Snow-running and Related Reflections

The day started with a welcome, early morning phone message delivering good news-the school year's first snow delay.  At our house, these messages result in smiles, cheers, or sighs of relief.  Dave would get some additional, much-needed sleep.  And I would get to run in the snow.  I love running in the snow, so I layered on my clothes and laced up my shoes, feeling grateful for this unexpected gift.  Lately, running has felt like a chore-just another task to check off of my to-do list, just something I do to keep from feeling guilty and gaining weight.  This morning was different.

I shuffled down the quiet streets, reflecting on my fascination with snow-running.  Even though I dislike the cold, I love the snow.  Like a soft, comfy blanket with nourishing powers, the snow dances fluidly toward the earth and covers us.  It makes us clean.  It makes us quiet.  It makes us calm.  The snow grants us an excuse to slow down and to find joy in simple things.  It causes us to pause and to see beauty.

When I run in the snow, I am at peace.

When I run in the snow, I often marvel over the fact that no two snowflakes are alike.  Sometimes, that marveling leads to thoughts of Snowflake Bentley and then smiles and even giggles as I remember how I first heard about him.  It was several winters ago, when Dave was still a bachelor and was living with his friend Tim.  Tim told us a story of this farmer-man who lived in New England and was passionate, even obsessed, with snowflakes.  Wilson Bentley's claim to fame is that he was the first to theorize that no two snowflakes are alike, based on thousands of pictures and observations that he made about snowflakes during many a snowy winter in Vermont.  After Tim told us the history of Mr. Bentley, which already seemed a little far-fetched to us, he then went a little further and insisted that he was related to him.  Knowing Tim, we had to believe that he was just joking and having a good time.  I'm not sure that we gave Snowflake Bentley another passing thought, at least until Tim and Erin named their second child after him.

Then we started to believe Tim, and after some research, found that the tale that Tim told of his famous relative is actually true.  Amazing-a boy is fascinated with the snow as he grows up on a farm.  He (and his family) sacrifice to allow him to pursue his passion.  He rigs up his own contraption to take photos of the snow crystals and begins to chronicle his findings.  People in his hometown think he's crazy.  But scientists around the world begin to believe him and acknowledge his great contribution to science.  In this article, Bentley calls himself the preserver.  He helps people to understand and appreciate the intricate beauty and design of a snowflake-that each one is different based on several different factors impacting its creation.  This kind of beauty is all around us-we just need to take the some time to study our surroundings.  Beauty takes time.

As the story goes, Snowflake Bentley died when he contracted pneumonia after a long walk during a blizzard.  Here's to hoping we can honor his memory by pointing others toward that which is beautiful today.

"Under the microscope, I found that snowflakes were miracles of beauty; and it seemed a shame that this beauty should not be seen and appreciated by others. Every crystal was a masterpiece of design and no one design was ever repeated., When a snowflake melted, that design was forever lost. Just that much beauty was gone, without leaving any record behind."

-Wilson A. "Snowflake" Bentley, 1925

Victorious

The first hint of light through the roof window wakes me.  I roll over and check the clock.  6:56-nearly an hour later than I intended to wake up.  I'm already behind.  The battle inside begins.  My mind's insistence that it's time to get something accomplished takes on my body's weariness and propensity to give in and go back to sleep.  After all, I've already pretty much slept through my early morning window of time to do something productive (read, pray, run, etc.); what's 10 more minutes?

My mind wins out.  I go downstairs and try to put myself together in the bathroom.  I creep, I slip, I stay in the dark.  The bathroom is next to my children's bedroom, and I don't want them to hear me or see me.  My son walks into the unlit bathroom.  He announces that he's ready to start his day, and walks toward the stairway.  Little sister cries because her partner and protector has left the room.  I give in and carry her downstairs.  The onslaught of questions and requests begins.  It's 7:10, and I already feel as though I've lost today's battles.  I feel beaten-down, defeated.

Well-acquainted with these feelings of defeat, I'm upset that this morning isn't going as planned.  But I think it's more than just this morning's losses that weigh heavily on my body and my mind.  And it's more than just this morning that hasn't gone as planned.  Maybe that's why my son's request for a second breakfast evokes an angry response.  I'm not happy, and I'm honestly not sure how to fix myself this time.  I feel confused and tired and ashamed.  I have everything a girl could want: a handsome and loving husband, two healthy and beautiful children, a warm home, plentiful food and clothing.  Why do I feel this way?  Where did I go wrong, and how do I get back on the right path?

I want a formula.  An engineer by training, I'm comfortable with questions that have definitive answers, with problems that can be remedied.  I've tried what I know to do, but my efforts to fix myself (i.e. if I can just find the right fill-in-the-blank, then I will be happy) aren't working this time.  I know I should be grateful for this opportunity to depend on God.  But honestly, most days I'd rather depend on myself.

