More Lessons From My Son

My alarm rang out this morning - its sound, along with the noisy tapping of heavy rain on our window, coaxing me out of my slumber.  Stretching, I forced my legs out from under the covers and over the side of the bed.  It's Andrew's birthday, I remembered.  Early in the morning five years ago, Andrew made his way into the world, a loud cry announcing his arrival.  That day marked a significant turning point for me; life has not been the same since his coming.  Celebration, joy, stress, impatience, love, fear, uncertainty, protection, weariness, laughter - these feelings and others more intense than ever before.  Securing my heart with his smile, my little Andrew's vulnerability and innocence demanded that my well-being be intertwined with his, that his joy would be my joy and his suffering my suffering.  Our lives are braided, even knotted together.

(I'm sure that he won't want to be braided or knotted to me in a few short years from now, so I remind myself to enjoy the present.)

Andrew wanted to share soft pretzels with his school friends to celebrate his birthday, so I rose early both to celebrate the time of Andrew's birth and to make the pretzels.  Ten cups of flour were needed for the dough.  I counted...
one...
two...
three...
four...
five...
and then was distracted with another thought.  I'm still not sure exactly how much flour was in that dough.  Still waking up, I felt grumpy, frustrated with my inability to complete this simple task, and afraid that the pretzels would be a disaster.  I pictured a bunch of preschoolers vocalizing their disgust after tasting Andrew's "treats".

Then I remembered a story that I heard while touring the Sturgis Pretzel Factory a few months ago.  Our tour guide explained that hard pretzels came into being as the result of an error in making soft pretzels; legend has it that a baker left the soft pretzels in the oven too long.  He decided to try a burnt pretzel, and was surprised to find that it was actually quite good.  Coincidentally, CBS News was filming during our tour; you can hear the highlights from the story (and see us around 2 minutes into the video) here.

Andrew, Amelia, and Natalie, after touring the Sturgis Pretzel Factory

This memory provided some comfort.  A baking error can result in something just as good as the original.  In fact, something new can be birthed from a "mistake".  For a perfectionist like me, stories such as these, where deviation from rules or instructions have a positive outcome, are life-giving.  They're freeing.  It seems that missteps are often necessary for making the world creative and interesting.  The ability to make and recover from mistakes allows movement and progress without the fear of error.

As a mom, I've struggled to encourage my kids to be their true selves, and to allow mistakes for the value of the teaching and learning opportunities that result.  I have my own, often selfish, standards and ideas and goals for the ways that I'd like them to perform and the people I'd like them to become.  Andrew has his own, very unique, personality and humor seen as early as his ultrasound photos.  He's sensitive, helpful, and social.  He is not a perfect child; at times, he's disobedient, disrespectful, and even mean.  But to me, he is lovable and valuable despite moments of bad behavior or poor choices.  God has graciously given him to me as a gift, so that I may learn important lessons such as these: we're valuable because we exist, not because of what we do (or don't do), and being our true selves brings joy, blessing, and beauty to the world.  Happy birthday Andrew!

An Unexpected Opportunity

We were enjoying a quiet day at home following a busy weekend.  Some clothes purging and organization, a little catching up on email, and finalizing plans for Andrew's birthday were making for a positive and productive start to the week.  Feeling energized and inspired, I even taught my kids a Bible verse.  For months, even years, I've been meaning to work on Scripture memorization with the kids, hoping that it would give them a right foundation that would be helpful in making decisions, maintaining perspective during difficult times, and believing truth about themselves and their relationships with God.

Rejoice in God always; again I will say, rejoice!  (Philippians 4:4)  Singing a childhood song based on this verse, I hoped that Andrew would allow the words to sink in.  I instructed him to try to remember the words of the song whenever he's having a hard day or feeling sad or scared.  I told him how I struggle with remembering God's goodness when things aren't going my way, but that recalling words like these shape my thinking and attitude.  They are transformative.

