Bird watching (while eating M&Ms)

It was just past siesta time, a glorious time in our day when both boys rest and I succumb to a twenty minute nap.  I was standing in the kitchen, snacking on my post-siesta M&Ms (just how this 5 pound bag managed to find its way into my house and take up residency in my pantry is a mystery to me, considering my great weakness for small, crunchy chocolate objects) when I looked out my kitchen window and spotted the tiniest of birds munching on some food from the bird feeder that is perched on our window.  Not four feet away, our eyes met.  I paused, anticipating the bird to quickly flee.  It didn't.  Continuing to watch me, the bird took several more mouthfuls before it turned its back on me and gave itself fully to its seedy feast.   

Nothing extraordinary about this interaction, really.  Many birds frequent our feeder throughout the day so I am sure they are accustomed to the humans who dwell on the other side of the glass.  Yet I was struck by the naive trust that this particular bird had in me, a grown human 200 times its size.  Although I wouldn't, I had the capability to cause irreparable harm to this tiny creature.  The bird, however, seemed ignorant of this fact or just chose to ignore it and carried on with its business.  Indeed, by allowing me to share these solitary moments of its life it was offering me a sort of gift.  Recognizing this I exercised extreme caution, not wanting to make any sudden movement that would scare the bird, injure it in some way, cause it to lose its trust in me.

This little encounter with the bird got me thinking:  What if we recognized the naive trust that our beloved sons and daughters exercise in us, despite the extreme power we have to harm their little psyches?  And acknowledging this, what if we cherished the moments we spend with our kids as the gifts that they are, doing everything in our power not to scare them, injure them, or cause them to lose that trust, but rather doing our prayerful best to build them up, love them, and cause their trust in us to be founded?  Because--and more and more the reality of this is sinking in--the time we have with our kids is brief, and our window of opportunity to influence them--either positively or negatively--is closing quickly. 

Obviously, we all love our children and would never intentionally hurt them, yet through carelessness, impatience, negligence and sin we undeniably do.  I wonder if some of those instances in which our children get hurt by us could have been avoided had we as parents simply paused for a second, held our breath, taken a mental snapshot of whatever scenario had led to that point and viewed it with eyes scanning for a gift, a blessing.  Because if we do this, if we look for the beautiful, the rare, the precious in our kids, we will certainly find it, even in those moments where it is not expected.  Children are a blessing from the Lord.  Let's treasure every moment with them, even the difficult ones, as such.

What Sunday Mornings Shouldn't Look Like

Until recently, our Sunday mornings closely resembled any other day of the week except Saturday.  In fact, as any member of my family could attest to, Sundays were probably worse than most weekdays since we all actually had somewhere to be and a time at which to be there.  (My husband's job is one that puts the "flex" in the term "flexible").  Because we love God, and because God places a premium on worshipping Him, we consider attending church to be our duty.  So, on Sunday morning we'd all get up early, get dressed ("No, you can't wear sweatpants to church!"), be ushered out the door by a huffing mother who appreciates "start times" and other such conventions, drive half an hour to church (usually in silence since some do not appreciate early morning tongue lashings about getting to places on time), and arrive...late.
After being ushered to a parking place, we'd rush the kids through check-in, hastily throw them in their classrooms, and attempt to find a suitable seat in our church's sanctuary amidst the throngs of people who were basking in the beautiful music being played by the church's band.  At the end of service, we'd weave our way through the same throngs of people who were now convening in the lobby, yell a hasty "see you soon!" to our friends, nod at the familiar faces, try not to spill coffee on or run over the strangers, and grab our kids.  We'd reweave our way out the door and into our cars in order to make the half hour drive back home.  Then we'd sigh and attempt to enjoy our Sunday.
Please don't get the wrong impression of my church.  We've attended this place for seven years.  During that time I've worked with the youth group and volunteered in the children's ministry, both attended and lead a small group for women's Bible study, and been heavily involved in a community group that we call our family. I've seen the church grow until it was bursting at it's store front seams,  contributed to its capital fund for a new building, and followed when it made the pivotal move to its new home. I've been challenged and moved by the continued quality preaching I've heard throughout the years, and can testify as to the authentic faith of the many attendees I've formed relationships with.
But this church...it is big.  And getting bigger. Which is not a bad thing. Growth means life (certainly biologists can attest to the truth of this statement) and there is certainly a lot of life in this church. But in our current m.o. Kevin and I were not experiencing the fullness of this life.  We were missing that sense of intimacy, that feeling of togetherness that I want to experience when walking through the doors of my own church, the one that our church, because of its size, has not been able to offer us.
Maybe its because my own family is so far away, but I yearn for a place where people embrace me as a member of their church family, where they notice my absence and welcome my return.  The small town girl in me is pushing back against the bigness of this place in which I am living and is trying to be more local.  Our old church does a great job loving the people in the community, but for the most part the community they are ministering to is their community, not mine.  And I know there are people right here in my neighborhood who need ministering to.  And there are plenty of churches to partner with in order to do so.
So this weekend I attended a different church, one right here in my neighborhood within walking distance.  And not only was it close, but this church was small, with a total of 25 attendees (I counted).  And, bless their hearts, with the exception of three of these attendees (again, I counted), all of them were over the age of 70.  There was one child present.  One. 
As these sweet seniors invited me to come back, I tried to imagine the chaos that would occur if I actually took them up on their offer and came back with my family in tow.  Imagined the ruckus that trying to keep two small boys quiet for an hour would induce.  Imagined the utterings that my youngest--who inevitably chooses quiet church settings to practice projecting his voice (he must appreciate the acoustics)--would emit.  Imagined the internal stress that would start to boil while I practiced my miming skills in an effort to keep my kids occupied.  And then I imagined the resulting heart attacks that all this chaos would produce in the attendees, and thought how if just one person died it would reduce the size of the congregation by 5%. 
Sigh.  Let the search for a new church begin.

