Rebekah's Reality

From one arena to another

2012-02-05T20:37:00.000-05:00

I’m in the middle of preparations for a big teaching day.The topic is peri-operative blood management and a room full of medicalprofessionals will be the audience. Even with a quarter century of clinicalexperience, lecturing for eight hours is nothing I should attempt on the fly.Hence, hours have been logged with my nose back in the books and myfingertips doing gymnastics across my PowerPoint slides.

The texts, charts, figures, diagrams and pictures all remindme of days gone by. Phone calls in the night, harried drives to the hospital,changing into scrubs quicker than Superman can burst out of his phone booth. Iremember the adrenaline rush of assessing the situation and responding withoutmissing a beat. I can still feel my own quickened pulse as I ripped intosterile packaging, tossing it over my shoulder and out of the way as I readiedthe complex life-saving equipment. I strained to catch the report given as oneservice passed off the patient to those of us in the operating suite. And yet,as helter skelter as it may have seemed at times, each person in the roomworked in concert, brilliantly orchestrating the saving of another life—or atleast giving the patient another chance at a bettered quality of life.

I no longer live those medical dramas much more worthy thana scene from Grey’s Anatomy. Gone isthe beeper, the on-call weekends, the routine and the emergent case. There is nograteful surgeon. There is no feeling of camaraderie, each medical professionalcontributing his piece of expertise. No patient’s family comes forward to thankme for my service. I carry a longing for those things once more. It’s abeautiful thing to help save or improve a life. Little can top that.

But, wait. Perhaps I have just traded the surgical arena foranother. My sporting arena includes a team who comes together every day torehearse their skills. Most days are routine. You need routine to prepare youfor the challenges. Some days take more effort. Team members haveto pick up a flailing athlete, make up for his weakness with their strengths,and nurse him back to health. It can be difficult. But come race day, they areready to perform in perfect harmony.

I’d like to think my role as a coach has something to dowith the strength and efficiency of the team. Now I get to play the role of surgeon;the captain of the ship, the one who oversees, the one who decides what, when,and where. It is my responsibility (and privilege) to assure the team trainswell and functions better. It’s my job to see that each person contributes hisspecial qualities to the whole. And when trouble comes, it’s my duty to leadus, the team, to a successful solution.

Bouncing along on a lengthy bus ride with my team, itoccurred to me that I’m still involved with saving lives—or at least helping tomake them better. Stronger athletes, faster runners, yes. But my work helps developmature individuals, young people who are focused and channel dedication anddevotion. And when you see a kid embrace his God-given talents and shine likeCirrius in the night sky, well, little can top that.

Just one more day: Days 30-36

2012-02-05T18:46:00.000-05:00

Day 30 – January 30, 2012

It was a busy day in the office but it was a beautiful dayoutside. I gladly abandoned the keyboard for some country roads. It was a goodrun with the last two miles tackled with hard effort. It was good to get therun in since I had to play the role of “keeper of the stopwatch” at practice.

Total – 6 road miles

Day 31 – January 31, 2012

Another day in the high 60’s, sun shining, birds singing. Itwas perfect—except that I felt like a bloated toad and torqued my leg again inthe first five minutes. This long-term injury is killing me! Anyway, giventhat, I was glad my kids ran off on various trails. I walked, limped, andgimped along for about five miles. The redeeming value was finding a newly cut trail.

Total – 5 trail miles

Day 32 – February 1, 2012

I just can’t get over these spring-like conditions. Thewoods were calling and the prospect of a running a recently cut trail could notbe ignored. Besides, I was having the kids do a speedy track workout today thatwould do my leg no good. So off I went to explore, having to pick up the pace (noeasy task) in order to make it back to practice on time. The trail is beautifuland will be our team destination tomorrow.

Total – 7.5 trails and road

Day 33 – February 2, 2012

The kids loved the new trail, “Burnt Biscuit” just as muchas I thought they would. “Apple Flappel” was a hit as well. I am so fortunateto have such a wonderful, playful group of kids who love the woods as much asme.

Total – 5.1 trail miles

Day 34 – February 3, 2012

This was a busy day with travel to a weekend track meet. Myonly opportunity to run was as soon as we arrived at the track and had a lullbefore the competition began. It wasn’t much but at least it was something.

Total – 3.5 road miles

Day 35 – February 4, 2012

It seems odd that traveling with a track team would make itdifficult to run. But, long hours at the meet meant that I needed to get in anearly morning run if it was going to happen at all. Running the concretesidewalks of a city is a great reminder of how much I love my country roads andtrails.

Total – 4.5 road miles

Day 36 – February 5, 2012

I exhausted. Not so much from miles run because mileage wasmoderate at best this week. I’m exhausted because travel with teenagers, latenights, and long bus rides take their tool. But to keep my little streak alive,I had to venture out into a cold drizzle for a few miles on country roads. Thedream lives on.

Total – 4 road miles
(Year-to date miles: 195.1)

Just one more day: Days 23-29

2012-01-29T19:47:00.002-05:00

Day 23 – January 23, 2012

Another very wet and chilly day. Nothing like temps in thelow 30’s and liquid falling from the sky. But running with my distance kidsmade it an adventure and quite pleasant.

Total – 8 road miles (primarily)

Day 24 – January 24, 2012

I warned my team that this week was all about mileage andbase. With no meet this weekend and after building to this point, they wereready to run more miles than they consider “normal.” Several groups formed andwe hit the woods. The majority of the kids put in 8-10 miles; Trey ran 13. What a wonderful way to spend an unseasonablywarm day on those trails.

Total – 9.2 trail miles

Day 25 – January 25, 2012

We were graced with another beautiful, warm winter day. Hardsurface and gravel roads along with a little grass running was on the docketfor today. Steady but comfortable runs with speed pickups in the middle gave us6.2 more miles. I sense the kids are embracing the challenge of the miles andtheir bodies are handling it quite well. I find it curious that my long-timeknee problem seems to be getting a little better with the mileage increase.And, though I am still slow compared to my top runners, I am feeling stronger.Oh what a feeling…

Day 26 – January 26, 2012

The good. The bad. The ugly.

The good? Another warm day to run in the woods with the bestkids in the world. (They sometimes bring snacks. Who wouldn't love them?)

The bad? I just didn’t have it today. It seemed so hard.

The ugly? The back of my knee started hurting again. Justreceived professional opinion from a friend who is a PT: Hamstring insertionissue with scar tissue. Sounds reasonable, I guess.

Total: 5.1 trail miles

Day 27 – January 27, 2012

It was unbelievable to have another January day with tempsin the 60s; a perfect day for a run in the woods with my team to finish out aweek with more mileage than they are accustomed.. It was a combination ofquick-paced downhills on gravel roads, meandering steps on single track, andsustained uphill runs. Even with a gusty wind, it was a great Friday afternoon.

Total – 6.5 miles trail/gravel road

Day 28 – January 28, 2012

Well, I considered a 20-mile run. But when I saw a floorneeding vacuumed, a pond pump crying out for attention, and a sidewalk that hadgone way too long from its last encounter with an edger, I got distracted.Then, we got a call that Gary’s dadhad been taken emergently to the hospital again. We had to wait to hear if weneeded to speed to his side. After that, one of our sons and friends came toshot clay birds. It sounded like a war zone around here. What did this do to my run? Reduce me to a lousy four miles.It was not only meager miles but I felt horrible. No pep. No energy. So,perhaps it’s just as well.

Total – 4.0 miles road

Day 29 – January 29, 2012

Church. Clean-up duty after church-wide lunch. Get home.Butcher and process three deer. Clean up the mess. Put pizza in the oven. Graba headlight and reflective vest. Run into a cold, starry night. Run back. Feel glorious and revived. Eatpizza. That’s my story and I’m stick’n to it.

Total: 1.5 road miles

Sun pillars

2012-01-27T10:48:00.000-05:00

Photograph by: Rauber

They call it a sun pillar and it was spectacular, magnificent, even. Only a blind person would not have noticed. Heading west along 460 toward my home, there it was in all it's fleeting glory. I couldn't remember seeing anything like this before. I temporarily lost sight of it when I turned off the highway but stopped at the edge of my drive to soak it in as it rose from the horizon, sandwiched by a row of trees. The view was perfect. The light streaming upward seemed to be reaching into the outskirts of heaven. It was as though the jeweled beam was pointing the way to the very heart of God.

Later that evening I found out that "a sun pillar is a vertical shaft of light extending upward or downwardfrom the sun. Typically seen during sunrise or sunset, sun pillars form when sunlight reflects off the surfacesof falling ice crystals associated withthin, high-level clouds (likecirrostratus clouds). The hexagonal plate-like ice crystalsfall with a horizontal orientation, gently rocking from side to side as they fall.

When the sun is low on the horizon,an area of brightness appears in the sky above (or below) the sun as sunlight is reflected offthe surfaces of these tipped ice crystals."

For me, experiencing the sun pillar was better than any rainbow. It turned my eyes to the sky and my heart toward God. I cried out to him. Could I trust him with those I love? Could he, would he, draw them to himself? Is his grace so irresistible that they can deny him only so long?

I glimpsed something of God's power and might. I viscerally felt his love, care, and compassion. I was reminded that I can believe. I can trust. Thank you, Father.

Just one more day: Days 16-22

2012-01-22T18:58:00.001-05:00

Day 16 – January 16, 2012

A funny thing happened on the way to. . .

1) practice. The kids showed up at 10 am (no school). Too bad no one told me the head coachchanged practice from the afternoon to the morning. Oops.

2) my daily miles. It went from having great feeling legsdespite the 17 miles yesterday to wishing I hadn’t eaten a peach/pineapplesalsa for a late pizza to an emergency pit stop between a hay bale and aspreading cedar tree. I thought I was hidden. Guess not. A neighbor’s carscreeched to a halt to get a better look. Double opps and so embarrassing.

Total – 6 road miles

Day 17 - January 17, 2012

It was one of those days when I had to act like a coachinstead of run the majority of the workout. I managed the 12-station, 45 seceach circuit training and the mile warm-up. But when they took the track foreither a 1600, 800, 1600, 800 or a descending ladder of 2000, 1600, 1200, and800 at a hard pace, I took to the stop watch. They felt accomplished. I feltlike a wus.

My son Seth and friend KT came for dinner and once theyleft, the road was calling me. With headlight and reflective vest donned, Istepped into the night. Oops. Wind and rain. Oh well, it wasn’t cold so off Iwent. It was actually fun. Only one car swerved at the sight of a runner on alonely road. The time was short but the mile and a half- priceless.

Total – 2.5 road miles

Day 18 - January 18, 2012

This was a great day to romp through the woods with my team.It turned out to be a girl thing. The key was to run aggressively on theirchoice of gravel roads going down the mountain. Of course, what goes down hasto go up. Fun time!

Total – About 6 miles

Day 19 – January 19, 2012

We called it “O’dark 30.” It was our team’s code word for adark run in the woods. Many had never been in the woods at night let alone run.But they embraced the idea and punctuated the event by wearing crazy loud kneesocks with their tights. They were excited! As dusk descended, we started downthe mountain. Headlights turned on one-by-one to show the way. It was constantchatter and a few screams as teammates hid behind trees only to scare thebezeebers out of those at the end of the line. About a half a mile from our endpoint, we gathered and turned off all the lights. I wanted to prove they didn’tneed them. Though hesitant to believe me, they continued hiking up the mountainsans lights—and love it! At the top we gathered in a circle and took some timeto pray together as a team. “Can we do this every Friday, Coach?” I guess theyliked it!

Total: 5.5 miles in the dark

Day 20 – January 20, 2012

Help replace a water heater and fix a garage door opener.Clean and organize a garage. Scrub and organize a terribly neglected kitchen. ..and all the cupboards, stove, fridge, cupboards. Grocery shop and cook a meal.Serve the meal. Freeze left-overs for carefree future dinners. This is whathappens when a weakened Grandpa comes home from the hospital and needs help.Exhausting but necessary- and sort of fun, actually. When I finally stepped outto run 9:15 pm, it was cold andraining. When I returned, I felt warm and pleased. A short run? Yes. But a run?Yep!

Total – 3 miles road

Day 21 – January 21, 2012

Another day of bleaching, decontaminating, organizing, andcooking at my father-in-law’s house—after I cleaned out front flower beds in asteady rain. 86 year-old guys don’t seem particularly interested (or capable)of keeping a clean house. This time, I got supper in the oven in time foranother soggy, cold rain. It’s funny. I actually looked forward to theconditions. It was oddly amusing to see motorists make incredulous faces at meas they passed. It was as if they were saying, “You is crazy, woman!” I likedthat.

Total – 6.5 road miles

Day 22 – January 22, 2012

It was not raining today. Yeah. Cold and damp but no rain.But after a four hour trip home from work-a-whirl couple of days at Gary’sdad’s place, I wished to curl up in a ball and nap. I didn’t. Rather, on wentthe running clothes so that I could register a short run: I figured my minimumstandard of a single mile would do. But with legs feeling good, I added a fewmore miles to the short jaunt. Glad I did. It hardly makes sense to sweat forjust a mile.

Total – 4 road miles.

Pressure cooker explosion

2012-01-19T10:46:00.000-05:00

We've all heard the stories. A pressure cooker, filled with a pot roast and vegetables, merrily whistles it's tune as the contents near a perfect degree of tenderness. Then, without warning, the pot malfunctions by blowing it's top, sending scalding steam, potatoes and carrots to new heights--ceiling heights. It's not a pretty sight. What went wrong? Everything seemed just fine before the kitchen turned into war zone only Mr. Clean would dare attempt to clean up.