As I paused to ponder what to say next, I gazed out the kitchen door to our deck, and I caught a glimpse of this:

Note the very long snake hanging out on our deck.

I stepped back in surprise, shock even.  We live in the city; we aren't supposed to have creatures like this lurking in our backyards.  Cockroaches, yes.  Mice, yes.  Stray cats, yes.  Long, scary snakes, NO!

I have to confess that despite the repetition of the verse just seconds before this situation, I was not praising God for the snake.  I got on the phone, first with Dave, and then with emergency responders, who I'm sure thought I was crazy, and referred me to a critter control company.  In my mind, this was much bigger than critter control.  When I called Dave a second time, he suggested that I ask my next-door neighbors for help.

Now my neighbors moved in nearly one year ago, but I still don't know them very well.  Most times when I'm walking by their house, I'm getting ready to go somewhere, and I'm in a frenzy because we're late and the kids are not listening to my stress-filled instructions.  Honestly, I'm a little ashamed of my behavior, and this is my excuse for not initiating.  Anthony and Angela are parents to a very charming one-year-old.  Anthony is kind, calm, and strong.  And he works second shift.  Realizing that Anthony might be home, Dave also had a feeling that Anthony would not be afraid of snakes, and may even like them.  

Anthony seemed to welcome the opportunity to handle the snake.  He walked out onto our deck, and after taking a quick look at it, picked him up, told me that it was likely someone's pet, said he would take it home until someone came to inquire about it, and asked if I'd like him to search our backyard for more snakes.  Holding back tears, I thanked Anthony and watched him take the snake home with him (sorry Angela).

We've had quite the week with critters at our house: a spider on our bed, a millipede with me in the shower, termites in our woodpile, ants in our kitchen, and now a snake on our deck.  (I assure you, this isn't normal; our house is typically pest-free, at least I think it is!)  Each time, I've wanted a superman to come to my rescue - someone to swoop in and remove the nuisance, to lift the fear and burden.  I'm feeling thankful that sometimes our difficult or scary situations lead us to ask for help and depend on others, even others we don't know very well.  Today this snake led to communication and relationship with my neighbors.  It even resulted in an invitation to ask for help in the future.  For this, I am grateful.  In this, I can rejoice.

What Does A Runner Look Like?

A few days ago, I was telling Dave how I'd like to purchase some new running attire.  During our conversation, I shared that most of my athletic shirts seem to be cut for men or small women; they don't provide much space for a woman like me, who has hips.  The pull and stretch of these shirts across my hips and bottom is uncomfortable and sometimes even embarrassing.  "My hips are just too big.  I don't look like a runner," I lamented.

Thank goodness for a husband who quickly challenges the untruths I speak.  Dave responded by pointing me to a forum post from a woman who was venting about an unpleasant experience at a sporting goods store.  She approached a salesperson, asked for information about a particular sports bra, and was dismissed with the remark, "You don't look like a runner."  Maybe this woman's legs weren't the right shape, or maybe she even carried a little extra weight around her waist.  In any case, an interaction like this is can be devastating to a sensitive runner.

What does a runner look like?

The other day, I spied my kids checking out my latest issue of Runners' World magazine.  Wow, I thought,  I'm encouraging the next generation of runners by leaving my reading material on the floor!  When I asked what they were doing, they told me that they were looking at belly buttons.  I believe it.  There are, indeed, many pictures of belly buttons in Runner's World.  Belly buttons on super-thin, very muscular, tan, young, beautiful people.  Runners of course.

Is this what a runner looks like?

I'll show you what a runner looks like.

Here we are - my sister, me, and my sister's roommate Hilary.  We're running the Pasadena Half Marathon.  We're putting one foot in front of the other, challenging ourselves, taking in the scenery, and enjoying our time together.  We may not belong in Runner's World magazine.  Maybe we don't look like we need the sports bras reserved for serious runners.  But we are runners.