Happy Father's Day (2012)

Several decades ago the sports' community grimaced as I donned a tie-dyed t-shirt, laced up whatever athletic shoes I owned, and began dribbling a ball.  Thus began my dismal three year stint of playing middle school basketball.  There is no way to sugar coat it:  I was terrible.  The technical act of dribbling a ball while moving down a court was coordination far too advanced for my lanky, clumsy self.  Zone defense, man-on-man, setting a pick--these terms were lost on me and just couldn't replace my narrow view of basketball as one of awkwardly working the ball to the end of the court and chucking it somewhere in the vicinity of the basket.

Sadly, my team was no better.  We were a rag tag bunch of girls from a small parochial school who had been recruited mainly because our school wanted a girls' basketball team and we were the few who fell into the category of "girl".  Technically, the team was supposed to be comprised of seventh and eighth graders, but because our numbers were shy we enlisted the help of our fifth and sixth grade friends.  The combination of youth and inexperience, together with a large degree of unathleticism, rendered us winless for my entire career.  Wins: zero.  Win average: zero.  Talent:  not quite zero, but pretty darn close.

Found in the middle of this gaggle of ineptitude was our coach, who just so happened to be my dad.  I don't know why he decided to coach the girls' basketball team.  Very likely he was the only one willing to take on the challenge (humility?) of coaching a Lutheran middle school girls' team.  Perhaps he saw it as a chance to spend some time with his two oldest daughters, who were quickly slipping away into adolescence and all the comes with it.  Whatever the reason, our coach he became and our coach he remained.

And remain he did.  Through the musty old armory practices he remained.  Through the cheerlessness that losing over and over again brings he remained.  Through the petty eighth grade girl squabbles he remained.  Through the drills that we repeated over and over in practice only to be forgotten the second the referee's whistle blew he remained, yelling at us from the sidelines, throwing his hands in the air at the debacle that was occuring on the court, but remaining, always, throughout.

And despite the dolorous activity that was happening on the court, my dad could always be counted on to point out the positive.  "I saw some good playing out there."  "You guys showed great sportsmanship on the court today."  "We didn't lose by as much as we did the last time we played that team."  There weren't many highlights to be found in our Immanual team, but the ones that existed my dad always managed to uncover and lay bare for us to see, so that no matter how discouraged we were or how much we (ok, I) hated the sport of basketball, for my dad's sake we were always determined to get back on the court and give it our all, even if our all didn't amount to a whole lot. 

Because we were his daughters, my sister and I had the privilege of riding home with the coach following practice and games.  Mostly we'd sit in silence, listening to whatever classic rock was playing on the radio at the time.  Occasionally, however, my dad would use the time to flesh out what happened in practice or during the game.  Despite my total lack of basketball ability, my dad still believed in me and told me as much.  He expressed his confidence in me as a leader and reminded me to never give up.  He didn't get too involved with my adolescent life away from the court (and I really can't blame him), but I think he used basketball as a means to teach me lessons that could be applied to every day life.  I remember a particularly difficult period in eighth grade when school events left me questioning my worth as a person.  My dad took advantage of the quiet car ride before returning to the chaos that is life in a family of six to remind me to stay true to who I was, that I was valuable no matter what other people thought.  He followed up by giving me a big hug and telling me he loved me. 