Well, let me put your minds at ease. There was not an explosion in my kitchen. But I am feeling somewhat like that pressure cooker. A few days ago I had confidence the locking lid was A-OK. But now, I feel steam escaping through the safety valve and wonder if the seal will hold.

For someone who doesn't have a 9-5 job, I am amazed at how busy I am. I have over one hundred on-line high school students, another twenty-five on-line perfusion students and I coach everyday. Then, there's that book I am working on and the occasional home project. Research and plans for a raised bed garden are in the works as well.

Not bad, huh? No kids at home to argue with over homework or curfew. But recently, things seem to be piling up. Speaking engagements that I've prayed for are coming at me like driving snow into a windshield; four in the next two weeks alone. A publishing contract arrived in my inbox that requires a big decision. A phone interview with a literary agent is scheduled; long anticipated but intimidating. My father-in-law has just been diagnosed with cancer and is in the hospital. Everything has changed for this once energetic and independent man. The prognosis for this 86-year old man is not yet realized. Weekend trips for us are becoming the norm, especially now that he is scheduled to be released to his home four hours from us. But the trips make it impossible for me to fulfill my duties as a coach. I know family comes first but still. . . Then, one son is still seeking much needed employment and another may move home while he embarks on building his own "tiny" home. That prospect excites me but the logistical details of even storing his stuff clutters my thoughts. A nice consulting job has landed in my lap but it will require about twenty hours in preparation. And time is short.

I know all the pat answers. Trust God. Don't worry. So true. But how do I do that?

The familiar Matthew 6:25-31 passage comes to mind. "“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? 'And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’"

Comforting? Yes. The necessary action and perspective to be able to do that? Verse 35 tells us. "But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well."

OK. So let me get this straight. If I seek God and righteousness I will never have another concern. Hum. Not exactly. God doesn't promise us trouble-free living. Trouble is what builds character. However, God promises to take care of our needs.

But I read "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." Uh-oh.

So let's be practical. I pray. I trust. I do what pleases God. And then I make a list.

Yep. A list. I find I deal better with many obligations when I have a list and a schedule. It helps me see in black and white what needs to be accomplished. It helps me prioritize responsibilities. It helps me plan my day. And when see all of this clearly, I am much less prone to allow the steam to blow the lid right off the pot.

Just one more day: Days 9 - 15

2012-01-15T20:02:00.002-05:00

Day 9 – January 9, 2012

There’s nothing like a cold rain to make you want to curl upwith a good book and forget about running. But I had practice with the kids andthere was work to be done. The purpose was a decent recovery run since somewere still a little tired from racing two days prior. Off we went for a campustour and came back nearly seven miles later a little wetter and muddier.Puddles are just too much fun.

Total – 6.8 miles road

Day 10 – January 10, 2012

It was more pleasant today but the last thing I wanted to dowas make the kids do speed work on the track. But since speed is what weneeded, we did a 1.5 warm-up to the intramural soccer fields and from there,divided into three teams. A variety of races (think suicides the length ofsoccer fields) had us all breathing hard. Then it was on to “train” runs (lastperson in line surges to the front) and our favorite 4-corner workout where wejog the outside of the square and do hard pick-ups across the diagonals. Then,it was back to the school. With a lot of laughter along with the sweat, it wasmuch better than repeat 200s on the track.

I did find out, however, that my 7-month knee annoyancereally does not like to run fast or backwards. Ouch. My team suffered with megimping along.

Total – 5.5 miles

Day 11 – January 11, 2012

The weather forecaster promised heavy rain and cold tempslate in the afternoon. I figured if I was going to let the kids off the hook, Iwould need to run before practice. Starting off in drizzle and finishing in a38 degree downpour, I got in a few miles. At practice we did 3 sets of our12-stage circuit (30 sec all out effort) and rested the legs from track androad runs.

Total – 4 road miles

Day 12 – January 12, 2012

The weather was the yummy crème filling between two not-sogood cookies. The cold rain yesterday and the predicted cold gusts for tomorrowspurned me on to check out a new trail before practice. I never found it butran a couple trail miles followed by several easy miles with my toprunners. All-in-all, a pretty laid back day.

Total – 5.3 trail/road miles

Day 13 – January 13, 2012

The forecasters were right. It is 25 degrees colder thanyesterday with 40 mph winds. I have to admit it. I didn’t want to take a singlestep outside only to get blown into the next country. So I was a big wimp. I puton my cloths and ran around our fields and blow-down strewn trails, somewhatprotected from the wind. It was actually pleasant when the late afternoon sunwarmed my face.

Then is was off to be with my 1600m runners at the huge LUInvite. It was good to get in warm-up/cooldown miles with Abby, Jamie and Trey. Congrats to Abby who PRed and ran away withher heat in 5:44.

Total – 5.5 miles trails/field/road

Day 14 – January 14, 2012

Before watching hours of track competition, I decided to getin a few miles of trail in the crisp, cold morning. But this was not a normalrun. I wanted to try my hand at running with hiking sticks, preparing for fourteendays on the AT this summer. It will take some getting used to but I was pleasedwith the help they provided on steep uphills. Now if I can just keep from tripping myself with those things!

Miles – 5.5 trail

Day 15 – January 15, 2012

Whether a run is strong and fast or slow and problematic, arun that gets you to the end is still a good day.

I joined about 35 other runners to tackle a loop at Holiday Lake. I had a few issues withsomething weird in my foot and a few trips to the woods. Still, there wereperiods that I ran well. Sure, I wasn’t very fast but I stayed out there and amglad I did.

Total – About 17 trail miles

Day 8

2012-01-08T16:58:00.000-05:00

January 8, 2012

Ever combine business with pleasure? That's exactly what I did today.

The stacked up pile of recycling and garbage could be ignored no long. Off to the dump I went. But just a mile down the road from the dump is the Bedford Country Falling Creek Park. I knew there was a disc golf course there. I had no idea the elaborate system of ten miles of running and biking trails within it's borders. To me, it was like finding hidden treasure.

I explored for a good long while. The trails were a mix of groomed single track, mowed, wide paths through fields, and rocky and twisty trails through the woods. Apparently, an individual who loves mountain biking maintains them. I will certainly have to return to explore the trails I didn't run.

Miles - About 5.5 trail miles

NOTE: I am writing about my quest for a year-long running streak primarily to keep myself motivated. I kind of doubt anyone really cares if I run one mile or a hundred. Hence, I will simply post my running journal once a week. So, if you have any interest in my progress, check on either Saturday or Sunday to review the week's progress.

Day 7

2012-01-07T22:29:00.000-05:00

January 7, 2012

Ruuning was the last thing I wanted to do. I spent 13 hours working the finish line at an indoor track meet. Standing the whole time, no breaks, no sitting, no food save a few pieces of fruit I had thought to add to my bag, made my back and legs ache. When the final runner crossed the line, we picked up trash and wrapped things up. I wanted to go home and eat. I'm so glad I deferred that action.

I changed into my running clothes and stepped into the night. It was unseasonably mild and pleasant. I ran only 25 minutes but felt oddly smooth and efficient. The cares of the day vanished, allowing me to finally arrive at home content. Week one is now complete.

Total: 3 road miles

Day 6

2012-01-06T22:51:00.000-05:00

January 6, 2012

Life got in the way today. What was supposed to be an afternoon free to hit the trails, an unexpected sub assignment, preparation for the big track meet tomorrow, and a social commitment tonight interrupted my plans. My run turned out to be short and not that sweet. But maybe it's a good thing. My legs felt tired and energy levels were low. Now just trying to figure out when I will run tomorrow since I will be at the track at 8 AM and lucky if I get home by 9:30 PM. At least something is better than nothing.

Total: 3.5 road miles

Day 5

2012-01-05T21:37:00.000-05:00

January 5, 2012

Just days from a big meet, I knew I would have to actually act like a coach and time the track workout. So, I took to the roads early in the day and got in six windy miles. Once at practice, I ran the group mile+ warmup before watching the kids bravely tackle three sets of a 400m at 9/10 effort, 45 second rest, and following with all all-out 200m. (The focus was on pushing the lactate and anaerobic thresholds and boost their finishing kick.) I have to admit I was thankful time splits rather than push the envelope.

Total miles : 7 road

Day 4

2012-01-04T19:26:00.000-05:00

January 4, 2012

One of the best things about coaching is being able to run with the kids. With a moderately hard workout on Monday and a very challenging track workout yesterday, we were all ready for some time in the woods. We are fortunate to have 30-40 miles of trails at our fingertips. The run was to be an easy aerobic run with focus on just enjoying the outdoors. And they did-assuming giggling, singing girls are any indication. Not sure the guys vocalized so much but I sure enjoyed the time out there.

5.9 trail miles - easy effort

Day 3

2012-01-03T19:43:00.000-05:00

January 3, 2012

With an indoor track meet looming this weekend, it was my job to give the kids a workout to help them succeed. I was glad for an indoor practice (blustery and frigid outside) but knew this one would hurt. (I think it's important that I never ask the kids to do something I am not willing to do.) I arrived at the track early. I sometimes prefer to run the workout and suffer alone. This also frees me up to actually "coach" as the kids tackle the task.

With an emphasis on alternate foot breathing every fifth step, consciously lowering shoulders upon exhale and running in stealth mode (no clunky steps), the workout followed a one mile easy run and ended with another easy mile. Here's how it looked:

- 1 mile warmup- easy
- 6 x 600 m at a perceived effort of 8/10
- Immediate active recovery 200m jog after each 600m followed by the next 600m upon reaching the start line
- 1 mile recovery run

Total miles: 5 miles

Day 2

2012-01-02T21:17:00.001-05:00

Second day not same as the first.

With indoor track practice starting again after the holiday break, my run was the same as the kids' run. The cold wind chilled the bones but not the relentless chatter.

After discussion of an interesting fun fact (every extra pound of body weight means a one second slowdown per mile), we headed out the door. It was to be a conversational 2-2.5 mile warm-up with the return trip run as a tempo. It was so good to see everyone again and be treated to the first (but short-lived) snowfall at the end of our run.

There's nothing like a tempo run with high school kids to remind me of how slow I have become. Most run away from me. Ugh. I hope the increase in my running volume will eventually move the needle on the scale from the turtle side toward the rabbit side. I can only hope.

Distance: 4.5 (2.25 at tempo)

Day 1

2012-01-01T21:06:00.001-05:00

January 1, 2012

It wasn’t much but it was something. Good thing somethingwas enough.

I have never been a streak runner. That’s not to say I haven’tbeen impressed, even amazed, by long-term running. I’ve always been a believerin rest days—and have needed them. But some time in the last twenty-four hours,I have this strange urge to take it on.

On this first day of the year, I occupied myself withcleaning, purging and organizing while I kept one eye on the TV. “Radio” wason, an inspiring true story about James Robert Kennedy, a developmentallychallenged young man. The caring football coach of Hanna High took Radio, as hewas known given his passion for radios, under his wing. Perhaps it wasmetamorphosis, compassion, the pure joy of sport, the honest pursuit of purposeand perseverance that made me consider this task.

I’ve been asked about my running goals for 2012. I’veconsidered many things but none seemed quite right. Hence, I’ve had no answer.Until now.

I’m in dire need of purpose. I yearn for something to keepme honest and moving in the right direction. My rule will be at least a mile aday. No excuses. No regrets.

Will the world become new if I remain true? Hardly. In fact,few will care. But I care. I care to commit once again because I know it’s goodfor me. In 2008, I decided to journey my devotional thoughts every day of 2008.The reality became the hardest thing I have ever done. But it was also the mostrewarding in terms of maturity, spiritual insight, and appreciation of eachday’s gifts, challenges and difficulties.

I suspect there will be major obstacles in my quest. I willbe tired, there will be a cold, driving rain, I might be sick or injured, it couldbe scorching hot. But I also know I will have time to think, contemplate, pray.I know sometimes I will want to go blank. I know I will feel better in the end.I will feel accomplished. Even if I run a mere mile, I will have run. I willhave won.

So, it started this afternoon. Having run long in themountains on a hurting knee yesterday, my run was a piddley mile and a halfright as it was starting to blow and rain. In this Leap Year, I have only 365days to go.

Run silent. Run deep. Run long. Run strong. . .One day at a time.

Stay tuned for daily blog postings.

Simple and lightweight candelabra

2012-01-01T17:03:00.003-05:00

Needing to add a little flair over my large 4x8 dining room table and not wanting to spend a lot of money, I knew I had to be creative. Off to the craft store I went, armed with an open mind, a 40% off coupon, and few preconceived notions. What I ended up with is a simple piece that repeats the rectangular shape of the table, table runner, and various frames around the room.

I found a 2" thick, 36"-inch long and 12"- wide piece of craft foam. It was regularly about $14 but my coupon chopped the price by 40%. I also found a box of 16 plain glass votive candle holders for $8.99. Sold. I grabbed some black duck tape along with the fabulous (and unexpected) leopard-print. I knew I had picture wire and ribbon at home and an assortment of washers and miscellaneous hardware. A few dollar store good-looking plastic ornaments and electrical tape finished off the project. The entire project came in around $25.00

Step 1: Gather materials. Measure an interior rectangle with a border of 4". (Note- I did not use the Tacky Glue or the wooden dowels caps.)