Below are my sister's reflections on this subject.  Please check out more of her writing at http://revisionsblog.blogspot.com/

And I'd love to hear your response to this topic too...

If you had to guess a sport I play, you’d probably pick basketball. And you’d be right. Sort of.

At 5’11” and with a wide build, I was trained in high school to use my body to block out and get the rebound. I wasn’t the fast, agile center.

But that’s all guess work, based on common assumptions about athletes and their build. You wouldn’t guess that running is my thing.

A few months ago, I was discussing some knee inflammation with a doctor. This has been a chronic, mysterious symptom, one I suspect is related to an auto-immune disease I was diagnosed with a few years ago. My doctor — a large, athletic middle-eastern man with broad shoulders and a strong handshake — didn’t inspect my knee. Instead he encouraged biking or swimming for a cardio workout. “People built like you and me, we aren’t meant to be runners.”

We both knew what he meant — he didn’t need to explain further. He was referring to tall, broad folks with some meat on their bones. Runners, the assumption goes, are small, thin, all muscle and bone. Narrow hips and natural athleticism don’t hurt.

The thing is, I love running. I don’t pretend to think I’ll ever be competitive. I probably won’t ever run in the Boston marathon (you need to qualify for it). My fastest mile split to date is somewhere around 8.5 minutes, which really isn’t fast by most standards.

But there’s just something about it. It’s the joy of being outside. It’s getting up the hill. It’s racing the sun as it rises in the morning, or chasing it when it goes down. It’s exploring your city from a whole new perspective and discovering streets and alleys and vistas you might never have seen if you hadn’t been running through it.           

So that’s why, when my doctor suggested running wasn’t for me, hot tears threatened my eyes and I had to look down to blink them away. After the hurt had passed (the hurt from his insensitive comment and all that had been implied by messages I’d received before this one), I smiled a little to myself. I remembered how so often people’s comments mirror their own disappointment and have little to say about me. And I renewed my commitment to give my desire to run — and enjoy it —precedence over whatever my build might say about me. Or what sport I should play.

Too Much Information

I love the spring.  The first signs of warmth coax people out of their homes and into the streets.  The city is alive with the sounds of happy children, reunited neighbors, and ice cream trucks.  Our weeping cherry tree is in her peak - her pink blossoms brightening our spirits.

But the spring also reminds me that flip flop season is right around the corner.

I love to wear flip flops when I'm all alone.  But I can't bring myself to wear flip flops in public, at least not without some careful planning.  My feet are not out for display; I try to keep them hidden from view.  I don't want others to see the affect of years of running (and perhaps other factors) on my feet.  If you can think of any unpleasant foot condition, I likely have it.  I noticed the first of the problems around 13 years ago.  The foot issues have grown, sure and steady, more numerous and more complicated, since my first discovery.  And growing right along-side these issues is the shame that I've experienced as a result.

So I cover up.  I hide.  And this makes the affliction worse - it likes the dark and damp that results from all of the masking that's going on.  I avoid thinking about it, treating it, or asking others for help.  I don't want to acknowledge that I'm not well, even though it's (literally) painfully obvious.  Sometimes, when I don't treat the earlier problem, I get something called an id reaction.  This is an itchy and painful, eczema-like rash that appears on my hands as a secondary reaction to the initial, untreated condition.

I wonder how often this situation mirrors my everyday life.  I'm in need of help and healing in one area, but because I'm too ashamed or busy, I don't pursue treatment, and so the sickness presents itself in all kinds of other places and in all kinds of other ways.  So perhaps my latest diatribe against my husband or children isn't always about my most recent frustration; it's really a symptom of something else, but presenting itself in a new way.  This is a good thing - yes?  A reminder to reengage, to reflect, to ask what is wrong and do the patient work of getting well.

Today, my sore hands are a reminder that I need to take care of my feet.  And my bitter words are a reminder that I need to take care of my heart.