He can still be counted on for those hugs and "I love you"s.

Dad, I've thanked you for many things (although probably not enough), but this time I want to thank you for being my basketball coach throughout those middle school years, for the time you spent in practices and at games, for the pride it cost you to coach such an unsuccessful team, for the patience it requires to bear with large numbers of hormonal pre-teens, and for the lessons and love you dished out along the way.  Along with being a #1 dad, you were definitely a #1 coach.

Be still

Be still, and know that I am God.

Be still?  I've been doing that quite a bit these days but lately I've been struggling with it, God.  You know me so you know things are going pretty well, but my tendency has always been to look to the next thing...

Be still, and know that I am God.

...like when my freaking hydrangeas are going to bloom.  Everyone else's have and although I give mine water and food and didn't overprune them and planted them in part shade, they just sit there with that outside ring of flowers while the inside cluster obstinately refuses to do anything which, now that you remind me, sounds a lot like my children...

Be still, and know that I am God.

...who aren't really listening to me these days, either.  The little one just looks at me when I tell him to do something and laughs and says that he's a baby dolphin which he might as well be because at least then I wouldn't have to deal with the problem of getting the child to poop IN THE POTTY and the big one continues to have his meltdowns and probably will  never learn to write or color in the lines like his teacher wants him to and there always seems to be some issue to deal with...

Be still, and know that I am God.

...but these issues pale in comparison to the problems others are facing, like the one whose husband is traveling all the time while she sits lonely at home with her toddler and newborn baby, or the one who is trying to keep the bitterness at bay because she just wants to have a baby and can't, or the one who just wants a husband but had all hopes of that dashed with last month's breakup, or the one whose family member's pain has turned out to be cancer and the only course of action is to make every day count from here on out, and I just want to help these people but there's so little I can do...

Be still, and know that I am God.

...which puts everything in perspective, of course, but I can't help thinking about THE INJURY and about how everything was finally feeling really good so I decided to go out for a spin on my bike, which was amazing but later on in the day I again felt THE INJURY so I have no choice but to wait some more and I know you've been teaching me a lot during this time but I'm getting really impatient and just want to go out and get MOVING, for goodness's sake--

BE STILL, AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD.  I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.  And don't forget: I, the Lord Almighty, am with you; I, the God of Jacob, am your fortress.

....

Dear Facebook

First off, I have to tell you that I am definitely a fan of yours.  I love the way you give me access to the lives of people I barely know, allowing me to know where they work, letting me see pictures of their children graduating preschool, teaching me that they do not think favorably of the latest referendum taking place in their state, which is likely miles and miles from my own.  I especially like the time you save me.  In a short, often witty sentence, you quickly catch me up on the details of my actual friends' lives, so that I can be all, "I saw on FB that you went to that new restaurant," thus saving me the pain of having long-winded conversations:  "Oh hey, how are you?  So what have you been up to?  Oh, how was date night?  What new restaurant?  How did you like it?"  Such tedium.  I think Entertainment Weekly summed it up best when it said, ""How on earth did we stalk our exes, remember our co-workers' birthdays, bug our friends, and play a rousing game of Scrabulous before Facebook?"

So it causes me great pain to inform you that I am going to have to take a break from you, dear friend, and from the 333 friends, relatives, and other acquaintances I can spy on--I mean, "continuously stay in touch with wherever they are in the world!"  (Whew.  Thanks, Wikipedia!)  I know others have done the same, stating "I'm taking a break from FB" on their status and going MIA for a month or so.  Their reasons vary, but when pressed they'll tell me (through FB, I don't actually talk to most of these people in real life) that they just wanted to disconnect for a while, they didn't like the time FB took from them, or they wanted to live more intentionally.   I, on the other hand, am perfectly content answering your siren's call, oh wonderful social media tool. I don't think that ooccasionally checking my neighbor's status while ignoring my kids' pleas to play with them makes me a bad mother. And who among us hasn't checked FB while going to the bathroom? It's no different than reading a book on the toilet.