Step 2: Use a kitchen knife to cut out the rectangle. Even though the foam is fairly rigid, be careful when you are removing the middle section.

Step 3: Decide on the placement of the votive candle. Trace around each one. Use a spoon to scoop out each hole for the votive candle holders. Make each hole about 3/4" inch deep and then use a votive pressed into each hole to create an even, level base.

Step 4: (Sorry. No picture.) Use an awl (or anything skinny such as a knitting needle) to make a hole in each of the corners for the wire. Thread picture wire from the top through the tunnel you just made. Twist the wire onto a washer and then seat it into the foam. (The washer keeps the wire from pulling through) Take the loose end and do the same in the adjacent corner. Adjust the length according to your need. Repeat at the other end of the foam board. Be sure the finished lengths are equal.

Step 5 (Optional): I chose to spray paint the foam board thinking the duck tape would stick better. I'm not sure if this is necessary.

Step 6: Wrap the foam in black duck tape (or any color you like). Edge the foam board with the contrasting duck tape, in this case the leopard print.

Step 7: Hang the foam by connecting the two wires with ribbon (or more wire, if desired). Even though the entire piece is very light (probably less than 4 pounds), use a toggle-style ceiling hook if you go through drywall.

Step 8: Embellish the piece with ornaments. Wrap electrical tape around the top of the votives

The special guest

2011-12-31T18:45:00.000-05:00

It had not happened since, well, I can't remember when. My three brothers, wives and kids all converged on our Mother's condo this week, celebrating a belated Christmas and early New Year. We could smell the dinner she prepared as soon as we got off the elevator, reminiscent of days walking through the kitchen door at our childhood home. The aroma foreshadowed great things to come, erasing the taxing seven-hour drive through heavy rain.

The condo, a comfortable two-bedroom, one-and-a-half bath on the fourth floor began to bulge as fifteen people filed in. The normally quiet abode was anything but. Voices rang out in greeting, laughter swelled, plates clattered, and glasses clinked when filled with ice water. Mother's table, brought from her home of fifty years, grew for the occasion with the extra leaves inserted. Still, a card table provided additional spots. The four male cousins needed no convincing to claim that precious piece of real estate.

When all was prepared, Mother gathered us together as we joined hands to make a large but lopsided circle. I noticed a familiar twitch in her nose. I knew what that meant. We both do it prior to breaking out in tears. Her eyes briefly studied the face of each family member. No longer was she looking at young children and even younger grands. She was looking at a roomful of responsible adults. Who ever thought this day would come so soon?

Thankfully, all fifteen didn't have to sleep wall-to-wall. We were able to spread out to a guest room in the retirement center and a cousin's local home. But by dawn's early light, we came back together to run, discuss, laugh, and, of course, eat. No fights. No bad attitudes. Just family time worthy of a Normal Rockwell painting.

But someone was missing. Dad was called home to heaven before any of his grandkids were even born. His memory, his legacy, however, is not easily forgotten. But this year, it was as though he was there.

My brother, Dan, handed Mother the last gift of the evening, which she painstakingly opened. Perhaps she sensed something special. Dan had commissioned a painting of our father standing in heaven with the Savior. Lining the stairs were roses, a nod to one of his favorite hymns, "Where the Roses Never Fade." Looking upon that canvas, I was overtaken with the thought of his eternity in the presence of the Lord. Wow. What a privilege. What a comfort to be reminded he was in the arms of his heavenly father.

I wasn't the only one who felt it. Each one in that room sat in stunned silence, viewing the painting through misty eyes, each lost in thoughts and memories. It was like he was our special guest that night. "It's because of Dad we're all here," Dan offered.

But I couldn't help but add, if only to myself, "Yes. And it's because of Him," referencing Jesus, "that we'll all be there."

"Thank you, Lord. Thank you!"

A reason to celebrate

2011-12-23T16:34:00.000-05:00

"It's the most wonderful time of the year. . ."

On the way home from a last minute shopping trip, I couldn't help but sing it loud and strong when the song came on the radio. With guests soon to arrive it dawned on me that Christmas was nearly here. There was no more rushing around, no more gifts to buy, no more house to clean. It was time to revel in family and friends and celebrate the birth of the Baby Jesus.

It's easy to get caught up in the season. With chestnuts roasting on an open fire and sleigh bells jingling in the snow (well, maybe not this year with temps in the 50's), warm and fuzzies wash over the soul. Candlelight Christmas Eve services make the world stop spinning in silent reverence. All is well.

And then reality comes knocking. All those pent up emotions slowly leach away. The mail box is filled with bills rather than beautiful cards.The world doesn't seem as bright and the body not so light after all those sweets. Decorations carefully displayed end up packaged away in boxes and stored under the stairs for another twelve months. Why does this happen?

Perhaps it happens because we focus on the babe in the manger. If we see only the swaddling clothes and embrace the musty smell of the straw-filled stable, those images are incapable of holding our attention for very long. But if we see that same scene in the context of the cross, well, that changes everything.

Baby Jesus apart from the cross merely becomes a lovely story. It's when we understand that Jesus was destined to die on that wooden frame that the significance of his birth can be appreciated year-round. There was no other way. The world needed a savior and only the Father had one to give. He chose a path that started in the manger and culminated on Calvary thirty-three years later. But that wasn't the end. The blood of Jesus shed on that cross bridged the gap between God's righteousness and our unholiness.

When we clearly understand the manger in the shadow of the cross, we can have the joy of Christmas through frigid January, windy March, hot and humid July, chilly October days, and back to starry, December nights.

Oh, come let us adore him. . .Christ, our Lord.

The dark side of the Hellgate moon

2011-12-12T12:34:00.002-05:00

12:01 a.m. Full moon rising. Mountains awash in the silver light. Shuffle through leaves. Splash across creeks. The rhythmic cadence of gravel crunching under foot. Thoughts crowd the mind. Other times, no thoughts come to mind. Eat. Drink. Be patient. Have no patience. Make decisions. Pray. Unmake decisions. Slog up the next mountain. Run down the other side. It's relentless forward motion toward a finish line.

I was running my ninth Hellgate 100K sick and tired-literally. Seldom ill, a cold of uncommon proportions left me weak, eyes watering, diminished hearing, and unable to breath through my nose. That, along with general undertraining, did not bode well for another success story at this devilish race.

But I had two non-negotiable jobs. I needed to start and I needed to finish.

It was not going to be easy. My long-time nemesis, sleep, repeatedly beckoned. I first heard her siren call at the long, lonely climb beginning at mile ten. I tried to fight her off taking in the rushing, frothing stream charging down the mountainside. Such power and force in those waters cascading over and around the boulders. I looked at the brilliant moon through bare but silhouetted branches. Enchanting. Yet my greatest desire was to lay down and lose myself in delicious sleep. I dare not yield.

I thought about the runners I coached and the lessons I tried to teach. I knew they were praying for me. I wondered how they ran at the season's first indoor meet earlier in the evening. My mind rehearsed their encouraging words. It was enough to get me up that hill.

I ate, drank, and pulled out every ploy from my eighteen-year bag of ultra-tricks. I talked to myself and answered back. I ran when I needed to run and walked when the incline became too great. For the most part, I was alone. Alone in the dark with my fear and my dreams playing tug-of-war with my spirit.

When the sky lit with the morning's rising sun, I was further back on the course than I had ever been. The aid station had little to offer. Still, they helped me rush through and be on my way. My mind turned into a cluttered mess of times and paces as I desperately calculated my projected arrival at coming check-points. I knew I was ahead of the cut-off but had precious little room to slow down. I had to push.

I had forty-minutes to spare when I left the forty-two mile aid station, taking food from my own drop bag. Nothing looked appealing but I had to take in calories. The workers did all they could to encourage and help. Still, with apologies, the wares on their table were limited. I was beginning to understand the additional challenges of running near the back and without a crew. But at least only three sections stood between me and another finish.

I climbed. I ran. I walked. I ate. I sipped. I was exhausted and impatient. I suffered. My suffering wasn't so much physical. Nothing really hurt and I was able to run. I was just so tired of breathing. So tired of being out there. In my suffering, I made decisions about giving up racing. I no longer enjoyed the "have to" training and the time it takes. I no longer felt the compulsion to "race" but was not completely taken to the idea of merely "finishing." I would train with my up-and-coming ultra wanna-be's. We would have great fun in the woods and then I would watch them carry the torch into a race. I had it all figured out. Done deal.

And then I crossed the finish line. It was another personal worst time. But it was a finish; number 8 and more than any other woman. I did not quit as I did one year. I persevered. It wasn't pretty. But my finisher's award sure is.

Will there be a ninth and then a tenth finish in my future? My trail decision was "no." Eight was a perfectly good, even number. But now, maybe ten really is better.

Hellgate. Here I come--again.

2011-12-06T09:29:00.001-05:00

I have a deep love-hate relationship with Hellgate. It's hellish 66.6 miles (yes, by multiple GPS measurements) bids heavy portions of gloom and doom. The peculiar midnight start, stream crossings in the early miles, huge climbs and sweeping descents, frigid air and wind-swept mountaintops challenges even the most seasoned runner.

But, Hellgate also beckons in her siren voice. "Come to me. Embrace the night, the solitude. See the moon beams dance across open fields. Hear the rustle of fallen leaves. Watch your warm breath meet the night air in a rhythmic release of mist clouds. Stand still, if only for a moment, and listen. Listen to a quiet, sleeping world. Then, be thankful and run on."

I have started each of the eight races. This year will be the nineth. All but once, I have found the finish line. Some years I ran swiftly. I slogged through others. I have more finishes than any other woman. But I still can't predict what will happen this year. I am promised a healthy dose of suffering. I know it will hurt. I'm just not certain how bad it will be.

I have experience on my side. But experience only gets you so far. Last year, I cruised effortlessly through the first thirty-five miles. Then the fun-meter ran out and my lack of long-runs reached out to grab at my ankles in a death-grip. This year, I'm fighting a nagging knee injury from a soccer game back in June. I am popping decongestants to get rid of a newly-acquired cold. The race could go either way for me.

But regardless, I have a job to do. I will report to work at precisely one minute past midnight in the wee hour of Saturday morning. I hope to punch out less than eighteen hours later, job completed.

Stay tuned. Report to follow.

Thankful for faithfulness

2011-11-27T16:07:00.001-05:00

It was the kind of whirl-wind week that could turn a tornado jealous.

I'm not sure how it happened. Well, no. I take that back. It happened because 1) I have this habit of getting "great" ideas or 2) I say "yes" quicker than I say "no."

Following a hectic cross country season and knowing indoor and outdoor track seasons were knocking on the door, I embraced the idea of some down time. That didn't really happen. I failed to add significantly to my manuscript, build up my mulch pile, or get the house in pristine shape. But I did have a lot of fun.

With some left-over points at our time share, the Shindigglers (plus some extras) and I ventured off for a two-night girl's retreat. Chick-flicks, sweet treats, a morning run, outlet shopping, and hot tubs under the stars punctuated our time at the Williamsburg resort. I could have used another day to relax. I was tired.

Back at home on Tuesday, our Thanksgiving guests for the week arrived shortly after my car pulled into the driveway. Thank goodness my sister-in-law brought a crock pot full of chili for supper. Wednesday was filled with shopping and preparing meals for the next couple of days. The house filled with wonderful chatter and tempting aromas. But I was tired.

By Friday morning, the house cleared but I followed the last one out the door. I was taking a group of my runners to a prestigious race in North Carolina. That meant another night away from home and a long day Saturday. The kids ran well and the trip was enjoyable. I was thankful, however, to get home and sit with my husband. I was tired. So tired.

Sunday morning was worship and the afternoon filled with catch-up duties. Then we headed out the door to bid farewell to a retiring elder. I was tired and must have looked the part. Someone commented on it.

Serving our assembly from the time we first met in a member's garage to present, George and Brenda are dear to us. We gathered this last time around the piano, singing favorite hymns, and Psalms, and spiritual songs. The richness of the words and the sweet harmony bound us together. We sang for an hour or so, interspersing memories of our time together. But one song, in particular, said it all. I didn't feel so tired. I felt soothed and blessed.

Great is Thy faithfulness, oh God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee;
Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not;
As Thou hast been, Thou forever wilt be.

Chorus: Great is Thy faithfulness! Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see.
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided;
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!

Summer and winter and springtime and harvest,
Sun, moon, and stars in their courses above
Join with all nature in manifold witness
to Thy great faithfulness, mercy and love.

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow,
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside!

On becoming a substitute runner

2011-11-16T13:02:00.001-05:00

For many weeks, Christy and daughter Emily, an eleven-year old sixth grader, faithfully headed out the door for a run. Emily, fresh off her first season of middle-school cross country, was anxious to take on a half-marathon. Christy, inspired to complete the event as a mother-daughter duo, had also been training. With a short week before the big day, everything was falling into place. Well, almost everything.

Bad, bad bouncy ball mishap

Christy is an assistant elementary school principal. Of course, school-age children go hand-in-hand with school-age fun. And this principal was not to be left sitting on the sidelines. She chose, instead, to sit on a big bouncy ball. After a couple of test bounces, it reared up like a deranged stallion and threw it's rider to the side. Somewhere in the catapulted trajectory, the meniscus in her knee said "no" to flying, leaving her with a gigantic, swollen leg. When four days of rest produced little relief, her doctor evacuated the built-up fluid, deflating the knee as well as her spirits. Christy's race was over before the starting gun sounded.

"Are you going to let her run by herself?" I questioned.