I am not afraid. I was born to do this.

I wrote the following in response to an invitation on Kara Goucher's blog.  Let me know if you submit a story too - I'd love to hear it!


For me, running has been like a roadway on my journey out of fear.  It is the path that leads me further from the faulty behaviors and thoughts that have defined me and toward new opportunities and challenges and relationships.

Out of a perceived failure, my relationship with running was birthed.  It was my junior year of high school, and I needed to find a new spring sport.  I was tired of going to softball practice and trying my best, only to sit on the bench for the majority of every game.  My confidence in my athletic ability, and really my confidence in general, was pretty low.  I felt that I did not have any useful skills to contribute to a team.  In my search for another chance, a new opportunity, I decided to try track and field.  After all, there had to be something, some event, where I would be successful.  And there were no try-outs or cuts on the track team.

The first few weeks were really awful, and my first few races miserable failures.  I'm not quite sure why I kept at it, aside from a decision that I had made to not use my running performance, or my seeming lack of ability, to define me.  Somehow, at some point that first season, something clicked.  And I wanted to keep running.  This was a pivotal time for me.  I was growing in endurance and courage.  I was starting to like myself, maybe more for the fact that I faced a primary life fear - the fear that no matter how hard I try, I'm not good enough - and came out on the other side, than for my improvement as a runner.

Well, I've certainly had my ups and downs with running since then - opportunities to run at the Division I level in college and age group victories at road races, along with struggles with anemia and injuries and lack of motivation.  But running continues to be the pathway that God has used to help me to face my fears.  Over the past year, opportunities to run a marathon to bring running water to people in Kenya and to coach a team of elementary school-aged girls with all of their elementary school-aged issues and insecurities have forced me to take a good, long look in the mirror, the reflection revealing the lingering fears - that I'm not capable of educating or informing others, that I'm not really an advocate for those who have no voice, that I'm not interesting or fun.  I'm so grateful for second (and third and fourth) chances, for the  freedom to keep trying.  The sticking with it even when it feels yucky is what brings healing - and hope.  If I have a bad practice with the girls, if they tell me they don't want to run with me, I'm going to keep loving them, and running with them.  I'm going to be OK even if I don't have their love and respect in return for mine. 

All of this has taught me that my lack shouldn't keep me from trying things; just because I wasn't gifted with as much natural ability as other runners doesn't mean that I should quit running my race.  There are definitely days when I don't feel born to run, just like I don't feel born to do lots of other things that I obviously was born to do (like motherhood, but I'll save that subject for another time).  But in keeping at it, I know that I'm growing.  I'm more than growing, I'm really living.  I am not afraid.  I was born to do this.

Joan's Gift

I've been friends with "Joan" for more than eight years.  I first met her during a time of excitement and transition for me (and for her too); she moved into the apartment that I shared with my sister and another friend just weeks before I got married.  Right from the start, she was a blessing to me.  I remember her helping to set up our wedding reception room and jumping in to help with some of the logistical challenges of our wedding day.

Our friendship grew out of those early acts of service as well as a common desire to grow to know God better.  Over the years, she's also been our housemate, babysitter, and my accountability partner.  I trust her with my deepest secrets; she is a true friend.  So of course I was eager to meet her sister, who was in town visiting from California last week.  Plans were made to meet her sister along with a couple of Joan's current housemates at our local farmer's market for lunch.

As we arrived at market and sought to track down our friends, I pulled out my shopping list.  I don't usually carry much cash, and I knew that we may need to skimp a little when purchasing lunch; otherwise, I wouldn't have enough for the groceries that I needed.  I was distracted with this financial challenge when I found our friends.  After we made plans for a meeting place and I left to find lunch, Joan's housemate stopped me and handed me some money.  He explained that Joan wanted to pay for each of our lunches.  My first response was to refuse the money.  I asked why she would want to do that for us.  It was so unexpected and seemed so unnecessary.  "Because Joan is Joan," was his reply.

