sports. Ultimate Frisbee, soccer, basketball, you name it: if it involves running with others and focusing your collective attention on a round, inanimate object, he'll play it. And, indeed, I can see why: the man is good. Quick, agile, and coordinated, he takes what could be considered a primitive, sweat-filled group activity and turns it into an art form. Okay, so the sweat is still there, and the sports he plays technically qualify as group activity, but you get the idea: he has a natural inclination and talent for team sports.

I, on the other hand, am not quite so gifted when it comes to throwing, kicking, or catching. Add a team full of people into the equation and you get a nervous, uncoordinated, relieved-to-sit-the-bench non-athlete. My saving grace is that running happens to be a solitudinous sport in which I am free to be as reclusive as I choose. The fact that I run on a one-person team (Go, Team Sara!) frees me to run whenever I want, wherever I want, as fast as I want, and as long as I want. Which is what running is about. Or so I thought.

Apparently there are other ideas about running. Last week I was talking to my sister-in-law, who made the outrageous claim that she prefers to run in (gasp!) GROUPS OF PEOPLE. I know! If you are anything like me, your first thought landed on one of two w's: either you thought weirdo! or you asked yourself why? Why on earth would anyone want to inconvenience themselves by planning their run around someone else's schedule, running faster or slower than they would ordinarily go, and forcing conversation during what should be a sacred time of silence, interrupted only by one's own exhalations and inhalations that mark a steady run? Does she not realize how much talking throws off your breathing?

Once I recovered enough from my shock to reflect on the reasons she might prefer running with others, I realized that my sister-in-law has got it right: she runs with people in order to experience community. Community can be defined as: a unified body of individuals; a group of people with a common characteristic or interest; a body of persons having a common goal; fellowship; relationships..also a pretty good TV show on NBC Thursday nights. Whatever definition you choose, the Bible is brimming with passages that command us to live in community with one another and encourage each other. This is our calling: to build relationships with those around us.

For some, the task of building relationships--of living in community--may be more difficult than it is for others. This is especially true if you are introverted, and thus prefer the company of yourself to the company of others. If you are anything like me, a perfect evening is one in which the kids are in bed, the hubby is off playing basketball, and you are curled up on the couch accompanied only by a cup of coffee and a book. And the dog. He doesn't talk, so he's okay. Just the thought of getting together with a large group of people causes you to break out in a sweat.

This describes me to a tee. While I've gotten better at socializing (at least in my mind's eye; perhaps I should check in with those I've been in contact recently), my preference still lies on being alone. Fortunately, for all our differences, my husband has similar preferences, although he is certainly less introverted than myself. Despite this, we both realize that as Christians we are called to be in fellowship with others. Thus, we've gone so far as to join a church community group (there's that word again).

We've been with this group for about three years now, and I will say that our community group has easily been one of our live's biggest blessings. The four families of which our group is comprised all live in approximately the same area and are in similar stages of life. That is to say, we all have young kids which pretty much dominate our lives at this point. Between the four couples, there are ten kids under the age of six, five of which were born close to within a year of one another. In fact, I think this is the first time in a while that one of the ladies is not pregnant or lactating (or both). Suffice to say, we don't have much trouble relating to one another.

A few weeks ago we decided to take the idea of community a step farther than the usual Sunday night get-togethers and rented a lake house for the weekend. You wanna talk about community? How about eighteen people--that's eight adults and ten kids--living under the same roof, sharing the responsibilities of cooking and cleaning, and dealing with each other's kids as though they were our own (sort of). The kid noise alone--the screams of delight, the endless giggling, the intermittent whining, the crying of the overly-tired, the bickering--was constant, save for the few precious hours of nap/quiet time and the blessed bedtime hour, (and even that didn't guarantee a child free period). Additionally, the workload required to prepare food for and clean up after that many people somehow grows exponentially when compared to the work required to feed one's own family. Add to that the fact that, unless you were born with the gift of being able to sleep through anything, if one of the other children deemed it necessary to wake up at 6:15, everyone else woke up at 6:15 as well. Which, as we all can agree upon, is a dreadful time to be up on a Saturday. Although I enjoyed myself, it took me a few days to recover from our weekend "getaway".

Despite the (many) trials that accompanied this particular living situation, however, the weekend was host to many precious highlights, most of which would not have come about independently of a weekend such as this one. Throughout that weekend we witnessed trust develop between our kids and other adults in the group, to the point where some were willing to leap off a dock into the water with them, hug certain fathers every time they saw them, and eagerly wait for the awakening of certain parents in order that they begin their next adventure together. Relationships among the children progressed as well, as some of the less socially inclined kids began preferring people to inanimate objects. The moms had huge chunks of time to engage in deep conversations about seldom discussed issues. And the dads did whatever dads do to deepen their relationships with one another (Foosball? ping pong? PlayStation?). It was a precious weekend that helped form and crystallize relationships.

So what does this mean? Given that we are called to live in community with one another, are we all to sell our houses and move into one large estate together, commune style? Maybe I should start running with other people, or better yet, join an athletic team. It might take a while, but I suppose I could learn how to catch--and throw--a Frisbee. Or to talk while I run.

Fortunately for me (and for the relieved ultimate Frisbee players out there) God knows that I am an introvert. He knows because He created me to be this way. He doesn't want me to sell my house and move in with a group of other people (yet) and He allows me my solitary runs because He knows that those runs are my way of filling myself back up. Look at how many times Jesus (who I believe was secretly introverted as well) stole away from the crowds to be by himself, to talk to his Father and thereby get refueled. Jesus needed this time away precisely so that he could deal with the crowds and their heavy demands on his time, patience, and healing powers. I don't have the power to heal (although don't tell this to my son, who still thinks that I can make all hurt vanish just by a kiss), but I do have two needy children and a husband to whom I must pour out my time. I have a community group that expects me to contribute, and I have neighbors with whom I must socialize. The very reason I am able to do what is difficult for me and purposefully build relationships with others is because I take that time for myself--I pray, I read, and I run. In no particular order.

And as for those people with preferences that differ from my own--the meat-eaters, those folks who are able to strike up a non-awkward conversation with anyone, or even those fine folks that have the capability to run and talk at the same time--carry on. I will celebrate our differences, even as I put on my headphones, bite into my tofu power bar, and proceed to run in the direction opposite your running group.