"No. She's so young. I am heartbroken that my injury is keeping Emily from her dream."

"Well, how about I run with her in your place? Do you think she would like that?"

"Yes!" And, so it was. I would be the substitute mom to accompany Emily on her journey along the Dan River.

Before the race begins

The day was picture perfect with sun shining and pleasant temps. The course wound along the banks of the Dan River, offering views of water fowl, the river cascading over dams, and fallen leaves enjoying a journey on the gentle current. Emily seemed to take it all in stride. She was calm at the start but appropriately anxious to be underway.

Off we went, making a short mile and a half journey to the south before retracing our steps to continue to the north. "You okay? Be sure to let me know if we need to back off." When she assured me she was happy, we followed the crowd along the tree-lined path. We even tried our hand at capturing leaves fluttering down from above. All was well.

I took great joy in telling everyone along the way about Emily. "Can you believe she is a sixth-grader and doing so well?" All were amazed and encouraging. As the miles ticked off, I also enjoyed talking with everyone I could. It gave Emily someone else to listen to other than my running mouth.

At each aid station, I suggested what Emily should eat and drink. She readily complied. But when we got to the four mile hilly loop, she told me about developing blisters. A helpful volunteer pulled out some band-aids and we applied them to her foot. There is nothing worse than thinking about aching feet with more miles to run. With the repair completed, we continued on our journey.

With the loop checked off, we had but four miles to the finish. "Emily, on a scale of one to ten, how bad are you hurting?"

"Hum. About a five, I guess" was her response.

Smiling, I said, "Well, good, you have plenty of room to suffer." She grinned but kept running. No complaints. No whining. Just forward motion.

Twice more, I asked her for a number. Seven and seven and a half were the answers. After that, I stopped asking fearing the fun meter was running out. Instead, I said "Em, let's try to keep ahead of the guy behind us and catch that woman up ahead." She gave it all she had.

Emily and Rebekah nearing the finish

We had but a half mile when we crossed the footbridge. "We're almost home! You did it. Be sure to smile for your mom and dad." She did. With Christy's tears hidden behind sunglasses, she watched her daughter cross the line in 2:18, a noteworthy pace of 10:36 per mile. She was happy for Emily's accomplishment, but at the same time, sorrowful she missed the opportunity to sweat along side her.

Thank you, Christy and Emily, for allowing me to share in your day. It was my utmost privilege to be a substitute.

It's all about the cross

2011-11-13T18:30:00.001-05:00

It was the day before the state championship meet. This group of cross-country runners had worked long and hard for nearly four months. The season was punctuated with stellar runs, personal bests, and conference titles. Now it was time to wrap it all up. During this practice, no running workout could assure exceptional performances the next day. But, there was an opportunity to refocus.

The group divided into four teams and raced to form letters and numbers with their bodies. It took team work and analysis to use all team members in the effort. Next, each team formed a "dragon" by holding onto each others' waists. The task was to protect the "tail" from being tagged by another dragon team. Strategy was required to survive the dragon wars.

The entire team was then asked to figure out how to keep a balloon off the ground simply with string. It took forming a circle and tossing the ball of string to teammates across the way. Soon, as the ball of string repeatedly criss-crossed the circle, each person pulling their "piece" taut, a complex, inter-connected web formed. With tension on each line, the balloon was kept in the air with little effort.

It was obvious that working together was critical in the three exercises. But one more activity remained. Each teammate was handed a personalized puzzle piece. They were given no instructions other than to assemble the puzzle. Following initial mayhem, leaders emerged and assembly began. "What shape is it?" they queried.

"Can't say. You'll know soon enough," I answered with a smile. Standing back, I continued to watch and listen. Soon, the entire group shouted when the last piece was arranged in place.

"It's a cross! It's a cross!" And with that, the lesson began.

"Yes. It's all about the cross. All about the cross."

"Look at it, guys. What do you see? Are you drawn to the names or to the cross?" I could see them begin to mull over the truth. "We've talked a lot about being "Team Peculiar" this year. We've challenged one another to make the most of every opportunity to represent Christ in everyday interactions and to see our athletics as expressly given for the glory of God. But listen, we fail as a team if people can't see that wonderful cross when they look at us."

I continued. "Everyone of us has a unique position and purpose in that cross. Our identity is fully embedded in that cross. But, what happens if I take out a piece? There's a hole, isn't there? You're eye is drawn to the 'hole' rather than the 'whole.' That vacancy detracts from the cross's glory. Can we begin to understand how important it is to embrace each and every one of our positions in that wonderful, magnificent cross?"

"As we go to the state meet tomorrow, what will other teams see? Will they see individuals running for themselves? Will they see swagger or less-than-best efforts? Or, will they see actions and attitudes that point squarely to the cross of Jesus Christ?"

With that, the team bowed in prayer to seek guidance and offer thanksgiving. Truly, it is all about the cross.

LCA Cross Country team gets great press

2011-11-10T09:07:00.001-05:00

On November 10, 2011, Lynchburg, Virginia's News and Advance newspaper published an article about the Liberty Christian Academy Cross Country program. It is a fitting tribute to my kids who have worked so hard throughout the year. Check it out here.

Team Time

2011-11-10T08:54:00.001-05:00

The NewCovenant Schools soccer team gathered moments prior to the Division II titlegame at the National Association of Christian Athletes tournament in Dayton, TN. The coach handed his captain a piece ofpaper. “Josh, would you please read this to the team? Drew (a former player)sent us a message.”

The first NCS Championship Team (Nov 2005)

The teamlistened intently, absorbing every word like a thirsty, dry sponge. “Well, team, it’s the big day: ChampionshipFriday. Word has spread that you guys have put on a great show thus far and,judging from the brackets, you certainly have. The NCS soccer team hasn't beenin this good of a position since this day six years ago, the same day they tookhome the title. I have faith that today your team, or should I say, "ourteam," has a legitimate shot at a Division II title. . . No pressure. I'msure you know you have the backing of your fellow students and faculty but youalso have the backing of your former students and teammates. Just remember thatfor some of you it will be your last shot that many of us former players neverhad. And for you non-seniors, understand you guys are partaking in somethingalmost sanctified in the eyes of many. . . Enjoy it. Today is a very specialday for you. Go out there and play with intensity, leaving it all on the field,knowing that some day you can look back and be proud. . . Finally, play beingmindful of who you're playing for, the name of the school on your jersey, andthe name of your Savior on your heart. . . Break a leg, Gryphons. Beat Chattanooga.Win or lose, I couldn't be more proud of you guys.”

The roomfell silent save sniffles wiped away on shirt sleeves. The message penetrated,the soothing ointment of words seeping into every rusted cranny of the players’souls. The significance of who they were, who they represented, was the oilneeded to ignite the spark. They cried together, prayed together, and went outand won together.

The NCSsoccer team was reminded of their connection to things much bigger thanthemselves. The team was not an island. It was just one more set of waves thatfollowed all the others to the shore. The team was part of a constant tide thatrolled in and out. They, like the team six years prior, simply capitalized on theopportunity to ride a huge swell.

A team mustsee themselves in the big picture or risk becoming self-absorbed. It’s notunlike a believer who understands he does not function apart from the millionsbefore and those coming after him in the body of Christ. Embracing our heritage,we become mindful of who we are and from where we’ve come—and that makes allthe difference in the world.

ForI have always been mindful of your unfailing love and have lived in reliance onyour faithfulness (Psalm 26:3).

The Mountain Masochist in perspective

2011-11-08T19:40:00.002-05:00

Check out this "fly-over" of the Mountain Masochist 50-Mile Race course. No matter how often I have been on the course during the race or in training, this vantage point blows me away. Click to see the MMTR topo image flyover of the entire route . It's no wonder I got tired.

The Journey of the Skirt: Part 2

2011-11-07T09:45:00.000-05:00

The night before the Mountain Masochist 50-Mile Trail Run seemed way too short. I'm pretty sure I didn't sleep at all, though I was snuggled under my comfy covers. Lying there in the darkness, my mind repeatedly reviewed the facts: 1) In the last forty-five days, I had done but three runs of about seventeen miles. 2) Preparation to bag a good race has always included weekly long runs of twenty to thirty miles for months preceding. 3) Running with my cross-country team was great but not well-suited for mountain racing and was low in mileage. 4) I wasn't getting any younger but, most importantly, 5) I was going to sport my new skirt. Who could sleep anticipating that thrill?

My carefully-planned race outfit

The pre-race prep was standard and details boring. I got up, did this, did that, milled around at the start, and started running when the director said "go." With so many miles ahead and woefully low expectations for the quality of my run, the only thing was to settle in and get those despicable road miles out of the way. By the time I hit the first trail, dawn had come and along with it, skirt compliments. "Ah, love the skirt." The day was looking up.

I promised myself to be happy all day--or at least I would try. When I wasn't accepting compliments on how fashion coordinated I was, I made sure to look around at the leaves stubbornly gripping tree branches and the mountain tops above. And, with the sun still en route to it's peak, the dappled light made for interesting shadows. It was pretty, I suppose. But honestly, I was much more interested in checking off aid stations to get further into the race.

I moved steadily along the first twenty-seven miles. But steady wasn't getting me anywhere fast. Few spectators huddled around the aid stations. The crowds of crew had already moved onto the next one in support of their runners. What was left was a handful of faithful followers for those moving at a more pedestrian pace. They were pleasant and encouraging but I noted a stark difference from when I ran as a contender.

In general, I was pleased with the way my legs were holding up. When called into action to run, they didn't rebel--much. But I was baffled on the uphill climbs. In the past, I've zipped right along, as if pulled by a ski tow. Now, it was like everyone but me was holding onto the rope. No matter what I did, nothing got me up those hills any faster. My only recourse was to glance at the hot pink flowers on my skirt and mutter, "It's you and me all the way." I forced myself to relax my face and smile.

It was good to have Caleb, my oldest son, out there helping me for the last half of the race. He never complained about all the hurry up and wait shenanigans. When I saw him for the last time with fourteen miles to go, I suggested he download War and Peace on his Kindle. He was likely to get most of it read before I got to the finish. He drove off and my skirt and I flitted away toward the beginning of the end.

Now, I have to admit, I was having long conversations with my inner self. Though I was getting queasy, nothing was really wrong. I was just slow. I was impatient. I thought about how many people had already finished the race, soaking in the afternoon sun and spectator praises. But not me. While I mixed in trudging uphills with running downs, I decided I was through with ultras. After seventeen years of competition, I no longer enjoyed solo training. I despised the time it took away from my growing list of other interests. I even decided to give up on the wicked Hellgate 100K in five weeks. I would let go of my status as the female with the most finishes. But then, someone would ruin my quitting plans and compliment my skirt.

"Great skirt. My girlfriend would love that one. She refuses to wear anything but. Where did you get it?" And with that, things seemed to get a little better. I can't say I liked being out there at that point. My burning desire was to cross the line and go home. (And if I could puke before that, it was an added bonus.) I was dizzy from not being able to eat or drink and really didn't care if I was passed in the last mile. I was tired of running. All I cared about was finishing my fourteenth Masochist so that I could earn my fifteen year jacket next year. Though I crossed the line with a new PW (personal worst), my skirt made the journey just fine.

You should see the outfit I'm planning for Hellgate.

The Journey of the Skirt: Part 1

2011-11-04T10:00:00.000-04:00

Author in a boring black skirt. (Photo by Seth Trittipoe)

I've experienced this kind of day sixteen times before. It's the day before the big race: the Mountain Masochist 50-Mile Run. I can think of nothing else all day long. I think about being so cold right before the start. I think about the more-than-advertised 5.7 miles of repetitious road (before hitting the first trail) and how much I hate that section. I think of how other runners, no matter how good shape I'm in, blow by me on the first climb toward Peavine Mountain. I think about marching uphill and consoling myself by saying "It's so early in the race. They'll pay later for running now." I try to imagine each section of the race. I focus on how I might feel, what my strategy should be, and my pace at the end. I pack my bag with everything I think I might need during and after the race. Then, I unpack it to reanalyze before stuffing it all back in and zipping it closed. I know sleep will be scant tonight as thoughts, hope, and fear play tag inside my brain.

Long ago, I floated through the pre-race activities as a front-runner favorite. People expected a good performance and in the early years, I delivered. It was fun but not without pressure. I was always glad when it was over. Then came the troubled years when I struggled with an undiagnosed malady. Twice, I dropped out mid-race as a result. With that behind me, now I run the races without the training base I am used to. You might as well flip a coin to predict the outcome.

So, with the quality and final disposition of my race up in the air, I really have but one thing to focus on: my running outfit. Yep. It all comes down to that. I spent a good part of the day yesterday trying on different combinations of tights, tops, and the newest running skirts to come off my sewing machine. My considerations are these: 1) Don't dress too warm 2) Be able to take off and put on 3) Retain easy access for on-the-go peeing 4) And most of all, make sure socks, skirt, and top match at all times.

Yeah. I've reduced myself to a meandering older woman who now runs races mostly in the interest of fashion. I do not race races. I am more realistic about what my body can and will do (though I get frustrated with others in their fifties who are able to maintain). But alas, I am no longer a primed and ready competitor. But, what I have left is a smile on my face and a bold floral print on my skirt.

I'll let you know all about my skirt's journey when the race is over.

Champions

2011-11-02T10:21:00.000-04:00

With the warm afternoon sun shimmering off the leaves still hanging golden, red, and yellow, no one wished the race had been run Saturday. A conference championship in frigid conditions and several inches of wet snow would not have been ideal. We were grateful the postponement gave us near perfect conditions on the first day of November.

