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.