No, my break stems from something else entirely and has to do, of course, with THE INJURY.  As you may know, Facebook, summer is a good time for physical activity.  As the weather warms and the days grow longer, people venture outside and start moving.  They discover that moving makes them feel good.  Before long, they decide to move toward a goal, so they sign up for different athletic events:  5ks, triathlons, fun runs, marathons.  And then the postings begin.  "Look at me!  I just signed up for the such and such triathlon!"  Or, "I'm going to run the Mud Run!  Am I crazy or what?"  Or, "Here's a picture of me having just run my longest run ever!  It was awesome!"  Nothing whatsoever wrong with this.  I used to do the same thing myself.  Except that now, of course, I can't.  THE INJURY has disqualified me from training for any such races and I'm not going to get too many "likes" with posts like this: "Just took my dog for a really slow 30 minute walk.  Got to clean up his poop.  It was awesome!" 

So I am left to read about everyone else's pursuits.  And this is when Bitterness creeps in along with his close friend, Envy.  They make themselves comfortable in my heart as I am perusing you, Facebook.  And I get mad at my friends, who (let's be honest here, FB) aren't even my friends.  But some of them are, and instead of applauding their efforts and encouraging them, I am envying them and somehow holding them responsible for my inability to do the same things they are doing. 

After a while I am forced to ask myself if this sort of behavior is healthy, which, of course, it is not.  I feel lousy enough not being able to run or do anything else without having to deal with the ugly feelings that come about every time someone mentions physical activity.  1 Corinthians 13, the Bible's golden chapter on love, states that "Love does not envy, and is not easily angered."  Rather, "Love is patient and kind."  I know the kind thing would be to write something encouraging on my friends' statuses (surely this isn't the plural form of "status") and patiently wait for the day to come when I can join them, but right now I'm not there.  So it's easier for me to just walk away, to stop checking you, to--(gasp)--DELETE YOU FROM MY PHONE.  (No, silly, I am not going to delete my account.  I enjoy our relationship too much for such nonsense as that.)  In the meantime, I will pray for healing of THE INJURY and of my heart, will spend some more time playing with my kids, and will look for different reading material for the bathroom.

Amazing

My children are amazing.  I don't mean that in a delusional sort of way, where I hold onto the believe that my own offspring are far more superior than everyone else's.  The fact that my youngest stuck a toy car into his bare buttocks today proves otherwise.  Being their mother, however, I get the chance to observe them far more frequently than most other kids, so it would follow that they are the ones who constantly amaze me, although my observations, I'm pretty sure, can be transferred to most children.  Because this is my blog, however, I am going to discuss why my children are amazing, and you can relax  knowing that most of what is said about the amazingness of my children can be applied to yours as well (with the exception of the car/butt incident.  Nothing amazing about that).

Why my children are amazing #1:  They are made out of rubber. 
This is the only reason I can figure as to why my children aren't in full body casts.  The things they do to their little frames is truly frightening: sliding down the stairs face first--on purpose (I had to clarify because if I ever did such a thing it certainly would be an accident, a very terrible accident), racing across a field full throttle in a bent over position while pushing a toy dump truck and not breaking a sweat (how can that not be painful, let alone fun?), playing tornado on a daily basis (directions:  spin around as fast as you can for as long as you can until you are impossibly dizzy.  Fall.  Repeat.), and other activities that attempt to defeat the laws of physics.  Sure, we go through a fair number of bandages (one of the items, along with batteries and diapers, I wish I would have bought stock in prior to having children).  But these cuts and scrapes heal.  The fact is that children just don't pull their groins or their hips or whatever impossibly dumb injury I have.  Because, like Tigger, their tops are made out of rubber, and their bottoms are made out of springs.  (It just dawned on me that A.A. Milne must have had children of his own.

Why my children are amazing #2:  Their youthfulness.
"You can only by young once.  But you can always be immature."  How right you are, Dave Barry, but I'd trade that immaturity in a heartbeat to have the perfect, smooth, blemish-free skin that my boys have, to eat a cupcake without worrying how many calories you are going to be sending to your rear end (we all know kids metabolize food differently than adults, sending any calories that enter their bodies directly to their legs, arms, and mouths, turning them into little energizer bunnies that talk), to have a face that expresses "innocence" rather than "haggardness."  There was a time when I wasn't getting injured every other month, where I could almost get away with going makeupless and not scaring people, where I could eat pretty much what I wanted, when I wanted.  It was in my twenties.  And it has definitely expired, leaving me to spend more time looking less attractive, to eat less and have to exercise more and still not lose weight, and to work at temporarily displacing the look of exasperation that has become a permanent feature of my face.  I should probably stop here, I'm depressing myself even further.  Which is another amazing thing about my kids:  they don't get depressed.