We trained hard for this day. Fast intervals on the track, miles of trails, and up and over mountains prepared the kids for this tough, hilly course. The conference meet is always hard-fought and we expected nothing different this year.

The men's gun sounded first. Trey, my consistent number one runner, ran with a specific plan. Only one of these opponents had beaten him before. But that prior defeat was just what my runner needed. The loss had festered for some time, every workout focused on righting the wrong. His plan was to be patient until halfway up a mile-long climb. If his nemesis was close, Trey was going to pull away in a definitive surge. He intended to break this other runner despite it being his home course. Cresting that hill, he would fly down the other side before tackling another uphill to the finish. The plan worked perfectly. Trey claimed the championship by a substantial margin. Teammate, Ike, crossed the line in fifth place and, along with Trey, earned all-conference honors. The men's team placed second in a strong field of eleven. It was a great start to a great day.

The women's race was an epic battle. Though the course was novel, we studied it beforehand and trained specifically for the terrain. War raged early as a tight pack of four of my runners and an opponent lead the way. Close behind, another pack of red-uniformed runners from another school ran in hot pursuit. They rounded the bend and ran out of view to fight their way up the mountain and back again. When they returned, a red-uniformed runner lead the way. But it wasn't the red of our uniforms. Abby, my runner, trailed by fifty yards across a flat. But a steep gravel hill in the last half-mile started to break the leader. You could see it in her face; the pain, the strain. She clutched her side and fought back tears. Abby dug deep and gained ground. Toward the top of the hill, our eyes locked. She was within ten yards of the struggling runner. "Abby. This is your day. I know you can chase her down. Go! Go!" Her eyes turned back and locked onto her prey. Abby was the hungry lioness chasing down the tiring gazelle.

With that, I raced off cutting the corner to the finish line. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Abby take the lead on the final grassy ascent to the finish. She held her position for those two-hundred yards, placing her name in the record books as the 2011 conference champion. But there was another race behind her.

Rebecca was at her breaking point. Her race plan was an aggressive one that I fully supported. I knew there was a chance she would blow up. Nevertheless, I was confident she could handle the physical and mental stress. When she came across the line, she was pale, legs wobbling and no longer trust-worthy. It was all she could do to emerge from the finish shoot on her own power. Then, down she went. She had raced herself right into the abyss, a frightening place few runners dare go. Recovery was long and difficult but she was rewarded with the fifth place all-conference honor. Behind her, sister Carolyn captured eight place and Jami, tenth, to round out the all-conference team. Their efforts earned them the team conference championship.

Well done, Liberty Christian Academy. Well done.

The meaning of life. By Faith Bogdan

2011-10-26T13:02:00.000-04:00

As promised, the meaning of life....

The meaning (essence) of life is relationship. Everything is in relationship--from subatomic particles to parts of a cell to numbers to stars and galaxies. It takes things being in proper relationship to make for harmony--on a micro and macro level.

Humans are also in relationship with each other, of course. Only it's no longer so proper, as it used to be. We were once so transparent we could walk around unclothed with total abandon. There was complete trust--no head games. We really--really--knew how to love each other.

Then some little devil sold us a lie that we could do this own our own, be our own god, master the art of relationship without the instruction of the ultimate Artist. And we've been frantically hiding behind fig leaves ever since.

Now it's all about covering for ourselves. Protecting the great Me, hiding behind masks, building walls for the preservation of the vast empire of Self.

It was better in the garden of Others, being ruled by the One who turned our faces upward and our arms outward from day one. He knew that was the only way we'd be happy.

But no, we told ourselves. We know how to be others-centered on our own.

How's that working out for us?

Patient, He is. He came to show us how, once again. He allowed himself to be stripped of all the fig leaves we tried so desperately to cover him with, laid bare to reveal a heart willing to die to bring us back into proper relationship. With Him, and with each other.

Some dare follow.

Written (and used with permission) by my good friend and fellow-writer, Faith Bogdan. You will be wise to visit her blog and enjoy her practical insights. http://www.faithbogdan.com

Getting the granny-gear in motion

2011-10-21T10:40:00.000-04:00

There I was, standing in front of my cross-country team. "Ok, gang. Today's practice is all about sustained hill running. The conference meet has a steady climb between miles one and two. We need to practice that."

I explained the workout. Just getting up to our beloved trails from the school was a chore. Even the name gives it away: Chandler's Mountain Road. As of late, I do well to make it to the trail head of a rugged and rooted path without walking. But this time, the plan was to stay on the road and continue up the steep incline to the ski lodge. I honestly thought there was little chance for me to make it walk-free. But I would try. Try hard. Guess what? I made it and started to smile.

Next, it was a mile run on gravel road, some of it uphill as well. Another victory for me. Then, our task was to run down, down, down the Valley View dirt road to the very bottom before turning about-face. With just one rise in the middle, it was fun letting gravity pull us down the mountain. But of course, what goes down must go up. The plan was to run the mile and a half climb without any walk breaks. Could I do it?

"I think I can. I think I can." Just like the Little Engine that could, I shuffled up the mountain, my "granny gear" engaged. I wasn't going fast but I was going. The closer I got to the top, the more excited I got. I had never done that before. Yahoo! I felt like shouting.

I ran the mile of gravel road back to the ski lodge with a couple of my girls. We took in the picture-perfect views of other mountains across the way. Not even the steep rise at the end reduced me to a walk. Then, it was a free-fall down the mountain and back to the school. I barely felt my feet touch the ground. It was effortless.

On a crystal-clear, crisp fall day when the sky was blue and the leaves golden, red, and orange, there was nothing more delightful.

Pushing PRs

2011-10-16T21:37:00.000-04:00

Leaves drifted down from balding branches. The sky, so blue, sent the breeze that captured those leaves in topsy-turvy currents. The late afternoon sun, a keen nod to the Indian summers I remember as a kid, stirred something inside me. I wanted nothing more than to run, jump, and play in the woods. And so I did, with my cross country runners by my side. We laughed and joked as we made our way along the forest paths that would be host to over two thousand pair of feet racing along come morning. This was the prelude to the MileStat Invitational near Richmond, VA. We came intending to run strong and had prepared well. But nothing in my long athletic career could have astounded me more.

Our day started when the varsity girls took the line. Only three made the trip, the other girls falling to injuries and the call of the PSAT test. The gun sounded, sending the trio running toward their destiny. By the time they crossed the finish line of the 5K course, each of them ran straight into the record books. Abby posted a time twenty-four seconds faster than ever before and collected a medal for a top-twenty finish. Close behind, Rebecca and Jami erased more than a minute from their prior bests. And that was only the start of a beautiful day.

The varsity guys set a blistering pace despite a tightly packed herd of 174 runners. Trey, my top runner, methodically weaved his way through the crowd, straining for the finish. He was the sixth man across the line, besting his time by a second. But not far behind, his teammates wrote their personal histories one by one. Ike stopped the clock fifteen seconds up. William, with a finishing kick kin to rocket boosters, paced himself past other contenders in the last meters, claiming a personal record (PR) of nine seconds. Then came Regan, a senior who longed to break the allusive twenty minute mark. No longer illusive, he buried his PR to 19:17, a 1:14 improvement over his previous best. Elisha surprised everyone with a 1:07 PR followed by D'Nard's impressive fifty-four second PR. On Dnard's shoulder was Ryan, racing to a twenty-four second record.

But the day was not done. Hannah and Kate had yet to race the JV 5K. Both in eighth grade, they pursued girls three to five years their senior. Off they went, racing across the field, around the bends, and into the wooded loop. Faster and faster they ran. Hannah's PR was 55 seconds, Kate's an incredible 1:29.

How is it that an even dozen runners all show up on the same day and run with the wind? I've never seen anything like it. They prepared. They focused. They did what some wrote on their hands: P.U.S.H. Pray until something happens.

Yep. Something happened.

Work in progress: "Best Season Yet: 12 Weeks To Train"

2011-10-13T14:19:00.000-04:00

Want a sneak peak at my work in progress, a book for coaches and athletes alike?

It’s the first practice. Your back against the cold, dentedsteel locker, you take your spot on the floor, waiting. A posse of otherhopefuls surrounds you. A tense excitement is palpable. Or maybe you’re thecoach, and you feel that same electricity. “What will the season bring?” you ponder.“How will these kids perform? How can I lead them and help them find theirpotential?” Inhaling deeply, you scan the faces and begin.

There is nothing like a new athleticseason, full of promise for both coach and athlete. Goals are set, commitmentsmade. But as the season progresses, it’s all too easy to lose focus in thefray. Best Season Yet: 12 Weeks to Train is a bookthat guides the coach and team to embrace their God-given talents, discover apurpose beyond winning and losing, and spur each other to that place where fearand dreams collide. For a dozen weeks, the entire team will visit themes suchas commitment, submission, goal setting, pain and suffering, and pursuingexcellence. It offers an opportunity to discuss and journal practical ways toset the principles in motion. The format of five easy-to-read stories is idealfor use in a Monday through Friday school setting. Best Season Yet is aresource for the coach, team member, or individual athlete who desires to experiencean exceptional season.

Best Season Yet: 12 Weeks to Train is designed to beused by coaches and athletes throughout a twelve-week training period, typicalfor many high school, college, and community-based athletic seasons. The sport?It doesn’t really matter. There is application to the runner, the footballplayer, hoopster, gymnast, swimmer—or any other kind of sport. It is equally helpfulfor the individual athlete or team player.

A theme is assigned to each week-long period. Because thisbook is well-suited for a Monday-through-Friday school week, each weeklydivision features five stories to buttress the theme. Though the order of eachweek relates to the natural progression of an athlete through a season, thereis nothing sacred about the ordering. Each group of five, theme-related storiescan be pulled out and used to best fit a particular need.

The twelve weekly themes:

Commitment : True commitment is the cornerstoneof every successful venture. The first week lays the foundation for beingcommitted and the responsibilities, ramifications, and rewards of thatdecision. Both ancient and current real-world examples demonstrate that commitmentis not for the timid or weak. Rather, commitment requires attention to thetask, regardless of what it is. Divided loyalties undermine commitments, but asharp, conscious commitment can make the difference between reward and regret.

Submission:“Submission? You mean subjectmyself to another, obey, and do what I’m told? I’m not a Marine or in the army.Is this really necessary?” The simple answer is “yes.” We tend not to relatesubmission to athletics but submission is the first step (after commitment) tothe Best Season Yet. It’s vital to understand chain of command andaccept our position. Only when we learn to submit to God, coaches, parents, andteammates are we freed to excel.

Motivation and goal setting: Many an athlete, fueled by excitementat season’s start, finds himself sputtering in complacency just a few weeks in.Running out of fuel is often the result of lack of focus and clear objectivesmore than lack of talent. Together, we learn to prioritize, set realistic yetchallenging goals, and chart a course to accomplish them.

When fear and dreams collide: “I have a dream…” Sure, we allhave dreams. But, how many times has that dream turned into a bloody nightmare?Sometimes we fail to achieve our goals because we become paralyzed by fear: fearof the unknown, fear of failure, fear of the commitment it takes to achieve thedream. This fourth week of life lessons asks the reader to define those fearsand put them into proper perspective. She will read real-life stories and seethe beauty in that moment when fear and dreams collide, exploding into gloriousvictory.

Pain and suffering: There are few things so sure asthe inevitable pain and suffering in the life of an athlete. Injuries andexhaustion cloud an athlete’s judgment and often extinguish even thepossibility of achieving the goals set early in the season. Discouragementabounds when the season seems headed to an early demise. And yet, pain andsuffering—both physical and mental—can be the catalyst for breakthroughperformances and renewed focus.

Perseverance: By mid-season, nearly everyathlete feels like he stepped into quicksand and is sinking fast. The pressuresof maintaining academic standards, putting in the miles, surviving relentlessdrills, and keeping frayed nerves from unraveling make the topic ofperseverance crucial. Extreme athletes are some of the best at offering aunique yet realistic perspective on taking just one more step. Their stories,along with those of persevering biblical warriors of old, help the athlete toencourage and renew.

Failure: Don’t you just hate it whencarefully-laid plans fall apart with one wobble on the balance beam or astumble late in a race? Worse yet, you start spending more time sidelined thanout in the fray. Failure, when not properly understood, will undermine anentire season—and possibly a career. But failure can groom the athlete for abrighter, better future. This section inspires with the example of others whorefused to flounder in failure.

Opportunities to serve: We’ve all seen professionalathletes flaunting their fancy cars and mansions. Many appear to be selfish andego-centric. What an opportunity they miss to refocus on the needs of others. Ateam is the perfect venue for service. To recognize and address needs does notcome naturally. Just like perfecting a jump shot or a slap shot, it takespractice to hone this skill of serving another. A team that learns to servewell will score points in the game that really counts: the game of a godlylife.

Go team!: “All for one and one for all.”Really? It’s a phrase we like to throw around but do we truly understand whatthat means in practical ways? How can we realistically support the team andhelp it flourish? How do we build a sense of community, leadership, andcamaraderie among team members, coaches, and interested parties? Learning howto embrace strengths and accommodate and improve on weaknesses is a necessarycomponent of a successful team. Readers learn by example with this look at thecharacteristics of successful teams.