I am reminded of some promises in Isaiah 35: that those with fearful hearts have reason to have courage, that the voiceless will break into song, that streams will flow in the desert, that it's impossible to get lost on God's road.  The battle may not be pretty, but I'm hoping these promises will help me to rise up...to throw off my burdens and enemies, to be victorious in today's fights.

 ^1-2 Wilderness and desert will sing joyously, the badlands will celebrate and flower—
Like the crocus in spring, bursting into blossom,
   a symphony of song and color.
Mountain glories of Lebanon—a gift.
   Awesome Carmel, stunning Sharon—gifts.
God's resplendent glory, fully on display.
   God awesome, God majestic.
 ^3-4Energize the limp hands,
   strengthen the rubbery knees.
Tell fearful souls,
   "Courage! Take heart!
God is here, right here,
   on his way to put things right
And redress all wrongs.
   He's on his way! He'll save you!"
 ^5-7Blind eyes will be opened,
   deaf ears unstopped,
Lame men and women will leap like deer,
   the voiceless break into song.
Springs of water will burst out in the wilderness,
   streams flow in the desert.
Hot sands will become a cool oasis,
   thirsty ground a splashing fountain.
Even lowly jackals will have water to drink,
   and barren grasslands flourish richly.
 ^8-10There will be a highway
   called the Holy Road.
No one rude or rebellious
   is permitted on this road.
It's for God's people exclusively—
   impossible to get lost on this road.
   Not even fools can get lost on it.
No lions on this road,
   no dangerous wild animals—
Nothing and no one dangerous or threatening.
   Only the redeemed will walk on it.
The people God has ransomed
   will come back on this road.
They'll sing as they make their way home to Zion,
   unfading halos of joy encircling their heads,
Welcomed home with gifts of joy and gladness
   as all sorrows and sighs scurry into the night. (Isaiah 35:1-10, The Message)

Anticipation

Last night, after a whirlwind trip to attend Nana L.'s funeral service, we rushed to church to watch this year's Christmas program.  We had been waiting to see the play for months now.  Each Monday night for the last several weeks, Dave would quickly finish his dinner and leave for play practice, returning with bright eyes and words of praise for the other cast members.  With high hopes, we entered the church and took our seats.  And we weren't disappointed.  The play itself was funny enough, and the scenery, lighting, and sound were top-notch, but the cast really brought the show to life.  As a side note, our assistant pastor directed the play, and she has the gift of expectation.  She invites people into something greater than they can most times picture for themselves.  I'm convinced this quality called and required people to perform in ways they never thought possible.  It was a joy-filled time for me, a picture of church acquaintances and friends in their element and having so much fun as they told the Christmas story with carefully-crafted facial expressions, vocal inflections, and timing.

All good things take time and patience.  A line that Nana included in a letter she wrote to me while I was a college student, it was likely in response to some fears that I had at that point in my life...fears about my future...and mostly the fear that I wouldn't date or get married.  While my Nana was super-talented in multiple areas, I don't remember her being quick to dispense life advice, which was why this written wisdom was especially meaningful to me.  And boy, was she right.  I was waiting and waiting for the right man to enter my life.  Sometimes I waited with hope.  Most times, I feared that the very thing I longed for would never happen.  All along, the man waited for, the one I would marry, was there, and I had absolutely no idea.  First, he was just another member of our campus church group.  Then he became a (very funny and thoughtful) good friend of my sister's.  Next he decided to lead a Bible study on campus, and I was assigned to coach the Bible study leaders.  He was the troublesome one who wanted to break all of the Bible study rules.  I was the uptight one putting him in his place.  We will never be friends, I thought.  But then, the unthinkable happened: I observed him and grew to respect him and enjoy him, and apparently, he began to respect and enjoy me too.  I invited him to my work holiday party.  He threw snowballs at my window and left me thoughtful notes on my car.  He went running with me.  I sat with him as he attempted to complete school projects.  Our relationship was rising up.  It was growing, even blossoming.  I was hopeful.  Could this be the one I was waiting for?  Was our relationship one of the good things that my Nana wrote about?

As I type this, I'm waiting for some bread dough to rise.  Making bread doesn't seem to require any special skill or talent.  Really, you just need the ability to wait.  You mix the dough together and let it sit for hours.  Then you form the dough into a loaf and you let it sit some more.  Next you bake it for a while and let it sit until it's cool enough to slice.  Act, wait, act, wait.  It's hard though...the waiting, that is.  I'm hungry, and I know that the bread is good.  But the waiting makes the bread that much better.  I watched you rise up.  I smelled you as you were baking.  I longed for you.  I desired you.  And the longing and desire make you taste even better, even more satisfying, than what I could have imagined.