Death while distance running

My stomach took a roller coaster-like plunge this morning as I read the headline of today's paper: "Fitness and Fatalities", an article that looked to address the question: Is running safe? Ironically, I saw this article right as I was finishing up a grueling four-miler that combined speed with hills. While I felt as though I might die at the time, I was fairly confident that I would stick it out...until I saw the article.
Due to the recent death of a 27-year-old runner at this year's Rock 'n Roll Half Marathon, thereby raising the death toll of this race to three runners in five years, the paper felt the need to "investigate" the suspect activity of running, to find out if it is really the healthy activity everyone claims it to be, or if it is a murderer in disguise. "Surely, with a headline like Fitness and Fatalities, running must be wrought with danger! Too risky," I declared, as I hurried to the garbage to throw out my running shoes. Minutes later, though, having actually read the article, I sheepishly retrieved the discarded shoes from the trash, brushed them off and apologized. "I'm so sorry, old friends," I soothingly whispered. "It's just that the article looked so scary! And if they made it a headline, well, then, I thought it must be true! Can't you see how I might have been misled?"
While my shoes didn't want to hear it at the time, even they would admit that the media in general can be a bit misleading, both by its headlines and by what it considers to be "news". I mean, in light of this country's obesity problems, does the writer of this article really think it prudent to link running with death, even if she sort of (in a very nebulous, round-about way) clears it up toward the end? I can not think of a better way to motivate people to start working out than by hinting around that in doing so they may just be asking for an early demise. Oh, and don't think you can avoid the big D (death, not divorce) by biking or swimming: the death rate for triathletes is actually HIGHER than it is for marathoners--1.5 people per 100,000 as opposed to 0.8 per every 100,000. Hmm, you cautiously think, that really doesn't sound like too big of a risk. Well, it isn't, as the INSIDE headline (page 9) lets the good reader know: "Rate of deaths quite small".
Seriously, folks, is this news? I think we can all agree on the fact that running, in fact, is not harmful in the "it will kill you" way. If you are sensible in your approach to running (i.e. if you do not one day decide to get off your couch, put on your old 1984 hiking boots and attempt to run 26.2 miles), it can be a very safe, rewarding, and healthy activity. We hear about unexpected deaths in every faucet of life--the accountant who doubles over dead at his desk, the soccer mom who suddenly dies on the sidelines, and yes, the runner whose as-yet-undetected heart abnormality causes him to perish during a highly visible race. These things are tragic, but they happen. We should not let chance events like these prevent us from going to work, attending our son's soccer game, or running a race for which we've been training for months.
While I think this article is silly and I shake my head at the Pilot not only for running it, but for putting it on the front page, I think it is indicative of the issue I have with media today. Whether due to declining readership, owner interest, or their own creative needs, newspapers and TV stations seem interested in something other than reporting the news. In an effort to snag readers and watchers, they feel the need to make up news stories that have the most appeal to their audience--human interest stories that make us feel good, shock and awe stories that scare us into inactivity. They do not report, they create.
Is this what we want--to be entertained by these media outlets? Shouldn't we want to be informed? As a citizen with voting rights, I want to be educated so that I can make decisions on things that matter to me and to my friends and family. I can read books if I want to be entertained, and I can listen to talk shows if I want a spin put on things. When it comes to the news, however, just give me the facts, please. And for the sake of my running shoes, no more articles on the dangers of running, okay?

Il bel far niente

Let me preface this by saying that I feel slightly silly beginning a post entitled "the beauty of doing nothing" by writing about this weekend's 15 mile run. Obviously, 15 miles is something--a long ways, more miles than we have fingers on which to count (my two-year-old would have problems getting to this number), a lot of work--but if you stick with me on this you will see where I am going.

This Labor Day weekend found us in Nebo, NC visiting some great friends--fantastic people who've chosen an alternate lifestyle of sorts. It would take too long to relate what it is they do, so I'll just say that they are serving as foster parents on top of a mountain in western NC and are living amongst the hills, mountains, valleys, lakes and streams that the state offers. They were gracious enough to allow us to visit them, providing us with meals, entertainment, and our own living quarters.

With a setup like this, the weekend promised to be a relaxing one. The only thing I HAD to do was the 15 mile run--no small chunk of change but something I was looking forward to. The great Hurricane Earl, with it's mighty winds and torrential rains, had prevented me from getting a run in earlier this week (although, given that Earl was more reminiscent of one of those pissy cartoon clouds that follows one person around and rains on them, the lack of a run probably had more to do with the fact that I would have had to get up at 5 in the morning to do it). I was actually looking forward to running in NC, for it would give me the opportunity to see some of the sights the area offers.

And it certainly did not disappoint. Like I said, our friends live on top of a mountain, so on my run down I saw horses and cows who observed me with looks of boredom while they grazed on their food, I heard brooks babbling like it was their job, and I witnessed the waters and cliffs of Lake James, a mighty lake residing in the valley of the surrounding hills and mountains. Going back up the mountain I took in lush forests dense with undergrowth and the distant mountains, which in the crisp early morning light looked like they had been just recently painted there with God's own brushstrokes. It was glorious, refreshing, and gave me clearance to do whatever it was I wanted for the the rest of the weekend.

And we certainly packed it in: swimming, hiking, picnicking, canoeing, and marshmallow-roasting were some of the featured highlights. My favorite part of the weekend, however, was completed unexpected. It came during the boys' nap time. Kevin was away playing basketball so I was keeping watch at the apartment in which we were staying. After my own thirty minute nap (and might I just say, naps might be one of my favorite things in this life. I think I look forward to them waaay more than I should), I grabbed some coffee and a book and sat myself down outside. The weather was gorgeous: low 80s, no humidity, and lots of sunshine. My chair was placed in a Monet-like landscape, and featured splashes of light which danced off the leaves of the trees, sending a glittering cascade of light down on the surfaces below.

I had intended to read, and for a while I did. But then something hit me: the realization that I didn't have to immediately get up and start dinner, or clean the kitchen, or rake the yard, or fold laundry. I could just sit there and do...nothing. And I did. Or, more precisely, I thought. And I napped. And then read some more, thought some more, and dozed some more.

I can not tell you how therapeutic this was for me. Or how revitalizing it was. Or how rare. My schedule at home simply does not allow for me to sit and relax. Perhaps because of the length of my to-do list or my own self-inflicted pressure, I rarely take time to simply do nothing. Maybe I feel like it's something I'm not entitled to. Whatever the case, I'm certainly not alone. A recent poll reported that one-third of its respondents take five or fewer vacation days per year. Of those who are vacationing, one in three stay connected with work during their "time away" via phone or computer. And psychologists are reporting on a new type of disorder, that of PVSD: post-vacation stress disorder.

I refuse to believe that this is the life we are called to live: one in which we squeeze in so much work that time for anything else--family, enjoyment, and downtime included--gets squeezed out. Aside from obvious health benefits, both physical and mental, it can't bode well for one's relationships.

Now, I am a realist. I know that this life here on earth takes a lot of effort. And in today's economic climate, if you are lucky enough to have a job you will probably do everything that you need to do in order to keep it, including working around the clock. But no matter how much money is in your pocket, what type of job you work, or what your family responsibilities look like, I urge you to take some time for yourself and simply do nothing. Just sit and practice the art of being. Concentrate on the air around you, the way your lungs pull it in when you breath, the sound it makes when you exhale. Put your thought processes on pause and focus instead on your senses. Notice the smells of the upcoming season, the differences between morning and afternoon bird calls, the patterns of the clouds. Just sit. And be.