In pursuit of excellence: Transitioning from mediocrity toexcellence is no easy task. But after nine weeks of learning to commit andsubmit, establish goals, serve and persevere, the foundation is set to seekexcellence, not only in our chosen sport, but in life—becoming a complete manor woman of God.

Priorities and balance: The line between commitment andobsession is thin—microscopic, even. Unfortunately, we unwittingly step overthat line by losing focus on what is really important. We get confused when we allow“single-minded focus” to nudge out the rest of life. The result? Exhaustion,frustration, and failure. Learn to establish priorities and maintain anappropriate balance to make your life pleasing to God in every way.

Finishing fitness: Physical, emotional, spiritual: There is nothing so dreaded—and atthe same time, embraced—as the end of an athletic season. We are tired of theroutine, the practice, the competition. We are fed up with the time restraintsof holding together a jam-packed schedule. And yet, we look back and are amazedat our progress and accomplishments. The season’s end, however, is really justa springboard that launches us into yet another Best Season Yet ofgrowth, development, and physical, emotional, and spiritual maturity.

Each daily story employs a similar format:

Title: The title is carefully selected to capture the reader’s attention.
Body: Each story sets the scene with dialogue, real-life examples, or hypothetical scenarios. The stories draw the athlete and coach together as they read, discuss, and contemplate applications to their own situation. Each offering urges the reader to see how God’s truth can be played out through athletics and applied to every day living.
“Team truth”: Each story is based on a scripture passage, which is written out for easy reading.
“Team time”: This is where principle becomes practice. A question is posed that requires contemplation and discussion. Because each person will have his or her own copy of the book, space is given to allow the individual to record a response.

Be sure to join this blog to keep up with the latest news about this project. And stay tuned for publication information!

The radical race-off

2011-10-06T22:00:00.000-04:00

It was better than I could have ever imagined. Two teammates on the track, racing each other round and round. For a dozen laps and then some they battled it out. Each held the lead from time to time. In the end, only one could prevail. But as the watch clicked off the last second and before they could catch their breath, there they were, both hands on the others shoulders, heads bowed, spontaneously praying to God in thanksgiving for the opportunity to run and compete. It was a beautiful thing.

All this came about because I could not make a decision. With a pending meet involving an overnight stay, my roster was confined to a slim seven men and seven women. I poured over the season's result thus far, hoping the names of the chosen few would leap from the page and be written on the wall. Some of the selections were obvious. However, it was the last spot on the men's side that robbed me of sleep for several nights. The two young men were as even as you can get. I looked at every possible marker to no avail. I honestly could not decide who to take.

Ryan Lloyd (blue shirt)

I held a coaches' conference yesterday as we put in some miles at practice. "Why don't you have a run-off?" suggested my assistant. Simple but brilliant. Why didn't I think of that? So it was decided. A 5K race today on the track would decide who needed to pack a suitcase.

Though the boys were informed yesterday, I let the team in on what would happen today. The majority groaned because they knew the gut-wrenching effort it would take, no one wishing they were the ones stepping to the line.

D'Nard Ward in a recent race

As the team started in on their prescribed workout of repeat 1600s, D'Nard, a senior, and Ryan, an enthusiastic sophomore, warmed up their bodies and their competitive spirits. Both were obviously nervous, both anxious to settle the matter. I did not envy them. So it was mixed feelings that I led them as sheep to the slaughter to the start line across the way."I'm proud of both you guys. Race well." I offered.

Just then, Trey, a team captain, stopped his workout to gather them in a circle of three to pray."Dear God, thank you for this beautiful day. I pray that you will help these guys race safely and may the best man win. And help the one who loses to be alright with it. . ." I was blessed by the spontaneity of the petition, offered in the normal course of events and without hesitation.

But now it was time. "Go," I commanded, mashing the start button on my watch. They were off, Ryan taking the early lead. He knew he had to hold D'Nard at bay, not having as strong a kick as the sprinter-turned distance runner. A small crowd watched the race unfold, the lead shifting from time to time. They were both on record pace. As the lap count mounted, D'Nard surged ahead, holding the lead. Ryan never gave up, struggling to maintain contact. But alas, he could not. D'Nard crossed the line in 20:20 with Ryan following at 20:40, a personal best for both.

The aftermath could have been ugly but it was not. Still gasping for precious breath, they shook hands and congratulated one another. D'Nard did not gloat. Ryan did not mope. They met off to the side as a band of brothers, approaching their Father in thanksgiving.Did they settle the matter of who would travel next week? Yes. Yet that decision which was removed from my hands pales in light of the quality of character that we all witnessed. To be sure, I was so proud of their runs. But getting a glimpse into the depth of their souls was priceless. Thank God for such fine young men. Thank God he gave them to me to coach.

Shindiggler Shananigans

2011-10-02T21:40:00.001-04:00

I'm a Shindiggler and proud of it.

Crazy things happen when the car is pointed toward the mountains 1) at dusk, 2) in the cold, 3) loaded with four teenage girls chomping on pizza, and 4) headlights already donned and blinking red in anticipation of the hours ahead. So, somewhere between noting a country club party on the drive out and seeing it still going on in the wee hours on the way back, we became a tiny yet significant society. In that instant, we decided to henceforth be known as The Shindigglers. We are five women strong and much better than the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants: our pants go a lot higher, longer, further, and faster.

The Shindig shenanigans all began with an idea to run three mountain tops in the dark. The idea wasn't novel for a college running class was to seek similar adventure as well. But for two of the young Shindigglets, they had never run further than ten miles, let alone in the dark on mountain trails. It's no wonder their parents were a little apprehensive. Nevertheless and rushing to arrive on time, we were surprised to be the first to drive into the parking lot. We would be equally surprised to be the last to leave. But I rush ahead of myself.

Allow me to introduce the Shindigglers:

Rebecca, Caroline, Sarah, Rebekah, Abby

Sarah the Saintly Superstar: A freshman in college, Sarah is a focused student whose heart is open to God. She comes off a stellar high school running career with her sights set of ultrarunning.

Remarkable Rebecca: High school senior, racing in her first cross country season. Inordinately talented and mature.

Happy Abby: A high school junior and Sarah's sister. She is the cross country lead runner and a capable, effective leader. Ready picture-taker and video-maker.

Caroline the Considerate: Sister to Rebecca. Kind and capable. A strong cross country runner in her first season.

Senior Shindigger: That would be me. Coach and confidant. Friend of shindigglers everywhere.

Now, back to the story. . .

It was to be a clover-leaf run: Up the parkway and over FlatTop Mountain. Return to car. Up over and around Harkening Hill. Return to car. SharpTop Mountain. Return to car. Go home. Sleep. The distance? 17 miles.

Off we ran into the darkness, headlights still in the off position as we made our way up the Blue Ridge Parkway. But once on the rugged trail ascending the first mountain, our lights lit up our path as our chatter filled the air. Three or four of the college runners surged ahead, all others remaining behind us in the darkness. We didn't care. We laughed, talked, and told stories up one mountain and down the next. I felt proud as my little Shindigglings followed me through the trees, over boulders, and down rocky, rooted trails. No complaints. No negative talk. No "How much further" babble. Just one profound discovery: You are always half-way to somewhere.

We were still laughing back at the car, glad to sample snacks and refill water bottles. Then it was off again. The Shindigglers were finding out that what goes up must come down. We liked this loop, climbing to the summit only to run wild on the downhill return to the car.

There were fewer cars this time. We wondered if-and why- the college crowd left without completing the run. But it really didn't matter. We had one more mountain to top. Past nearly-tame deer, we started up the steep incline of Sharptop Mountain. The temperature was dropping and the winds picked up. Some wished they had not left their jackets in the car. But snow flurries silhouetted against the night sky delighted us. Up, up, up. Though our legs began to feel the miles, no amount of scrambling up the steep pitch could thwart our enthusiasm.

Wind howling the closer we got to the top, the temperature was surely in the 30's. Standing upon the highest pinnacle, we shivered not only in the wind but in the excitement of the accomplishment. Lights turned off, it was so worth it. The towns below appeared like those lighted miniature Christmas villages, the brilliant stars above twinkling hope and happiness. We took it all in. But alas, the shivering Shindigglers headed down the mountain.

This time, the descent was on the bus service road, much easier but longer, than the trail we had come up. Signs read "No walking on the roadway." So, we didn't. We ran. . .and ran, and ran. Down, down, down. Now we were anxious to get back to the car. But the unrelenting descent just kept on coming. The lights below never seemed much closer. "Where is the last turn?" we mused aloud, ten feet rapidly pitter-pattering on the pavement. Still no complaints. Finally, we turned off the road and cut down the last bit of trail. Everyone was excited; excited enough to race the last 100 yards. We were alone in the parking lot, celebrating. Hugs, smiles, laughter. Mission accomplished.

The joy never let up on the ride home. Everything was funny. But then again, it was after midnight and we had run for hours. Thoughts turned toward warming showers, hot food, and comfy covers. Watching my fellow Shindigglers devour pizza from atop squeaky kitchen stools, I was proud; proud of what happens when thoughts of normal shift far enough off center to embrace a new "normal." The kind of normal when running through the dark is A-OK.

Rest well, Shindigglings. Well done. Let's do it again.

Refuse to lose

2011-09-30T12:14:00.000-04:00

Excerpt from the coming title: Best Season Yet: 12 Weeks to Train

Itwas a warm spring day in 1976 when David DeLancey stepped onto the tennis courtfor the third set of a college match. DeLancey, highly recruited to play soccerfor Cedarville Collegein 1972, was at that time unknown for his tennis skills. Still, as a walk-on,he immediately won the #1 position on the team. Against all odds, he accrued aperfect record of 91 wins and zero loses. But on this particular day in May, itlooked like his stellar streak was about to be undone.

Hisopponent from Ohio Northern University was proving problematicfor DeLancey with heavy topspin on both his forehand and backhand. They splitthe first two sets. In the third and final set, hope was fading fast when theCedarville player went down five games to nil. Just four points stood between anupset of gigantic proportions.

David DeLancey (2009)

DeLancey,silently suffering his senior year from migraines brought on by the pressure ofhis perfect record, had a plan. There was no time for fear or speculation aboutlosing. No. He had but one objective: make every point count.

Inpeak athletic condition, David’s approach was to follow every serve and servicereturn to the net. The undefeated’s play was furious and unrelenting,unraveling the nerves of his opponent. Ruthless net play turned the set score to 5-1. Focusing only on one point at atime, the score cards flipped to 5-2, then 5-3. Soon, as fans and teammatesalike looked on, they witnessed the amazing comeback. Without a single deucegame, DeLancey handily won seven games straight to win both the set and match.His record remained unsoiled and set the stage to round out his college careerwith an unprecedented 101-0 record.

Whatwas key to his success? Was it his technically correct strokes or his outstandingfitness level? Sure, that was part of it. But his motivation was not to win; itwas his commitment to do whatever it took not to lose. That meant shutting outthe past and future to focus only on the moment.

It all boils downto what happens in a single instant. The centurion’s servant was healed in amoment. Remember the sick woman who strained to touch the hem of Jesus’ robe? “Take heart, daughter,” he said, “your faithhas healed you.” And the woman was healed at that moment (Matthew 9:23). And the greatest moment of all? The instant Christ’s death on the cross madeour salvation possible.

And when Jesus had cried outagain in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top tobottom. (Matthew 27: 50, 51b)

Postscript: David DeLancey is the author's oldest brother, whom she both adores and draws inspiration.

My confession

2011-09-27T12:18:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure I could have expected more. I had not trained with an ultra in mind. So, it's a good thing I didn't run one. I ran a stink'n ten mile road race instead. Too bad I didn't train for that one either.

So, why did I even run? Well, a bunch of my cross country kids signed up and my assistant coach was probably going to be in the top ten overall out of 1000+ runners. How could I not? "Oh, ten miles is such a short race for you," everyone says. Malarkey.

I needed to adjust my attitude before, during, and now after I ran. I was not looking forward to the effort it would take on that hilly course. I don't really like roads. In fact, I really, really don't like roads-especially when so many people are watching. And, anyone who knows I'm an ultrarunner expects me to be able to pull off the race in grand style. Sure, ten miles is nothing. Nothing, that is, unless you are trying to go fast. Then it's just like getting beat by a wet noodle.

I really did try to run smart. I tried to have a good attitude. I tried to enjoy the moment. I tried to keep my heart from exploding through my chest wall. I tried to take in the crowd and the bands that lined the city streets. I tried all this with varying levels of success. It wasn't always horrible. Sometimes it was worse.

I also tried to catch the woman in front of me in my age group. I won the grand master title last year and along with it, a new pair of shoes. I was running in those shoes and needed a new pair. A repeat win would be nice. But silly me watched her stay about 150 yards in front of me. I lost hope in catching her. I felt like a big fluffy wus-ball for not trying harder.

I suppose my time wasn't terrible. I was still in the top 20% of all runners. But I have to admit that I'm not satisfied. I'm disappointed in my bad attitude. I forgot all about the joy of running. I forgot that any run is good compared to not being able to run.

Perhaps next year I'll give some thought to train specifically and run with purpose. I need redemption.

When things go wrong

2011-09-19T10:36:00.001-04:00

It was a great day for racing. With 35 teams from all over the state, the competition was tough. We knew that going in. But we also knew that Trey Fisher was running hot. He had bagged two impressive wins in a row and we couldn't help but work toward another. Trey was primed and ready to enter the fray.