Why my children are amazing #:  They can surprise you in the most wonderful ways.
Having dealt with my upper limit of temper tantrums today, I was mildly peeved (read: about to lose my mind) when my oldest started crying AGAIN, this time after he had gone to bed, because HE wanted to sleep with the train book, not the rascally little brother who had thought of it first.  It being well past the hour where I mentally punch out on the parenting clock, I hoped I could just ignore the intermittent cries until he just gave it up and went to sleep.  45 minutes later and the cries continued.  Desperate for some quiet, I marched upstairs with the resolve to end the crying--just resolve, no plan.  Duct tape?  Smothering with a pillow?  I was gonna wing it.  "WHAT DO YOU WANT???"  I stupidly asked, fully prepared to hear something about train books and little brothers and the unfairness of the world.  "I just want to give you a hug," came the quiet and teary response.  Well, what do you say to that, except to snuggle with the little guy, who quietly told me he loved me (even though at that point I was just about as unlovable as you can get), and to thank God for this quiet and beautiful gift to close out  my day.

My children are amazing.

The Beauty in Personal Dormancy--or Not

Ugh. 

That about sums up my feelings on what seemed like the longest day ever--a  little alarming, since it's only May and a month away from the summer solstice.  The alarming part has to do with the fact that nothing really out of the ordinary occurred today.  The weather was beautiful.  The boys--now 4 and 2 (YIKES!!)--were their usual boisterous, busy, and all-things-boy selves.  Just another typical middle-of-the-week Wednesday.  With one glaring exception. 

THE INJURY has returned.  For the second time in half a year, I've injured my hip, rendering me unable to run.  This time around my body has put a unique little twist on the injury, however, in that I have also mysteriously pulled my groin as well, thus prohibiting any of my usual cross training.  My primary care doctor told me to--surprise!--take some time off to let it heal.  So that's what I'm doing.  Taking time off.  No running, biking, swimming, step aerobicking, yogaing.  Can't even power walk.  So what's a girl to do but give painfully slow walks to her dog, who coincidentally has a colander around his neck because of his own injury and probably looks even more ridiculous than I do.  What a pair we make.

And although the bulk of my days looks pretty much the same since the majority of my workouts occurred in the morning, the absence of working out is taking it's toll.  Prior to THE INJURY, when I was able to get up before my people, put on my running shoes and head out the door, it was like giving myself a present.  I'd tuck my little gift away as my real day began and wouldn't think about it much throughout the day.  Every now and again, though, when I began losing sight of myself, as the distinction between me and the all-encompassing job of mommy would blur and I'd meld into "Mom: the person who watches the kids all day, sacrificing herself for their growth and development", I'd revisit my little gift and be reminded of my secret, that time I had carved into my day just for myself.  It was reassurance, even if it was false, that I was someone else outside of my kids.

And now I've been robbed of my present, bringing me back to the "ugh" at the beginning of this post. It's been over two weeks now, and I've tried hard not to wallow in the inevitable depression that THE INJURY brings about.  I've tried putting my trust in God, knowing that He has plans for me, plans to prosper me and not harm me, plans for my hope and future (Jer. 29:11), and that somehow THE INJURY might even play into His plans.  I've been forced to rely on Him to supply that which running used to provide--stress relief, weight control, endorphin rushes, sanity.  I know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope (Romans 5:3-4).  But right now I feel like I've been robbed of something that makes me who I am.  I have nothing to claim as my own, and it's certainly taking it's toll.

So I wait.  Not sure what I'm waiting for, I wait on God, who acts on behalf of those who wait on Him (Isaiah 64:4).  Perhaps He's refining me, working on my character, using this time to prepare me for something new, something better that He has for me.  But I hate waiting.  In my convoluted mind, waiting equates to doing nothing.  And in today's world, doing nothing is frowned on.  We are supposed to work in order to produce! produce! produce! 

And so my little devotional today really struck a chord when it brought up Psalm 1:3, reminding me that I am to be "like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields fruit in season."  Huh?  Oh that's right, trees don't constantly produce fruit.  If they did, the trees would have nothing left--no branches, no leaves, no beauty. The writer called on us to embrace the beauty of personal dormancy (doesn't that sound lovely?): "We must allow for it and accept it joyfully...A time of inner strength-gathering for a better bloom later."  Is this what THE INJURY is for me, a time of personal dormancy?  A way of preparing me for better blooms to come?  Sounds a heck of a lot better than sitting on the sidelines getting fat because of my bum hip. 

So I have nothing to do but wait. And pray that I can see THE INJURY as a time of personal dormancy.

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!)