I know this sounds cheesy. I am not big into yoga or meditation, and maybe I felt entitled because I had run 15 miles on what was supposed to be my vacation weekend, but I was so moved by the 90 minutes in which I did this that I can not help but urge you to do the same. Allow yourself the pleasure. Do it not only for yourself, but for those around you. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.

Get 'er done

Kevin and I have worked out a system in which we split up the weekend mornings: I get Saturday and he gets Sunday. I'll be honest: it's extremely tempting to squander my morning by sleeping in--my bed is oh-so-comfortable and if I put on my eye mask and ear plugs, I can usually tune out the pitter patter of little feet and the over-eager light of the sun. Usually, however, I use Saturdays to complete my long runs. This Saturday was no exception.

The schedule, aka my slave driver, said to run nine miles, which is a very doable distance, but for whatever reason that day I recoiled at the idea. I did not want to run. Any distance. At all. I felt groggy, my energy was low, it was hot and humid, I was sick of running in the same boring neighborhoods...my list was lengthy, cleverly contrived, and convincing. A little voice told me to put off the run until the next day and crawl back into bed (I think it was the same little voice that says it's not a problem to consume half a pan of brownies in a sitting). I was this close to listening to the voice and surrendering to sleep when I walked outside to get the paper and the fresh air overtook me. Walking back in, a force more powerful than beckoning weather met me--a long, drawn-out wail from one of the boys. Fully convinced, I hastily got dressed and set out.

Early on in my run I began meditating on that old proverb: "Do not put off until tomorrow what can be done today." While I was pleased as punch that I had actually followed the saying, I wondered what motivated Jesus to instruct his disciples to do this. Now, I know it's probably unwise for one with as limited amount of wisdom as I have to meddle in the mind of the Master, but I attempted to answer the question of why. Why should we do things as they come up, rather than wait?

A few answers came to mind: first, crossing off a task from our to-do list clears mental space. While motherhood has done many wonderful things for me, it certainly hasn't helped with my ability to multi-task. The day of a mother is comprised of so many tiny to-dos that it's tough to remember them all, let alone do them. All too often I recall some mundane task that needs to be taken care of in the kitchen, walk into the kitchen to do it, only to see that the floor needs sweeping. So I sweep it and completely forget about whatever it was I originally entered the room to do. Jesus knows about the all-too-limited nature of our minds. Therefore, maybe he's doing us a favor by recommending that we just do it (sorry, Nike).

Secondly, you never know what the future holds. Sure, I could easily have put off my run until tomorrow, but what if I woke up and it was raining? If that was the case, chances are good that I wouldn't have got the run in at all. Intuitively we know this when we tell our spouses "I love you" every morning; it may seem a little perfunctory, but somewhere in the recesses of our mind we know that anything could happen that day, for better or, God forbid, for worse. So, we seize hold of the moment by offering them that hug, that peck on the lips, that "I love you." Or we should. For you never know.

Finally, we should do things now because Jesus says so, he is our King, and we need to listen to him. The King is not one to bargain with. Consider the knights of old: back then, there was no "Hey King, I really like what you had to say about taking care of that nasty dragon business on the coast, and I plan on getting to it at some point, but I'm just not feeling it right now. Kind of tired, you know? That, and my wife is getting on my case for always being gone. So, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll just go home today, get some rest, and maybe look into the situation next week. Sound good?" All the king would have had to do at that point would be to give a nod and--poof!--the knight would be no more. The appropriate response is: "Yes, King. I'll do that, King. Right away, King. Thank you, King." Jesus, the king of the universe, is no exception. We should obey his mandates, and obey them today.

As I wrapped up my run, I felt pleased as punch with my well thought-out ideas and hurried home to look up the exact biblical reference where one could find the "Do not put off...." verse. Matthew, I thought. I think it is in Matthew. Probably somewhere in the Sermon on the Mount. Nope. Then it's gotta be in Proverbs. Sounds pretty proverbial. Not there either. Funny thing, it turns out that this saying is just that--a saying--and isn't even in the Bible. Which kind of renders my post obsolete and should forevermore make anyone question anything I try quoting from the Bible. Certainly I will not be chosen for any one's Bible Trivia team. Wow. Next thing I know you're going to tell me that I Scream, You Scream is just a silly nursery rhyme...

But it may just be that my post has some meaning to it after all, for I'm convinced God wanted me to go for a jog that Saturday. I do some of my best thinking during my long runs. You can only listen to music for so long before it starts to grate on your eardrums, and the music on Kevin's iPod (think: Bob Marley and Enya) doesn't exactly lend itself well to working out. So about half way through my run I started thinking about my sister and about some of the big things that have happened to her this year, both good and bad. And while I was dwelling on these things, God revealed something about His sovereignty and purpose in her life that was so amazing it took my breath away. When this thought hit me, I actually stopped running and kneeled on the road to thank Him, I was so overwhelmed. After that it was just a big love fest between me and the Big Guy. So, the run was a blessing--one that I might not have received had I not gone out running that day.

So, regardless of where those words about doing things now originated from, I still think it's prudent to do things when you have the chance rather than wait. Now if I can just put this into practice the next time the desire to stay in bed hits...

Priceless

How much money does it take to make you happy? For me, the answer is a hundred bucks. Now, $100 can go a long way. A few of the possibilities: it could buy quite a few used clothes for my growing-like-weeds boys. Or, it could buy two date nights away from said boys. It could also buy 25 pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream to be consumed following the date away from said boys. For me, however, $100 buys a pair of running shoes.

Buying running shoes is something that I look forward to and dread at the same time. Due to foolish exploits of the past in which I've unwittingly run on trail shoes or shoes that, because of age, belonged not on my feet but in a dumpster, I know the perils of running on inadequate shoes. I've been on runs where the stress fractures start in my legs and continue to spread until they've reached every last phalange. I'm a firm believer in quality running shoes if you want to prevent running injuries. Thus, I place great importance on regularly buying new shoes.

The frustrating part is how much a decent pair of running shoes costs: a hundred dollars for one pair, which were not even the high end model; those would have cost me another $20. It's ironic, because just this past weekend Kevin's cousin was telling me about a book that gives the account of this tribe from, I want to say, South America. The members of the tribe run 100s of miles just for the sheer thrill of it. They are not running in Asics, nor are they running in New Balance, Nike, Saucony, or any of the other top running shoes on the market. No, they run bare footed, and do so at an astonishing pace for much of their lives. As inspiring as this is, I live in modern day America and have to contend with such perils as asphalt and concrete and garbage juice and the like. In my book, wearing shoes is a must. I just wish they weren't so darned expensive.