And he did. Starting off toward the back of the top 20, he had some work to do. When the first major hill loomed ahead, he systematically worked his way through the crowd, joining the compact front group of three by the time he topped out. Carefully guarding his line on the tight corners, Trey ran wisely across the flat and surged on the downhill. Soon, he overtook the duo in front and carried the lead through the middle mile. My own heart pounded with excitement as I raced between vantage points on the course to view his form floating across the ground, wind in his hair.

But the second and third runners were not content to trail behind. The battle ensued as they overtook my harrier in the last mile. Still, relentlessly pursuing, every muscle fiber contracted as he fought to close the gap. Down the hill he flew, gravel crunching under his feet. A tight right turn around a tree, limbs brushed aside in the process. He speeds along a fence row. Now a turn to the left. A final 90-degree corner is all that stands between the last 100 meters of turf to the finish line. Running full out, Trey had an impressive 3rd place finish in hand. Or so we thought. . .

I looked up just in time to see my runner turn and head back toward the oncoming runners. I was confused. What happened? A gap in the bright orange tape marking the tight turn fooled Trey into taking an inside line. Facing disqualification, he had no choice but to turn about and proceed on the outside of the flag. The merciless clock continued to tick. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. A runner from behind now inherited Trey's earned spot. Frantically, valiantly, he fought to overtake those in front. He could not. His finish position was 5th.

I patted him on the back, briefly blabbed the standard things that coaches say, and gave him some time to process what had just happened. He had to be disappointed, perhaps even angry. I watched as he continued through the narrow, twisting finish shoot. Smiling, he extended congratulations to those in front. Then he worked his way through the crowd, standing aside with a few family and friends. He made no excuses. He did not stomp or scowl. He did not whine. He did not complain. He simply shook his head and shoulder shrugged before heading off to collect his thoughts and a few cool-down miles.

Arriving back at the school hours later, Trey approached. "Coach, I have something to ask you. Did I handle myself okay today? I didn't want to ruin my testimony."

The answer was easy. "Yes, Trey. You handled yourself just fine."

Well done, Trey. Well done. Your heavenly audience loudly applauds.

Timeout

2011-09-15T09:57:00.000-04:00

A couple of my runners are learning some important life lessons. Lessons about expectation, disappointment, and injury.

Stephen, a freshman new to the school, had been running strong enough to claim a top seven varsity spot. Knee pain he could no longer bear led him to a doctor and his order to cease and desist for three weeks. His training came to a screeching halt.

Morgan, another new freshman, came full of promise. She, too, ran her way onto the varsity squad. But an awkward gait precipitated by some strange anatomy and muscle imbalances has handed her a decree of no running for six weeks.

I feel their pain. I've been there. In the first five years of ultrarunning, I suffered nine metatarsal fractures, medial malleolus and femoral neck fractures, a torn tibial aponeuroses, surgery on both feet and an ankle including seven incisions and eight screws, along with multiple soft tissue injuries. Like a tadpole, into the pool I went, deep water running sometimes for three hours at a time to maintain fitness. After a period of time, I emerged with fresh legs to train like a madman, only to break something else. Back I went into the cold, deep pond of despair. It was an endless, maddening cycle. I wanted so much to be fit, racing fast and strong. But it was not to be. . .at least for a period.

Unfortunately, though we do our best to be smart and avoid injury, sometimes it just becomes our lot. It's frustrating. It's painful in so many ways; physically, emotionally, and sometimes even spiritually. Being a wounded warrior makes us feel less of an athlete, less of a contributor on the team. Sometimes, we even feel that we lose all connection with the team. But despite how we feel, it won't last forever.

It's hard sitting on the sideline watching others train and compete. There are feelings of loneliness and inadequacies. Disappointment. Betrayal by our own bodies. Healing time moves at a slower rate than the hands on a clock face. The wait is excruciating.

But--and this is the tough part--sometimes we need to wait. We wait not in a vacuum but in the healing atmosphere of expectant hope. We put things in perspective. We learn to be content. We understand to make the most of our down time so we are best prepared when we are again off and running. Patience takes on new meaning as we wait. And waiting means that we slow down enough to clearly see needs of others not realized when racing along at full speed.

Sure, a timeout is seldom pleasant or welcomed. But, neither is it the end of the world. Hang on, kiddos. This too shall pass.

How do I know when I'm finished?

2011-09-12T12:43:00.001-04:00

"Coach, coach," he gushed excitedly. It was his first race ever and he had a bazillion questions. Standing near our team's starting box just moments away from the gun, this gangly youngster was a jumbled up mixture of nervous energy and raw enthusiasm. "Coach...Uh, what number am I and how do I know when I'm finished?"

Really? Did I just hear that right? I tried not to laugh but the corners of my mouth betrayed me. Surely, there must be some hidden meaning behind the questions that I just didn't get. But, since I am not a 6th grade boy and have no earthly idea how their minds work, I decided to answer it in the only way I knew.

"Well, your number is pinned to your shirt so don't worry about that." Then, pointing to the fifteen foot tall inflatable finish arch across the way, I continued. "Just keep running until you get to that thing. Look up. It says 'Finish' in big, white letters. When you pass under it, that's when you know when you can stop."

I guess my answer was okay. He sprinted at the flash of the gun, followed the crowded field of runners, dashed down the final straightaway lined with cheering fans, and passed under that big, black and bodacious finish banner. He had figured it out.

Photo by Regan Brooks

I have to admit, I've enjoyed some light-hearted moments thinking about this exchange. But his pondering about finishing may not be as simple as it seems. Sure, a finish arch or tape stretched across a piece of real estate may signal the end of an event. But I find few things in life so clear.

The "end" is seldom really the end. For example, while a final exam marks the end of a course, it also signals the beginning of the next step toward a degree. And though a diploma ends the quest for the degree, it acts as the flash of the starter's pistol marking the start of an adult's life.

I find myself constantly searching for a finish line, gasping for breath and wanting it all to stop. Life gets so hectic, so chaotic, so filled with "gotta do this and gotta do thats." If only the finish line were closer, more attainable, more definable. If only I didn't feel so utterly spent when I got there, exhausted and depleted. I sometimes decry the journey to that allusive line, sweating, hurting, and suffering along the way. I get introspective and miserable, my head hangs low. Woe is me.

I must be a slow learner. I've been in this state before. I know all the wisdom about persevering, relentless forward motion, and "it doesn't always get worse" philosophies. But I still forget along the way. I forget to look up at the next finish line and step across it when I arrive. I forget that the finish line brings with it a chance to catch your breath and replenish. I forget that the pain of the race diminishes as soon as the final step is taken. I forget that the race, the struggle, really tells me that I am alive and well despite how I feel in the moment. I forget that I run for a "Well done" from my Coach.

But back to his race. Just before this kid got to that line, he stopped and looked up. "Run through it, keep going. You aren't finished yet," cried my assistant coach. With a huge smile plastered on his innocent face, my runner plunged ahead as his finish time was recorded. He found the first of many finishes.

Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. (Matthew 25:23)

First XC Meet of the Season

2011-09-05T15:36:00.002-04:00

Coaching can be serious business

It started off well. It ended well. Whew.

The first meet of the year can be scary. Though I carry a full contingent of about four dozen kids, many are new to the sport as well as the team. The grade level ranges from 6th to seniors, adding the extra challenge of keeping workouts and expectations appropriate for the age and talent of each runner. Some of the runners are veterans, focused in their roles as outstanding students and athletes. Others. . .well, there appears to be a social aspect and sense of team that draws them in. And, that's okay.

The Eagle Invitational, held Sept 3 in the hills outside the hamlet of Rocky Mount, Virgina, is a small, yet challenging meet. Hosted by Franklin County High School, which boasts a roster of nearly 65 kids, this school never fails to draw top runners to the line. This year was no different.

Middle Schoolers take to the line

The middle schoolers were sent out on their 3K run. I had but 3 girls and 3 guys in this event held on a holiday weekend. However, despite the novelty of racing for all but one runner, the youth ran with Janaye Wagner, Emma Nash, and Emily Hill taking the 3rd, 6th, and 7th positions, respectively. Andre Deneault, Greyson Wooldridge and Reese Brooks faired well with running into 4th, 5th, and 8th place.


Abby Quigg and Rebecca Roberts

Of course, the strength of a team resides in the depth of the roster. The JV and varsity girls demonstrated the point. Though Franklin County raced a girl who would have taken 5th place in the guys race, the LCA girls offered an unbeatable combination. Abby Quigg, Rebecca and Caroline Roberts, Jamie Maule, and Cassidy Williams swept places 2-6th to grab the title at this quad invite. Though the Roberts sisters and Ms. Williams are in their first season, they added the necessary depth to the squad.

Trey Fisher en route to victory

The men's race was equally impressive. LCA runner, Trey Fisher, is a talented runner with keen intensity. After struggling over the years with over-use injuries, he has been training strong and risen to new levels. Biding his time in the early mile, Trey began to pull away by the second mile, a rigorous climb leading to nearly a mile of single track through the forest. By the time he hit the last half mile, his lead was unquestioned. He posted a 17:40 on a very tough 5K course and claimed the crown. His teammates, new comers William Miller (a track sprint specialist), Ike Podell, and Stephen Hardy took 5th, 9th, and 15th position. Veteran runner and co-captian, senior Regan Brooks took the 14th spot. Together, the men claimed second place as a team.

The fun after the run

Looks like the new kids are the added links to the chain that will anchor the team.

Stay tuned for more race reports of the Liberty Christian Academy Cross Country team. It's sure to be a memorable season.

Team Peculiar

2011-08-29T13:49:00.002-04:00

They were peculiar, all right. Very peculiar. And I loved them that way.

My cross country team had been working hard and this was a chance to get them to loosen up beyond what is done on the floor during warm-ups. Freaky Friday is what we called it. Each kid embraced the challenge of showing up at practice dressed like a looney goon. I had a sight-impaired banana, silly girls with skirts and beads, Bahama Boys looking very, ah...Bahama-ish, teens who clashed, ridiculous hats, dog ears and dreadlocks. Four of the high school girls even made a grand entrance complete with rose petals to lead the lovely bride and groom.

I was actually quite pleased they embraced being different, risking stares and comments from the university crowd through which they passed. They, in essence said, "I don't care what you think." Even when they broke into teams to play our favorite license plate game, they didn't seem to mind. Off they went, running like a bunch of crazies all over Liberty University campus, asking people for signatures and recording as many different plates as possible. Sure, they startled some and possibly scared others. And yet they went, conquered the campus, and returned to brag about it. They were a peculiar lot indeed.

Peculiar? It's not a word we often use. In fact, it's sort of old. The writers of the Old King James version used it in translating Deuteronomy 26. In that context, God's people were called to be "peculiar," a treasured possession who walks in obedience and keeps God's commands.

In that same translation, the word is again used in I Peter 2:9. "But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people;..." The entire chapter tells us that we are God's building stones chosen expressly to be holy, do his work, speak for him night and day, and that we are now fully accepted, though once rejected. That makes us peculiar; distinctive, special, and perhaps just a little bit odd compared to those around us.

"So, kiddos...I want us to be a very peculiar team this year," I told them. "Though we stand out today for being silly, let's make sure we stand out individually and as a team for being holy. Not the contrived, false-sense-of-piety kind of holy. But the kind of holy that shows up in the way we talk, carry ourselves, look people in the eye, and interact with others. The kind of holy that reflects God's character. The kind of holy that says we are the sons and daughters of the Most High.. ."

I wonder, just how long should it take for other teams and those around us to know that we are obedient, holy, and peculiar Believers? If they don't see it, maybe we ought to work on being more peculiar.

How to bowl in a new season

2011-08-22T14:04:00.000-04:00

New glasses. New contacts. New fish. New landscaping. New bed. New dresser. New office. New kids. New coaches. New workouts. New schedule. This seems to be the season of new.

Why, then, does it all seem so old? So overwhelming?

Not sure about you guys out in BloggerLand but I'm feeling a little bit like a warmed-up meal on the fifth go-around: hard, dried-out, flavorless and flat.

Ever wonder why "new" is even possible? Well, I think it's because something was old. Take me, for instance. I needed new glasses and contacts because my eyes aren't what they used to be. The "new" bed and dresser are new in name only. I made the bed out of left-over wood and took a whirling sander and a couple layers of paint to a ragged $2.00 dresser bought at auction. I have new kids on my cross country team because some of my old ones moved on to bigger and better college life. And the "new" team office? The old one was swallowed up in a university remodel project. Our "new" office is a windowless closet given a few adaptations to make it habitable.

No mistake about it; new can be good, very good. New can be embraced just as a long awaited walk on a moonlit beach, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of the sea. But new can overwhelm. Just imagine that same walk on the same beach when a tsumani decides to roll on in. Hardly the place to be.

I have to admit it. New projects, a new team, a new book, new online students, and new curriculum are bowling me over. Just as soon as I think things are under control, frame completed, someone else steps into the lane and rolls that big, rock-hard ball right at my scrawny, puny neck. I cringe, knowing how bad the collision of masses will feel. I want to jump out of the way but alas, pins in this game just have to stand there and take it. I close my eyes and brace for the impact.

Ugh. Hit straight on. I catapult into the air, twirling wildly. Then, crash. I experience gravity pulling me back down to the wooden floor. The landing is brutal. I feel sorry for myself as I lay there on my side. I mope, feeling alienated down to the last splinter of my hardened, wooden soul. But not for long.

