Rebekah Speaks

"It was about 3:30 in the afternoon. They had given me some scopalamine and I was sort of crazy. I started petting Dad's coat, thinking him to be a leopard. Then, outside my window were window cleaners. 'Please close the blinds. I can't give birth with those men out there.' Then, you came and I cried." That was my mom relating her birthing experience. The baby? Me. That was 54 years ago today. Now, I cry...or at least, sniffle. Caleb at about 6 years old My house is empty. Out oldest Caleb, moved out last week. He has a nice one bedroom apartment in town, outfitted with expendable furniture pieces from around the house. He's happy. He's content. He appears to be making fiscally responsible decisions. And, he even seems to have learned to make his bed, hang up his towel and wash his dishes, activities not practiced with much regularity before this. I am happy for him, so any tears are not really out of sadness. But, I'm not sure they are te

Sometimes, I love quiet. No television. No radio. No iPods blaring or Blackberries ringing. Just wonderful, blissful quiet. Maybe it's a generational thing, but I just don't get why people want to be exposed to noise all the time. As I looked around at the track meet last week, I marveled at how many athletes were plugged into an electronic device. Maybe they were listening to just the right song to inspire a great performance. But, no, that must not be it because they were still listening when they were lounging around between events. Maybe they were getting in the zone for the next round. And yet, even when they were sleeping on the bus, they were tuned in. To what? Lullabies? I do have an iPod--or rather, did. It went MIA somewhere along the line. Once in a while, I would shove those ear buds in my ears if I had a long road run coming or was midway on a lengthy flight. I even took it to the mountains with me a few times. But, really, I didn't care for it much. I li

I felt like a runner; smooth, swift, and efficient. With eyes turned down, I glided along the wide shoulder of highway 460. This was a familiar route and one often run. Delighted with this rare freedom to run strong, I looked up long enough to see a car parked off to the side on a long gravel drive. A women, sharply dressed and eyes shaded by fashionable sunglasses, opened the door and got out. I saw her reach up to attach a stuffed pink teddy bear to a road sign, or so I thought. A bit odd, I mused. I wondered what she was doing. I could not have imagined. As I approached, I noticed that it was a Valentine's bear, holding a little stuffed heart. But instead of putting it up, she was taking it down and moving it to a nearby telephone pole. "Are you waiting for someone special to come home?" I asked, smiling. What a wonderful, thoughtful mom to welcome home a son or a daughter in such a unique way. I stopped to wait for her happy answer. "Oh, no," the woman

Good or bad, we all have intentions. Sometimes our intentions are good. We desire--intend--to clean out that closet, make a wonderful dinner, run a bunch of miles, cut out sweets or fat in our diet, spend more time with family, or any one of a bazillion other things. But, alas, the best of intentions don't always equate to a "done" check mark on our to-do list. Then, there are those times when we intend to do something that's not so good. I can remember coming home late from a date. This guy was not a church-going, conservative, clean cut kind of guy. I was in high school. He was not. I'm not sure why I was even allowed to go in the first place. Perhaps my parents understood that a refusal might just drive their daughter into his arms instead of theirs. Anyway, the clock was ticking and tocked itself right past the hour I was to be home. It wasn't by much but I was late. So, I intentionally set my watch back five or ten minutes, figuring I could use an err

Yesterday I headed out the door for a run. It was cold. Very cold. To make matters worse, the winds were strong enough to blow me into the next county. But I needed miles. As I turned west, the full force of the gale hit me head on. My steps slowed and took on a dream-like quality. No, make that a nightmare. You know the kind. You try to run, to escape, to get away. Your arms pump and legs flail but sadly, you go nowhere fast. In fact, it all seems like slow-mo. That's the way I felt. Any desire to continue the fight against the ferocious wind was blown down the road. I was frustrated. Instead of feeling fit and fabulous, I trudged along hating every step. I was winded (no pun intended), my legs felt like water-logged stumps, and worst of all, I felt old and over the hill. When my route finally made a ninety-degree turn, it got a little better. With all that was within me, I interjected all-out running efforts similar in length to what I would soon ask my track runners to do. P

I always get excited when my running creates an obvious platform to advance the Kingdom of God. Such is the case now. Though it's a bit of a long story, I'll give you the shortened version. Jenny Anderson and I will be partnering with Hands of Compassion International (http://hoci.net) to take a group of high school athletes (mostly runners) to Costa Rica. We will be training our hearts, minds, and bodies for His service. We plan on having our own training session each day but will be serving the missionaries and kids by working in a sports camp. Of course, CR is a huge soccer country so it's a good thing that many of my runners are also soccer players. But from the looks of it, there are plenty of goofy camp activities that require little skill; just a sense of adventure. I am praying for a great group of kids. Interest is high, I am glad to report. A mission trip is such a great experience to put priorities in order and create an urgency to share the Gospel freely. Of

The mountainside, blanketed in white and tree boughs bending under the weight of the snow, was a beautiful site. Pristine and shimmering in the sunlight, the forest seemed content and serene. No blustery winds or below zero temperatures. Just a quiet stillness, a blissful rest before the rush of spring blooms and new birth. No visitors had come to this neck of the woods. No footprints interrupted the smooth and cold snowy surface. The mountain was alone in all it's resplendent, magnificent glory. Alone, that is, until Liz and I arrived.  In the journey up that long, steep slope, we felt like intruders, interrupting a private respite. But still, we trudged on, a necessity if we were to arrive back at our waiting cars a dozen miles hence. Though breathing was labored and progress difficult, it was glorious to look up the trail and see nothing but snow. Feelings of accomplishment welled up at the thought that no other human had made the effort to come to this mountain. In that momen