The cost of running shoes is not the only thing I struggle with. I am fed up with the cost of life. Why does living have to be so expensive? My husband and I have been blessed with a very comfortable life in which we don't want for anything, and yet the expenses mount up. Now I'm not talking about the luxuries life has to offer: I don't own designer clothes, we don't go on fancy vacations, and neither one of us owns a sports car. I'm talking about those necessities that you are forced to buy as a member of modern society--gas, diapers, underwear, etc. I hate spending money on these things, yet it's something I am forced to do. (My husband will not have anything more to do with me until I purchase some new undergarments, ones "without holes, tears, or discoloration from age". )

I think my reticence in purchasing anything new for myself, underwear and shoes included, is precisely because it is for myself. As a stay-at-home mother, my mantra is to be as selfless as possible, to the point where spending money on anything that sole benefits me feels selfish. Sure, the case could be made that the shoes ultimately help my family because they allow me to run, which makes me feel better about myself, which makes me act kinder and more loving toward my family, which makes me generally more pleasant to be around. But when all is said and done, these $100 beauties are strapped to my feet and my feet only, and I am the only one running on them. As a result, I feel a profound sense of guilt. Yet I buy them anyway.

I know there is a balance to be found in spending, I am just not sure what it looks like. As Christians living in middle class America, how much money are we to spend on ourselves? My family is not in the business of attempting to keep up with the Jones's, yet I don't want to feel guilty on those occasions when I spend some money on something that brings me enjoyment. I feel like my husband and I live pretty frugal lives, but anyone outside of the modernized world would laugh at this assessment of our wealth. So what do we do? After the ten percent rule, what amount of money should be spent on ourselves and what should be given or socked away?

After grappling with this issue for some time, I had hoped to wrap up this post with my new-found knowledge, offering it to you as a nice shiny gift which you could use to guide you in all future purchasing decisions. Such is not to be the case, though. I don't have the answers to this one, and will continue to struggle with it. In the meantime, I guess we'll keep on giving to church and to charity, living within our means, and buying running shoes (and underwear) when they are needed.

By the way, I took my shoes out for a test drive today. As I strapped them on, my feet gave an excited squeal, my knees said "it's about time!", and my legs took off on a short but fast-paced morning jog, which, in the new running shoes, felt great and made all members very happy. So, yes, I guess $100 really does buy me happiness.

Redemption

This past weekend my family and I went to New Jersey, where I was provided with the opportunity to redeem myself from the week's failed attempt at an eleven mile run. As usual, God knows what is best for me because this run was nothing less than a gift from Him.

As opposed to the miserably humid 80 degree weather I experienced earlier in the week, Saturday morning welcomed me with a cool and crisp 60 degrees. I had decided to run down to a nearby lake and the forested paths that surround it. To those of you surprised by this talk of forests, lakes, and nature, I am still talking about New Jersey. You may associate New Jersey with those images seen in the opening shots of "The Sopranos"--the Turnpike with it's picturesque factories billowing smoke out out of their immense smokestacks, the dilapidated buildings, the hustle and bustle of the cities surrounding New York. New Jersey is these things, there is no denying. But in the northwestern part of the state, only about 40 minutes away from the city, New Jersey is lakes and forests and mountains and beauty. And I was able to enjoy it's beauty early Saturday morning.

The house I was staying at sits on top of what can only be described as a small mountain, or at the very least, an extremely steep hill. In order to get to the path by the lake I had to run down this hill, knowing full well I'd be paying for it on the way up. The lake run is worth it, though, and my downward jaunt was rewarded by the sighting of two deer prancing through the woods as quietly and as gracefully as anything. Once I got to the lake I was able to run on a path that took me through the woods and past several streams, waterfalls, and smaller lakes. I adore trail running and was reminded that I actually used to mountain bike along these trails once upon a time--it was wonderful. The trek back to the top of the mountain was tough, as was to be expected, but I honestly didn't mind. I was feeling at the top of my game. The run had completely energized me and had driven away all previous thoughts of my prior failed run that week. I had been redeemed.

The weekend was redeeming in other, more important ways, as well. I had the chance to witness a family that had been plagued by tension, broken or failed relationships, and heartache reunite for the first time in a year. As difficult as it may have been, individual family members put their differences aside for the sake of the family as a whole. Sure, the weekend was not Utopian. Hiccups rose up, some that required attention, others that needed to be ignored or buried. But, for the most part, the family overcame these obstacles. They began the slow process of rebuilding: fixing that which needs some repairs, preserving that which can be salvaged from the past, and figuring out how to work with that which can not.

The redeeming events of this weekend led me to reflect on the one who gave us full redemption, Jesus Christ. Without him, we would be eaten alive by negative feelings of inadequacy, doubt, and shame. Our relationships would remain broken, with no hope of resuscitation. But, praise be to God, "for he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins" (Colossians 1: 13-14). Jesus has freed us to live our lives fully to his glory. He has empowered us to do great things in his name. So let us forgive those who have hurt us. Let us put aside our pride and try again, even though we may have failed in the past. Let us continue doing what is good, what is right, even if it is tough, for this is what we have been called to do.

We have been redeemed.

Setbacks

To the so-called running experts who recommend getting up early in order to beat the heat: running at 5:00 doesn't make it any easier, it just makes it darker. My goal this morning was to get in eleven miles before seven o'clock, which meant waking up around five (I say "around" because the snooze button will inevitably get pushed at least once, much to the chagrin of my husband. Hey, it's on there for a reason). We've been experiencing a heat wave and today promised to be a scorcher, so I figured getting up early would make the odds of me finishing this run and not turning into a puddle increase significantly. Wrong.

As I stepped outside, I was hit by 82 degree air that was the consistency of molasses, and indeed, molasses is what I felt I was running through, if you can call what I was doing "running". Generally I run with relative ease, choosing when I want to step up the intensity. Not so today. Each step was s-l-o-w and required maximum effort. Honestly, if running was always that excruciating and difficult I would be carrying hand weights and power walking. I quickly realized that eleven miles just weren't going to happen today. I was forced to do five instead, and they were the slowest five miles of my life. Feeling defeated, I returned home and went back to bed, disappointed that the sun was barely up and I had already failed to reach one of the day's goals.

Runs like today's can really mess with a runner's head. Because running is such a mental activity, these runs often do a great deal of damage to a runner's self esteem (at least they do to the fragile esteem of this novice runner). All the previous successes you've had get wiped out and replaced by a new image of yourself as this slow creature incapable of distances of any sort. It is only with your next run that you are reminded of your potential as a distance runner, and even then the failed run still remains to lurk in your mind.

Unfortunately setbacks like these can and do permeate other areas of life as well. You think your marriage is running smoothly until you hit a relational pothole the size of a small house. You are pleased with the effort you are making at work until your boss tells you she expects more. You are convinced that your child has finally learned how to play with others when he hauls off and smacks his brother in the head with a truck. And the list goes on...