Someone To Watch Over Me

My husband's had a rough few weeks at school.  For whatever reason, this time of year seems to be especially burdensome for him as a teacher.  Last year, I think it may have played a part in Dave's running injury.  The one that kept him from running his marathon earlier this year.  But that's another story.  Anyway, I hate to see him this way, walking in the door late at night, the weariness written all over his face.  Frequent questions about his competence as a teacher, and really, as a person in general, beg for the comforting response from me.  But sometimes my encouragement and reassurance are not enough.  Dave is tired, and he continues to feel anxious, powerless, overwhelmed.

A few nights ago, as we were tucking our kids into their beds, Andrew was complaining about having to go to sleep.  This happens quite frequently in our house, as I expect it happens often in most households with young children.  Kids don't want to miss out on anything, even if it means jeopardizing their much-needed rest.  As Dave was tucking Andrew in, ensuring that he was "snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug", he told Andrew that he wished he could be like him:  that he could go to bed at 9PM, that he wouldn't need to worry about finishing projects long overdue or about what people think of him.  In that moment, Dave was reflecting on what it was like for him during his childhood.  He wanted for nothing; all of his needs were provided for.  His job was simply to enjoy his life, and love the people around him, and be creative, and be loved.

But isn't that how life SHOULD be for us too, even after our wrinkles and gray hair expose the truth that we are way too old to be kids anymore?  Do we really need to worry as much as we do?  How can we be responsible adults, but still live more like children?

These are some my questions as I anticipate Christmas's arrival.  The Bible describes God as a loving Father and us as children.  In this relationship, we don't need to have all of the answers for life's problems and struggles.  We don't need to scramble to provide for all of our own needs.  Our Father is taking care of it for us.  And He provides for all of our true needs in Jesus.  As I struggle to believe this today, I try to picture my Father, tucking me in, speaking quiet and calming words of love, encouraging me to rest.  And I surrender to sleep.

Is Anybody Out There?: Confessions of a Stay-At-Home Mom

I've had a rough day so far.  On the surface, it seems that the roughness is due to my kids' potty issues.  Last night, it was the middle-of-the-night call, beckoning me to the bathroom, where my daughter then decided that she didn't really need to go on the potty after all.  Then it was an early morning wake-up call as a very sorry child told me that he wet his bed.  There have been a couple of additional potty problems since we've all been awake...get out the wipes...sanitize the potties...clean up soiled children...start another load of laundry.  It's seems that it's those potty issues and the constant fighting.  Why do my children feel the need to question nearly every directive that comes out of my mouth?  Is it worth the energy to stick to my word?

I'm exhausted.  And I feel like there must be something terribly wrong with me.

Honestly, I think the main reason that I've been struggling with this stay-at-home mom gig is that it makes me feel truly incompetent, maybe more-so than anything else I've ever attempted.  Most times I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.  I'm fearful that I'm messing up the very thing where I invest most of my strength, emotion, and wisdom (that is, if I have any wisdom left!).

Sometimes, I feel alone in this problem that I have.  I read the books and blogs and facebook posts of moms who can work, go to the gym, put a fabulous dinner on the table, throw festive birthday parties, involve and lead church activities, volunteer at school, call friends with encouraging words, and provide a clean and loving home for the husband and multiple children.  I just can't keep up; I try, but I'm always coming up short.

Now I'm the one calling out, "Attention all Have-It-All-Together-Moms out there (if you really do exist). Please share your secrets with me!  Help me to know where I've gone wrong."


Why do we do this to each other...the pretending to have it all together?  When you look SO good, it makes me feel SO bad about myself.  And it makes me feel all alone in that badness.  Does anyone else feel the way that I do, or am I really the only one who can't seem to get things right?

Maybe one of the secrets is to revel in the small daily victories instead of wallowing in the defeats.  Maybe then I would be OK with my many mistakes and inadequacies.  Maybe then I would become the kind of mom that I aspire to be: gentle, patient, gracious, present.  Learning to celebrate the accomplishments of other moms, instead of using them as a measuring stick, would help too.

Until I am fully transformed in my thinking, I'll rely on my other coping mechanisms, some of which work quite well.  Lately, when the fearful and frustrated thoughts creep in, I remind myself to fight back with beauty:

gaze out the window, where the snow is falling all clean and quiet;
dance to that song that reminds me of a favorite time past;
breathe in the scent of the candle, smelling of fall and spice;
take in the words of an encouraging note or of Jesus;
savor the drawing or painting, bright with color;
drink in that full pot of flavorful (i.e. strong!) coffee;
create a new recipe or journal entry;
dream of a situation made right or a relationship reconciled;
thank a friend who's shared life with me;
study those children, who are small and needy today, but will be grown and gone all too soon.