Perhaps some background information would be helpful here.  Admittedly, I've always been a stingy person.  As I was sharing this story with some friends from church, we joked about how the emphasis on simple living among Mennonites sometimes has this affect.  Raising two kids on a single income has made this character trait more pronounced.  I've been seeing how a lot of my decisions revolve around money and how not to spend any.

So Joan's act may have seemed like a small gesture, but its impact on me was great.  I ended the mental gymnastics of how to buy $30 worth of food with $20 and the agonizing over the impact of each purchase.  I bought everything on my shopping list.  I bought lunch.  And I even bought a couple of cookies as a special treat.  I felt free, like a burden had lifted.

Joan's generosity is like God's generosity.  None of us really has what we need; we all come up short.  We can spend lots of time making plans for how we can get eternal life, for how we can be good enough.  But it won't work.  We can't make $20 into $30.  We will never have what we need without a gift from someone else.  But God, being God, stepped in and gave us Jesus.  I spend a lot of time questioning God, wondering why He allows bad things to happen, worrying that He is stingy.  But He's truly generous, extravagant, lavish.  He loves us.  He gave us His Son.   We are free to live - really live - not a life where we focus on our lack and how to account for it - not a life where there is never enough.  But instead, a life where our true needs are taken care of.

Running = Punishment (?)

Remember the Jack Daniels talk that I mentioned in my last post?  One thing that he mentioned in his talk, as a side note, really, is that in the US, running is viewed as punishment.  He took a little time to elaborate, pointing out how cross country is a sport often chosen by the weakest girls - those who have tried other sports and were unsuccessful.  (If I remember correctly, he was trying to explain why the high school athletes most prone to injury are female cross country runners - the result of a combination of a strenuous sport and a weak body).

I've returned to this statement several times in the past week.  I can relate to the story Coach Daniels told about girls choosing to run cross country.  My beginnings as a runner came during my junior year of high school.  I played softball in the spring for several years, but wasn't given many opportunities to play because I really wasn't very good.  Softball required some coordination, and coordination definitely isn't one of my strengths.  And neither was confidence.  When I was up to bat, or standing in the outfield, positioning myself to catch a fly ball, I really didn't believe that I could make the hit or the catch.  Anyway, I figured that I would try track and field.  After all, anyone can find some track or field event where they can excel, right?  Well, I was pretty weak, and it did take me a very long time before I saw much success with running.  Maybe, subconsciously, I did see this as a fitting punishment for me, as one who was unsuccessful at other sports.

My first response to Coach Daniels' statement was to disagree and to think of all of the reasons that I love to run.  But as I've spent some more time analyzing my running - my motivation, my habits - I've started to wonder if what he said is actually true for me too.

I think back over the past week, and it's been really heavy.  I've had all of the typical commitments with my family, and housework, and volunteer activities.  And night meetings and work and phone calls.  But on top of that, I've heard about or been involved in several situations that were discouraging - reading about environmental and health impacts to a community where my friend's parents live, learning more about natural gas drilling in PA, listening to several friends talk about recent struggles, visiting my 90-year-old and bedridden neighbor, watching an older family member struggle with her health, seeing some negative interactions on a team of girls that I help to coach.

Yesterday, I went out for a long run, and I pushed myself.  Hard.  I haven't run at that pace for that distance in months.

Is running how I work out this heaviness and pain?  Is running punishment - am I punishing myself for feeling badly that I can't stop all of these hard things from happening?

As I was reflecting on some of these things during my run yesterday, I came upon a bright spot.  It was one of the girls from the team that I help to coach - the one that's been experiencing some negativity - bounding down the street, the brightness of her smile and laugh matching that of the sun, which shone on us, driving away the dark.  Maybe I do use running as some strange form of punishment sometimes, but the good that's come from my running definitely outshines any bad.