Knowing that we are "destined for trials" (1 Thesalonians 3:3), why am I so caught off guard when they hit? I supposed it has a lot to do with expectations. My expectation is that, in all areas of my life, I should be growing or improving. If we were to plot an area of our life, say, our marriage, we would expect our relationship with our spouse to be linear: as time goes by, our relationship grows. All one has to do is look at the divorce rate, however, to know that this is obviously not always the case. Our marriage may fail. We may get fired. Our child may be a social misfit forever. We become slow runners as age takes its toll. Things don't always improve.

Or do they? Sometimes life is going in the direction we desire. The route we are taking, though, may not be a straight line leading to perfection but rather a jagged line with a lot of mini valleys, hills, and plateaus. When we find ourselves in one of the valleys after a setback it is sometimes easy to lose sight of the progress we've made. That is when we should reflect on the situation, evaluate it's seriousness and decide on a proper course of action.

So what do we do when life refuses to go the direction we want? Because, let's face it, things don't always work out. We all know someone whose circumstances seem so dire that we begin to question God. Why, God? Why would you let this happen? How much can one person take? Fortunately, I've never been in a situation like this, although I have had my share of difficulties, however minor, and I fully expect to see more. And, as impossible as this may seem, I am to view these troubles as opportunities to grow. Indeed, Romans 5:3-4 says, "We rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope." Rejoice. We are to rejoice when we suffer!

Now I'll be honest, I'm not rejoicing when I suffer, and I don't want to rejoice when I suffer. I wasn't all that thrilled to have fought with my husband this week, and I definitely didn't feel like celebrating after my failed run. I'm pretty sure I could do without these things. But, I have to admit that there is some comfort in knowing that these setbacks can produce some good, some growth. A friend put it like this:

If God gave us no rough roads to walk, no mountains to climb, and no battles to fight, we would not grow. He does not leave us alone with our challenges, however. Instead, he stands besides us, teaches us, and strengthens us to face them. (Brandy Clark)

Reflecting on my flopped run, I've decided to commit a verse to memory, one that I can hold on to in the face of a rough run or any tough situation, for that matter. It is:

Habakkuk 3:19 The sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights.

Help me to run like a deer, Lord. Be my strength.

Let's get muddy!

As long as habit and routine dictate the pattern of living, new patterns of the soul will not emerge. -Henry Van Dyke

Routine. I, for one, am a fierce defender of it. My boys were put on schedules from day one, Jack willingly, Ben not-so-much (but he gave in eventually). Schedules permeate my family life: we know what we are doing when we wake up, when we eat lunch, when we wake up from naps--everyone knows what to expect each day because each day looks the same as the last.

This form of living simplifies life, but admittedly gets dull rather quickly. Necessity dictates that every now and again we switch things up: last week my husband and I deviated from our typical restaurant date and tried our luck on the tennis court. A few Mondays ago my boys and I made an impromptu visit to a friend's house rather than grocery shop. And this past Saturday I participated in a run. But not just any run. A MUD run.

I was initially drawn to this particular mud run by the picture on the event's brochure. It featured a buff-looking girl crawling on her hands and knees through a waist-deep mud pit. Now I'm not usually the "let's get dirty" type. I admit to sometimes struggling with letting my boys go outside because of the inevitable dirt they are going to accumulate on every inch of their bodies. And I abhor dirty feet. So ordinarily this type of thing wouldn't appeal to me. But something about that picture made me think that this wasn't your typical run. And I was in a running slump, which happens (at least it does to me) when you do the same thing long enough.

Running isn't exactly what I'd call an "exciting" sport, if, indeed, you are to label it a sport. Sure, you can run different distances, or try varying your pace, or look for different landscapes or routes in which to jog, but essentially you are doing the same thing: running. That's why runners sign up for races, because races offer some excitement. The collective adrenaline and nerves while everyone waits for the race to start...the varying emotion on people's faces as they strain to go just one mile longer...exhilarating. But when you sign up for a race it involves training, which brings you back to the same. old. thing. again....running.

But, like I said, this run looked different. The brochure described the event as a "five mile run featuring various obstacles...water pits, sand traps, rivers, and mud". Five miles is a distance I can easily do, so I needn't train for that. And I wasn't about to turn my back yard into an obstacle course (although my boys might actually enjoy something like that). Plus, I managed to convince four other girls to run it as a team, only by promising that we would do it for fun only and not for time, which released me from the usual pressure I put on myself to run as fast as I can without puking. This would be the first race I didn't have to train for, and that was liberating.

Well, the mud run turned out to be more of a sand run--the course was probably three-quarters sand, which does not make for easy running. It did, however, feature a river and a climbing wall (albeit a small one). There were hills of sand to climb and trails to pass through. There were plenty of water pits, and, yes, there was a huge mud pit at the very end in which you got IMMERSED in mud that was the consistency of pudding, if pudding had small pebbles in it. We went at a pretty relaxed pace, which made the run seem casual and allowed for conversation. I think all of us were pretty excited to have done something that we had never done before.

And now it's time for the part where I compare running to life and my few readers groan and probably go back to Facebook, because at least Facebook doesn't throw running analogies at you. But come on, who out there can honestly say that they don't suffer from the occassional slump? No matter how good we have it, we all experience moments when the monotony and routine of life just pulls us down and we wonder why. Why do we do it? And how are we going to continue to do it for another x number of years?

It is during these times when we need to do find a mud run. Now your mud run may look different than mine. It may be a trip to the movie theatre by yourself on a Wednesday night or an unplanned visit to see an old friend. It may be a last minute mini-vacation to a neighboring state. It may be completely clean with no mud at all. But we all need to mix it up sometimes by doing something different. It doesn't have to be something big or drastic, it just has to be something that we wouldn't ordinarily do. Something that awakens our souls and makes life fresh again.

Life is good, even if it doesn't always excite us. The ordinary isn't bad and routine is nothing to fear, unless it dictates all action and makes deviation from the norm impossible. So with that being said, let's get muddy! (don't worry, pictures to follow!)

Ode to Homer Simpson

I've been a casual Simpson's fan from it's conception back in the late 80s. Being a square straight-A's Lutheran girl, I was initially drawn to bad boy Bart's impudence and lack of respect for all authority (did he really just tell his teacher to eat his shorts?!). I don't watch the show as frequently these days, but during those occasions when I catch it I find my devotion has been diverted to another character--this time to Homer.

Just what is it about the bald-headed, pot-bellied, simpleton Homer that catches my eye? His obsession with donuts...aggghhh. Yes, it is his devotion to all things sweet that resonates with me, for I, too, am a sugar-haulic.

Today my drug of choice came in the form of Nerds and Laffy Taffy. This week I made the egregious error of buying a large bag of this type of candy to keep in the car for bribing Jack. (Go ahead, judge if you want. This is not a blog about good parenting, after all, and it works). Now this was poor judgement on my part for various reasons, the main one being that, due to an extreme lack of self-control, I have been using the sugary stuff to cope with what can only be described as a week to forget.