Speaking to the Future Generations

Last night we received the phone call that we waited for all day yesterday, the one that would confirm that yesterday was Dave's Nana's last day and would allow us to officially grieve over our loss of her.  Nana had been sick for several months, so the grieving had already been happening for a while.  Drawing upon some memories, hoping to derive some comfort or consolation, I stumbled upon the realization that Nana's message is alive and is all around us.

Nana was a neighbor, friend, community activist, loving wife, mother, grandmother, and even a great-grandmother.  She was also an artist.  She did calligraphy and scrimshaw, but her specialty was watercolor miniatures.  Her artwork is proudly displayed all over our house; we love soliciting surprised responses when we tell others that these pieces are not photos, but paintings.  Amazing was her knowledge of color and light, her attention to detail, her technique with a paintbrush, her ability to use a medium to create and to make alive.  And through her artwork, Nana speaks to me this morning.

I remember reading somewhere that a key to finding purpose in life is finding your medium...that glorious material or subject that allows you to express your true self (I regret that I can't remember the source of this idea...please let me know if you can help me).  For Nana, it was paint and paper, and for my Nana, needles and thread, sugar and flour.  For my Pop-Pop, it was wood and nails, seeds and soil.  Maybe for you it's math or words or people.  The artwork, clothing, recipes, and furniture, live on, along with all of the memories, even after the creator is gone.  They speak to us of the creator's joys, hopes, and talents.  They remind us of the love the creator shared with us.

Today, the desire to be like Nana, to have something that is left behind that speaks to others, compels me to find my medium.  I'm summoning the courage to look deep inside myself, find the message that God has created me, and only me, to share, and proclaim it.  I want to create and invest so that others may hear from me, even when my life on earth ceases.  Today, I'm thankful that we have opportunities to leave pieces of us behind, that we can express ourselves to those precious future generations that we won't have the pleasure of meeting.

We miss you already, Nana L.  Rest in peace.

Next Steps

Here's to a very late marathon recap!  On the whole, I had a satisfying marathon experience.  We drove to Philly last Saturday and had the opportunity to stay with an old running/church friend and her family.  We reconnected over Brazilian food and a game of Settlers before I surrendered to my bed.  I actually slept through most of the night when my alarm went off at 5AM; before I knew it, we were off to the race start. I couldn't have asked for a better weather day: sunny and in the 40's.  I found a port-a-potty, and then my race corral, and then we were off.  The marathon course is beautiful...winding through the historic parts of the city and back toward the zoo and art museum, then through Fairmount Park again and to Manayunk before the turn around and end at the art museum.  And nothing could prepare me for the number of fans.  I think this was the highlight for me: the support of numbers of people who wouldn't have known my name except for that it was printed on my race bib; the support of some friends who traveled long distances, one with an Elmo doll, to cheer me on; and the support of my husband, who ran most of the last 3 miles with me despite the fact that I was exhausted and unpleasant at that point (I compare running a marathon with giving birth...that may give you a picture of what he was dealing with).

After a slow start, I was able to settle into my own pace around mile 3, and for the most part, stick with that pace until around mile 18.  I decided then that I needed some extra motivation, so I put my headphones on.  My ipod died a few minutes later.  I was disappointed, but I didn't want to let it ruin my race.  I was starting to struggle physically and mentally at that point.  Whenever I heard running water, and there were several points in the last miles when I did, I would try to focus on why I was running the race, in hopes that it would help me to regroup.  I've been in this situation before: the part of a race when I need to decide whether I'm going to keep chasing my goal, or whether I'm going to give up and just resign myself to the fact that I was running a good race but can't find the strength to keep at it.

I feel a little like that right now, hence the late blog entry.  I've spent the last few months learning more about and raising money for a cause and a people who mean a lot to me.  I've had opportunities to start this blog and connect with old and new friends.  I've had a marathon training plan telling me exactly what I need to do every day to meet my goal.  I've felt confident that I've been in step with God; I've been running a good race.  Now, in this post-fundraising, post-marathon place, I'm feeling a little out of steam, and I'm also feeling a little scared, because I had this really good thing going and I'm not quite sure how to keep it going; I was racing toward a strong finish and now I don't know how or if I'm going to complete the race.  I don't know what my next steps are or how to take them.

In the marathon, when my body and mind started to fail me, I received a huge hug from Elmo, the company of my husband, who loves me and runs with me even during some of my lowest moments, and the smiling faces of friends who cheerfully greeted me at the finish line.  I welcomed these as gifts along the way, gifts that helped me to finish well.  As I consider my next move, I'll look expectantly for those things that will motivate me and point me in the right direction.