Now I know that there is nothing redeemable about this food (if that is an accurate term for something that is fluorescent red and yellow and tastes like bananas from a can). It is pure sugary junk and does horrible things to my body's glucose levels, has high teeth-rotting potential, and makes me feel like flopping down on my couch and watching tv (see "Simpson, Homer").

Lately I've been wondering how cutting out refined sugar from my diet would affect me--my workouts, my energy levels, my moods. In Ultramarathon Man, (a book I would not recommend unless you are interested in reading a poorly written autobiography about a man with an extremely high estimation of himself) the author talks about how he was forced to cut all white sugar and simple carbs from his diet in order to train for his 100+ mile runs. Now I consider myself a reasonable person so obviously I would never do something that extreme (I am talking about cutting out all sugar, but the running 100 miles seems a bit insane to me as well). It would be, however, an interesting experiment to try: would the gains made in energy and performance outweigh the sacrifices made in taste? Not sure if I'm willing to try this...yet.

Dietary reasons aside, though, I have been thinking a lot about my relationship with food. Our culture has an intense love/hate relationship with food. We use it in occasions of celebration and mourning. We make it the center of social gatherings, but we also often find ourselves eating alone. We laud food for the joy it brings, while cursing it the next morning when we are unhappy with the number on the scale or that empty pint of Ben and Jerry's, as will be the case tomorrow (it was worth it!!!). It is the body's source of energy, yet it can kill us if we consume the wrong things. On the whole, the way we think about food can be complex and confusing.

This doesn't resonate more clearly with anyone than it does with me. Food is something I've struggled with in some form or another for as long as I can remember. I've had something referred to as "disordered eating", and while God has helped me through that, there still remains something abnormal in the way I eat. This week is a perfect example: between Boy #2's teeth, Boy #1's cold, and Kevin's grad school, I just about went insane. My usual stress relievers--working out, time to myself--were encroached upon by uncooperative children and I found myself at my wits end. So, to whom did I turn? Nerds. Laffy Taffy. Candy. I turned to candy and I ate to my heart's content and my stomach's discontent.

There are many problems with this, but the main one is that I turned to food during a time of stress when I have a resource, a stress reliever, a source of comfort like no other. The God of the Universe wants nothing more than for me to call upon Him in my day of trouble. He is omnipotent and promises to deliver me. I believe this, yet when things get tough, I find that my functional savior turns out to be lumps of oddly-shaped sugar that will do nothing but rot my teeth and add pounds to my hips.

I want to eat healthy. I want to feel good about myself physically. But more than anything, I want to tap into the power of my Redeemer. I want to call on Him in every season, good, bad, or indifferent. I want to live as though every bite of food I put into my mouth should be done in communion with him, as though we are dining together. This is possible. I just have to turn away from my measly gods (and they are gods, if I am honest with myself) and turn completely to Him.

So sorry, Homer. I envy your ways, sure. Who wouldn't want to eat a box of donuts before lunchtime? But your donuts have got nothing on my Lord.

Disappointment. (For Lisa)

If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment.
-Henry David Thorough

Disappointment This week has been fraught with it. There has been the disappointment I've felt in Virginia and it's unrelenting heat. I'm so over the 100+ degree days I could scream. Seriously, summer, we get it. You're hot. Can we move on now? It sounds melodramatic, but I feel like the heat's affected almost every area of my life--I can't take the dog and the kids for a walk without putting all of us at risk of heat stroke, I can only enjoy our new screened-in porch by gazing at it from inside my house, I've been extremely irritable and impatient with my kids, and I'm L-A-Z-Y. The heat has zapped my motivation, which means no early morning workouts, which means working out later on in the day, which means not running or swimming or biking, which means a lower quality workout, all which translates into another form of disappointment--the disappointment I feel in myself.

Fortunately, last night I was blessed to have found something to serve as a scapegoat for my disappointment. Actually, it was a place--a restaurant I will call Shoe, or the restaurant formerly known as The Shoe, so as not to give away it's real name. Shoe is a local restaurant in a trendy area of town with a laudable goal: to "explore and preserve our fine Virginia heritage food-ways". Meaning, I suppose, it tries to buy locally grown food when it can and changes it's menu to correspond with the seasonal harvest. I can definitely support this. I enjoy jumping on bandwagons, as Shoe has done with the localvore movement (or, in our server's words, "the slow-growth movement"). So my husband and I, along with two dear friends of ours, decided to give their fare a try.

Unfortunately, Shoe is going to have a difficult time convincing anyone to eat local with food items such as they served last night. The biggest travesty they committed was in their calamari. A little known fact about my husband is that he LOVES calamari and likes to order it at most every new restaurant at which we eat. I'm sure if The McDonald's offered calamari as a new item on their dollar menu he would give it a try. Thus, seeing it on Shoe's menu as an appetizer, we decided to order it.

Bad idea. The server brought out the calamari. There were four of them. As in, four pieces. For those of you who have never ordered this delight, most places serve calamari much like french fries. There are a bunch of them and they are fried. Squeeze some lemon on them and muaw--delicious. So to see four pieces of grilled squid come out was a little--wait for it--disappointing. The squid had been cut up and stuffed with what the menu claimed was "shrimp, orange, black olives, basil, and zucchini". What the cooks REALLY stuffed in there was onions, onions, and some more onions with a side of mandarin oranges from a can. We all were game for trying it, though, as this was an $11 appetizer. As you can imagine, no one at our table was even the slightest bit impressed. The squid itself was rubbery and tough to chew. The stuffing was all onions, which I, for one, do not even like. As for the shrimp...well, if it had managed to find a spot in there amongst all those onions, I couldn't taste it. Nor had I the opportunity, as when you are eating one little piece of squid the size of your thumb you don't really have a chance to savor its flavors.

The entrees? I'm afraid they were a disappointment too. Jonathan's potatoes were cold, Kevin's lasagna was burnt, and our pasta (Lisa and I ordered the same thing)--which the waitress told us was far and away the best pasta dish being served--was, well, disgusting. And perhaps we should have guessed this, as we ordered black fettuccine. Come to find out that they use squid dye to give the fettuccine its color, which may make the pasta "a little saltier" than that which we are accustomed to. A little saltier and a great deal less edible, in my opinion. Yuck. Needless to say, we won't be eating at Shoe again. As far as I'm concerned, Shoe deserves The Boot (o; (this is an inside joke for those of you who are wondering what is wrong with me).

Fortunately, there is a silver lining to my week of disappointment. So I didn't work out first thing in the morning. I have just come off a two week vacation. I am ok with giving myself a grace period to readjust to normal life. At least I didn't waste my time taking a post-workout shower in the morning, only to step outside and immediately be drenched with sweat. Next week will be better (at least for working out). And although our dinner was yuck, I thoroughly enjoyed the company of our friends last night, as I think we all did. The nasty cuisine only made for more jokes. And because no one enjoyed their meals, no one ate very much, and we all felt entitled to get some ice cream following dinner. So I got to dine on a large bowl of Cold Stone guilt free. How's that for compensation, Henry David?

Now, reading this post you may be disappointed that it has almost nothing to do with the rest of my blog. Maybe you are right to feel that way. Or maybe you can view it as a form of solidarity--not only are you reading about my experiences with disappointment, you are experiencing a form of it yourself. We now have that in common. You see? I'm just doing my part to bring us closer together. You're welcome.

Tri time!

I just realized it's been almost two weeks since the big day (my triathlon) and I've yet to blog about it! In my post-race excitement, I've been too caught up in searching for future tri's to reflect on my inaugural race. Obviously, this means the triathlon went well, but this blog would be incomplete if I didn't at least touch on my first tri, the Stevens Point Lactic Edge Sprint Triathlon (how official sounding!).

Let me begin by saying that there's a lot more prep work for a triathlon than for a running event. The eve of the triathlon found me scrambling to get together all the equipment needed for this deceptively simple event. The swim required a cap and goggles. I needed a towel to dry off following the swim, and I needed shoes and socks following that. I had to make sure my bike was ready and that my helmet fit. And I couldn't forget my running visor or my stopwatch. And I am an amateur, which is to say that I don't use a wet suit for the swim, or special bike shoes which I would have to change in order to strap on my running shoes. All the prepping didn't help my nerves, but fortunately I had everything I needed come race time.

My dad and I drove the half hour to the park in Point where the event was taking place. I was immediately struck by how small the crowd was: there were maybe 250 or so people taking part and another handful volunteering or spectating. The other thing that jumped out at me was the lack of hybrid bikes people were unloading from their cars. Now I had expected to be one of the few with a non-road bike but I didn't see ANY hybrids, which caused me to panic. As this was my first triathlon and I didn't know what to expect, I had set the goal for myself to not stick out, meaning, don't do anything embarrassing! Finishing dead last because I had a bike that resembled the one on The Wizard of Oz was not going to help me keep my goal. Fortunately, I found myself next to an easy-going guy my age who walked me through the events. He had a road bike, albeit a very old one (think 1970s Schwinn) and was a first timer as well, which helped me relax.

After waiting an obscenely long time, during which I must have checked my gear and gone to the bathroom at least seven times, the race started with the 500 yard swim that took place in a dirty-looking river (I am not exaggerating when I say that I had a lot of green gook in my shirt post race). Entering the race I was pretty confident with my stroke, but when I actually got out in the open water with all the other frantic swimmers, my nerves--and the other swimmers' elbows, legs and feet--got the best of me and I panicked, causing me to loose my breath. I did make it, though, albeit slowly, and didn't have to be rescued by one of the folks on the long boards, which counts as not sticking out. Yay for meeting my goal in the first leg of the race!

Next it was on to the bike. The 17 miles took us through the back roads of Stevens Point, which are brown and boring. There was very little to see, but it was beautiful. Why? There were no red lights to wait for, no intersections to stop for, no cars to move over for, and no obnoxious drivers yelling out the window for me to get off the road. I could bike without fear. I was slow, but I loved the ride and felt great throughout it's duration. (And I did not come in last. A win.)

The last leg of the tri was a 3.1 mile run. This was really the only portion of the race in which I felt confident. Initially my legs rebelled at running after biking for an hour, but I've run for much longer distances before so they eventually gave in and shoved on.

And that was it! I finished! And didn't do anything too embarrassing. Overall, I loved the triathlon, but while participating a few thoughts came to mind that surprised me. First, I was shocked to feel so...isolated. Obviously you are not talking to anyone during the swim portion. The bike portion really separated individuals from each other, so that I occasionally forgot that I was in a competition. I found myself yearning for the type of conversation you hear during running events, about how crazy we all are for doing this, or how hard it is or where the next water station is. There's a connection between runners, albeit unspoken, in the body contact and even in the small talk you hear between people. This tri had none of that and it surprised me how much I missed it.

Secondly, and this is by far the bigger issue for me, raw talent and training can only get you so far in triathlons. If you do not have the proper gear (read: "bike") you will not be competitive. I haven't looked into the cost of a road bike, but I know the good ones are a few thousand dollars, an amount which I am not willing to dole out on a bike for myself quite yet. And so I pedal my mountain bike, going nowhere and getting passed by everyone. This was fine for my first race, acceptable even, but I know myself and I know that in future races I will not be quite so cavalier about it. It really made me appreciate running. All you need are a pair of shoes (not even that if you come from other countries) and you are as apt to perform well as anyone else.

Despite these pitfalls, I loved my first triathlon. [Oh, I should mention that my dad was not able to compete due to an injury that set him back (he is on pace to compete in the Waupaca tri come August), but he was my number one fan and I loved having him there to share in my excitement.] The excitement still lingers, and I definitely plan on doing one again, although there is some work to be done between now and then (for starters, I need to learn how to swim. A road bike would be nice, too). And I must now make the decision on whether to train for another tri or for the OBX marathon in November. Oh how I love choices like these!

When life gives you lemons...

I have an informal list running continuously in my head that consists of the reasons I enjoy living in Hampton Roads. Although the list is something I forced myself to compile, I try to dwell on it frequently, as thinking about Virginia's good points helps me to have a positive attitude toward my circumstances, something I struggle with occasionally. My reasoning is that we aren't leaving the area any time soon, so I might as well embrace it.

Lately, however, the list has been receding to the background as I find more and more faults with the area. The most prominent fault as of late? Jellyfish. Just when I became comfortable swimming in the bay and embraced that body of water as a convenient alternative to my pool, out of nowhere I get attacked by one of those horrid creatures.

Jellyfish are something I have never given much thought to. I've seen the strange gelatinous creatures wash up on the shore in the past, their transparent membranes plastered to the sand, rendering them seemingly innocuous. But do not be deceived by their heavenly beauty. From my scant research, these predators will search you out with whatever primitive sensors are available to them. And when they do, any part of their tentacle that touches you leaves a toxin that feels the equivalent of 1,000 bee stings.

My initial reaction to the sting was panic. I instinctively reached for my leg to pull it off, which proved to be a mistake as the diablo just stung my hand and arm as well. With a yelp, I ran onto the beach, screaming to Kevin, "I've been stung by a jellyfish!" over and over. A few feet away a lounging beach couple took that as their cue to come over and strike up a conversation whose topics ranged from the jellyfish sting the guy received the previous day to our adorable boys to where we originated from. Now, ordinarily I am a fan of meeting random people on the beach, but this was hardly the time. I was in PAIN. I was also being actively pursued by a gigantic horsefly who had decided to lunch on my leg. The sight of my now bloodied leg proved to be the straw that broke the camel's back, and I hastily made my retreat from both my family and the well-meaning couple with the poor timing. I jumped on my bike and headed for home, where I learned that the best remedy for treating stings is NOT to pee on yourself but to cover yourself with a vinegar-baking soda paste and let that sit for five minutes. (good to know, as it seems much more reasonable and far less disgusting to carry these things in your beach bag than a bottle of urine).

As I rode home I'll admit that I found myself crying. The tears were not so much from the pain-- although believe me, they very well could have been--as from a feeling of betrayal. Betrayal from what I'm not sure. The bay would be a likely candidate. I've been faithfully swimming in that unfamiliar body of water with the hope that I would grow to embrace it, or at the very least to tolerate it, and I felt like I was making progress. With this sting, though, I've been set back quite a bit. I figure it just as easily could have been my two year old getting stung, a lively little boy who ADORES water, waves, and sand. An event like that would have scarred him, much like it did me.

As much as I want to blame the bay for all my woes, I am discovering--or rather, admitting--that overall I am just not at home in this place. The busy roads that qualify biking as an extreme sport, the monotonous concrete blocks, the salt water and stinking jellyfish--it is not my ideal. Of course, I may be overly nostalgic as I'm writing this from my beloved state of Wisconsin in my beloved (I can't believe I just said that) hometown. I've been here for close to two weeks and have been running daily on wooded paths, biking on trails and friendly roads, and swimming in fresh and jellyfish-less waters. I am drinking in the slow-paced life that this place offers and yearning for it, not just because it suits me so perfectly, but because it suits family life so well. Sharing some of the places most precious to me with my boys has been close to a dream come true. Sadly, those places just don't exist for me in Virginia.

One thing Virginia does have, however, is jobs, so there we remain. I hate admitting it, but I've resigned myself to that fact and I feel defeated by it. Hopefully this thing with the jellyfish is just a small battle lost in the war to change my attitude toward Hampton Roads. Right now at this moment, though, it sure feels like I've surrendered the war.

Confession time

I've been doing a lot of feet dragging with this one. Now as I write this, I feel like I'm on one of those dunk tanks. With this confession I've just handed you a ball that you can throw at me as I sit here, waiting for my self-inflicted punishment. But before you throw, I ask for mercy. Remember, we are all flawed in some way...

Let me give you a prelude to this confessional. Rachel is an old college friend of mine living in WI who has been begging me to do a tri with her. Now Rachel has done a triathlon or two in her day and is in fact training for a half ironman triathlon as we speak. That's a mere 1.2 mile swim, a 56 mile bike, and a 13.1 mile run. A sprint triathlon would be child's play to her. All I can say to that is WOW. Obviously she's on a slightly different athletic level than me. Which is fine.

Except that it isn't. For reasons which I will discuss shortly, I seem to have a problem accepting that there are people out there who are better at things than me, which is sheer foolishness, I know. I do not want to do a triathlon with my dear friend Rachel because she would do better than me. And my fragile little ego can not handle that. So, knowing that Rachel would jump at the opportunity to participate with me in a Wisconsin triathlon, I purposely omitted mentioning to her that I was training for one. Apparently I'd rather protect my self-esteem than see a good friend whom I haven't seen since my wedding almost six years ago.

And here is where the sin part comes in, for this episode clearly points to the pride that lurks in my heart. Proverbs 29:23 says that "A man's pride brings him low" and I've certainly proven that to be true. Pride comes in all sorts of ugly shapes and sizes, but with me it often comes in the form of insecurity. Because I feel like my athleticism is a unique aspect of who I am, I am frightened by the idea of someone outperforming me, for if they did, then what would I have left? My pride would be shattered.

Now that's an ugly way to live. I want humility. And I want it without having to sit on a dunk tank, openly confessing my sin of pride on a blog. That is, I want to be secure enough with myself to be able to retain my self-worth regardless of the circumstances that arise. This true security is found in God alone. Recently I read that "confidence is driven by the certainty of God-given identity and the conviction that nothing can take that identity away (Moore, 2010)". Our God is great, and He is the same today as He was tomorrow and as He will be. As a child of his who was created in his image, I too am capable of great things through the power of God. Apart from Him, anything I do is self-serving or fruitless.

Whew. It's tough admitting our sins. But doing so is a relief, and it's cleansing. And it's what God calls us to do. So Rachel, the first ball goes to you. I'm sorry for being a jerk. It would be an honor to do a triathlon with a pro like yourself, even if you make me look like an amateur, because (surprise, Sara!) that's what I am. Wow that water feels good!

(Quote is from Beth Moore's So Long, Insecurity, 2010)

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

I do not have the pleasure of seeing my dad on Father's Day due to the 1,000 mile span between us. Thus, as today was the day we set aside for dads, I placed the perfunctory call home to wish him a good one. After we got the pleasantries out of the way, our talk fell on to running shoes.

There are few people in my life with whom I can discuss running shoes. For a runner, getting a new pair of shoes that will carry you over distances yet untraveled is an exciting event. But the non-runners among us really couldn't care less about the springiness of your new shoes, the breathability, the design, etc. So the fact that my dad and I were able to have an informed discussion about footwear, a topic we're both interested in, is a delight to me. And it is certainly a new development.

My dad is training for the same triathlon that I am. He's actually the one who inspired me to take up the sport to begin with. When my mom told me he was tossing the idea around, I was impressed. My dad bikes around the town my parents live in and swims up at his beloved cabin in the North Woods. A runner, though, he is not. So to consider competing in a triathlon is definitely a stretch for him.

But for whatever reason, my pops decided that he was going to do this thing, and he is committed. And I am both impressed and proud of him. Regardless of how he does in the race, or whether he is even able to participate in it, it takes incredible courage to go outside one's comfort zone and take up a brand new activity. Yet, at 50+ years of age, he has done just that and has greatly inspired me in the process. It goes to show that, with a little guts, motivation and effort, you can strive to redefine yourself at any age.

I am like my dad in many ways. We are both emotional people but are somewhat guarded with our feelings. Small talk doesn't come easily to us (or at least not to me) and the fact that neither one of us is a big phone person has put some distance between us. But training for this triathlon has given us some common ground. Even though we aren't training together, my thoughts often gravitate toward him during my runs or bikerides. I am so excited to hang out with him before the start of the race, our adrenaline pumping as we wait for the chance to do this thing that we've been preparing for all this time. This triathlon has deepened our relationship. And it's caused me to see my dad in a whole new light.

Dad, you are an amazing man, and I consider this venture that you undertook to be just another example of your grit and strength. I thank you, Dad, for yet again doing what you've been doing your whole life--for teaching me to challenge myself, to believe in myself, and to be true to myself. I love you and am so blessed to have you as my dad. Happy Father's Day!