The pin picker-upper swoops down from above, pushes me out of the way, and then has the audacity to set me up again, this time front and center. I know what's coming when I see a bowler, dastardly smirk contorting her face, reach toward the ball return. "Noooooooo...." I scream.

I don't like this feeling. So many things to do. So little time. My focus is off. It's like I'm wearing glasses with the wrong lens. But just when I need it, a dear friend writes, "It is not practical to think you can stay focused on everything. It is ok. . .You get back to work. Yes-you are human. Your discouragement comes only from within. Lighten the mental load and let a little bit go."

Ok. I get it. Change my perspective.

I see another ball speeding down the lane. But this time, I look around and see nine other pins standing there with me. "Come on. Hit me. Wheeeeeee," I cry in delight, as the ball glances off my right side. I knock into a buddy who, in turn, knocks over his neighbor. Before long, all ten of us are scattered at the end of the lane. "Haha," I exclaim, laughing and out of breath. "We scored big that time. Come on, Pin-Picker. Stand us up and let's do it again."

Sure. It stings when you get hit... over and over and over again. But accepting the challenge draws others into the fray. It can be fun. It can be rewarding as well as frustrating. Smile. See the big picture. Laugh. Don't get freaked out. Just stay in the game.

Crooked is as crooked does

2011-08-08T10:18:00.001-04:00

Some things are meant to be crooked; a branch on a bonsai tree, a garden maze created by a drunken horticulturalist, or a nose impacted repeatedly with a boxing glove. But a perfectly normal, run-of-the mill arm... I don't think so.

It was all going so well. Running along a rocky ridge line with two of my XC team members, the valley's river below and the peaks we had yet to climb drew us further along the trail. It was new territory for them, some of it very technical and rock strewn. The pace was reasonable for the climbing heat and oppressive humidity. Happy chatter filled the spaces between each footfall. Then, approaching our final turn off the mountain, time slowed as I felt my body hurl through the muggy air. I was horizontal. For a nanosecond, I was Superwoman, outstretched and flying. But then, gravity announced itself.

I quickly descended to meet the ground rising up to me at an alarming rate. Prematurely wincing, I braced for the landing. Ahhhhh. This is gonna hurt. I was right. It did. A lot. My full body weight came down on the extended left arm, my forearm shoved up into my elbow. As my Mother says, "it knocked the stuffin's out of me." Breath was hard to catch and upon sitting, the trees started spinning as my stomach churned. The girls weren't sure what to do. Neither was I.

They pulled me to my feet, me grasping my arm. Now covered in dirt and grime with sweat creating tiny mud rivulets on my leg, I was a mess. My arm loudly protested at the assault but at least no bones poked through. So, off we ran, if somewhat tentatively, toward our awaiting car.

It was only later I realized my anatomy had been significantly rearranged. No amount of trying could push my arm straight or bend it further than 90 degrees. I could not touch my face, bring food to my lips, or reach up to deal with my ratted ponytail. What's a girl to do?

Ice. X-rays. Adaptation. The report said no fracture but my arm is still crooked. Torn ligaments, most likely. So for now, crooked is ok because it will make me appreciate straight all the more.

Real Beauty: Just the Girls

2011-08-03T11:17:00.001-04:00

What started out as a school project, turned into a full blown event. Faith Perry and Aubrianah Shannen, two teenagers from Lynchburg, VA, decided to use their developing photography skills to highlight what makes women beautiful, far beyond flowing locks and picture-perfect complexions. Their blog, http://justthegirlsrealbeauty.blogspot.com/, highlights women of all ages and describes the uniqueness of each one.

Thanks Faith, for photographing me and allowing me to be involved in your project! My profile is the August 3, 2011 post.

Ain't technology grand?

2011-08-03T11:03:00.004-04:00

Like something you see on this blog? Now, it's easier than ever to share it with others. Just click the big, bold buttons to the right to automatically upload to FaceBook or Twitter. It's that simple!

(There are also other buttons directly following each post. More sharing is just a click away!)

Run for the memories

2011-08-02T15:04:00.003-04:00

"Look at that huge cemetery," Dad exclaimed, trying hard to keep the corners of his mouth from upturning. "I wonder how many people are dead in there?" He had hope eternal of coaxing an answer out of one of us kids as we tooled along in our wood-sided station wagon. But before we could utter a word, his glee could not be contained. "All of them!" he blurted as he threw back his head and laughed at his own wit.

Now I stand in front of my father's grave, a polished granite slab where "Only a sinner saved by grace" is etched. Usually I cry when I visit. But on this run though my hometown, I delight in the memory of Dad's cemetery joke told way more than once. But, that was then. This is now. I clean off some bird poo from the top of the stone, softly utter "I love you," and continue along quiet village streets.

The boroughs of Sellersville and Perkasie, PA are connected by a meandering path along the Lake Lenape creek. I run the familiar ground, crossing concrete dams and wooden bridges, passing ball fields and a turtle family of six sunning themselves on a rock.

Up a steep, rutted, and rooty trail, my steps take me to the fence of Menlo pool, my location of choice during childhood summer months. The pool I knew was large and deep, with one and three meter spring boards and a blue fiberglass slide standing tall along one edge.

Now, a new pool filled with crystal clear water awaits the summer crowd. Gone is the high dive. Two low spring broads offer more bounce for the ounce, a large fabric contraption preventing a spinning, out-of-control diver from colliding with the pool's edge. A large tube slide with wide and safe stairs offers more fun. But that's just the competition pool. A gigantic splash park complete with spiraling waterslide and lazy river replaces the small kiddie pool of yesteryear. A late summer membership sale is in progress. That was then. This is now.

I sight-see through "Old Towne." Seltzers store no longer houses the team swimsuits or the required stretch gym suits, striped, one-piece numbers that made us look like a bunch of inmates. Instead, a nail spa. Leshers Five and Dime, with it's squeaky wooden floor boards and two levels of shopping pleasure no longer stands. A fire consumed it and all of its cut-glass butter dishes, mouse traps, and penny-candies. Saturday morning farmer market stands fill the void. That was then. This is now.

Ah. There stands my elementary school on 7th Street. I'm surprised. Though renamed, it looks the same on the outside except for some construction equipment in the parking area where I chased (and caught) all the boys. At the end of one wing, the classroom windows are open. I pop my head into Mr. Hutchison's 6th grade classroom. I spent a year with that wonderful man. Same closets and layout. The sink was being removed and the blackboards have been replaced by whiteboards. It is being renovated. Still, it seemed very familiar--until I ran around the corner. There, a huge two story wing buried our kickball field. That was then. This is now.

The high school. Where did the high school go? Between the "new" school building under construction in 1975 (my graduation year), and the junior high building, now a middle school, "my" high school building has vanished. Gone is the circular choir room and the old gymnasium. Not a single brick of the old school with it's casement windows propped open to allow a cooling breeze remains. A blacktop parking lot reflects only heat waves. That was then. This is now.

It's getting hot and I'm getting tired but there is more to my self-guided tour. I approach Moods covered bridge, built in 1874 to span Perkiomen Creek and destroyed by arson flames in 2004. The replica retains the same form but only northbound traffic can pass under it's heavy wooden beams. I once traveled through the historic span daily in both directions. But, that was then and this is now.

There sits the Dairy Queen, still the only "fast food" in town. The walk-up stand has been there as long as I can remember. "Any mess-ups?" was the common query when we were kids. If you were lucky, the "Dairy Fairies" would make the wrong kind of sundae right before you pedaled up on your 3-speed bike with coaster brakes. Then, it was yours for the taking; free. Nothing is free anymore. That was then. The not-yet-open serving windows is now.

I cut a corner across a parking lot and into a neighborhood. Neither were here back when. Now, instead of acres and acres of woods that my Dad always wished he would have bought, are many homes with now-matured yards. But around the corner I turn, not even recognizing the corner of Hillcrest and South Main. The only home I knew doesn't look so grand anymore. Instead of sitting atop a small hill in the midst of a well-manicured three-acre lot, a new house stands in the place of three giant pine trees in my front yard. The other front corner, full of weeds and mounds of dirt, sits vacant. The builder, who purchased our sub-divided lot, lets a bulldozer rest and rust. The backyard of our house is fenced and the flower beds sad and barren. Only the green painted shutters give a wink to the past. That was then. This is now.

I cannot fling open the back door, savoring the aroma that filled that kitchen. I cannot shoot baskets through a hoop that is no longer bolted to the garage. I cannot climb the weeping willow whose strong branches used to console me. I can only remember the playtimes in that basement, the wild dashes to the school bus, the smell of freshly grass in the summer, and hoping the snow silhouetted against the street light would earn a day off from school in frigid February. I hear laughter and joy and envision my mother, father, brothers and friends within those stucco walls. But, that was then and this is now.

I turn into the retirement community a mile or so away, entering the carpeted, quiet hallways. Up the elevator to the fourth floor and through door 476. It's not the back door; it's the only door. But my Mother is there and it's okay. That was then. This is now.

Thanks for the memories.

In the dark

2011-07-25T00:30:00.002-04:00

"Mother," I said. "I just have to shake out some cobwebs. I'm going for a run. See ya later." With that, I jumped into my running clothes and headed into the night.

Earlier today, Mother and I arrived at the Montrose Writers Conference. The opening session was inspiring with the promise of a strong conference. But still, my travel over the last two days had plucked my last nerve and infringed on my run time. The evening was beautiful, the quaint village streets quiet, the open road begging me to come.

It felt good. Really good. There is something special about night running. It caresses and cradles. It offers a false, but pleasant, sensation of speed. It lures you down the lane, up the next hill, around the curve, soaking in the smell of freshly cut grass, the fragrance of wildflowers, and the crunch of gravel beneath your feet.

But, sometimes it's really dark. Yes, at 10:30 pm one expects darkness. But often, a glimmer of a streetlight or even the moon glow can allow you to see outlines. But tonight, I got to a section of road covered by the heavy drape of tree branches. I couldn't see squat. Not the hidden houses. Not even the edges of the road. I was running blind. Though not a new sensation, it still isn't all that comfortable. I just had to keep moving and trust my feet to feel the way.

It's not unlike our spiritual journey. Sometimes we find ourselves in the dark because we just don't know how the Designer planned out the roads; we don't know the twists and turns. We can't see the caution, yield, or slow down signs. We don't know if there are hairpin turns or roundabout circles. We strain to see anything that would give us some perspective.

I was in a dark place tonight. But as I continued step by step, a strange thing happened. I looked up to see a sliver of light up ahead. I still didn't know where the road was leading but I knew that if I moved to the light, the way would become clear. Soon, I was running free and confident.

Tomorrow, if I run the same road I will better understand where I was tonight. So, let's not fret when we can't see where we are going. Relax. Sometimes God needs us to be content with waiting until tomorrow before we can see where--and why--He has taken us.

It is God who arms me with strength and keeps my way secure.

(Psalm 18:32)

Grounded and focused

2011-07-18T20:56:00.012-04:00

Let's assume you are a "normal" person. You get up around 6:30 or 7, grab a bowl of cereal and savor your favorite joe. Off to work you go. Or, perhaps you have errands to run, kids to cart, and groceries to fetch. Sometime mid-day, you grab something for lunch as the afternoon bids more activity. You might even get in a run. "Ah..." Now, doesn't that make you feel accomplished?

With dinner time approaching, preparations are made, food consumed and as the sun lowers into the horizon, you relax with an after-dinner coffee and some TV or light reading. Soon enough, you glance at the clock and realize that you need to do the going-to-bed dance: wash up, brush teeth and hair (if you have any), put on your jammies. . .all while making mental note about the coming day. In between the covers you slip, clean and content after all the busyness. zzz's come quickly.

Now, pretend you are Jennifer Pharr-Davis. At the young age of 26, you are already an accomplished and well-respected athlete, writer and speaker. You have hiked the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), the Long Trail, the Appalachian Trail (AT)twice-setting the women's world speed record in the process-and many other long, multi-day, multi-week adventures. But now, you decide to go after the overall AT speed record (read that, the men's record). Two years in the planning, you build a clandestine plan, letting few in on the secret. You must cut at least nine days from your previous best. A bodacious goal, if nothing else. But now the time has come.

You stand atop Mt. Katahdin at the northern terminus of the AT. Southward you march, traversing the rocky, rugged peaks and deep valleys. You are on a mission. You have a purpose. Every thing has been planned out and you dare not waste a step or an ounce of energy. To complete your self-assigned task, you cannot falter even for a day or your dream may collapse. Hike. Hike. Hike. You must overcome excruciating pain and overwhelming obstacles. Your world suddenly becomes very small; your steps pre-determined and mind focused.

But what does that really mean? It means that while most "normal" people sip their steaming cup of coffee, you will have already been on the trail, in the dark, alone, for two hours. It means that by the time others arrive at work, you will already have many miles on your feet. Now hike to the next road crossing. Sit. Put your feet up. Eat. Drink. Review the upcoming section. Have your pack filled. Stand up. Start again.

By the time "normal" people eat lunch, you will still be hiking hard with another ten hours to go. But you dare not think in those terms. It must be section to section. Road crossing to road crossing. Ridge to valley and back to ridge. And when it gets tough, it's tree to tree, repeated countless times in a day; every day for 40-some days. There is no option to take a rain delay or a siesta in the shade. You must push on.

When supper rolls around, you revolt at the thought of more food. You have been eating and drinking all day. Having to consume 6000 calories is no fun. Chewing takes too much energy, everything tastes the same. But still, you force feed yourself because motion is impossible without fuel.

There is no evening news or TV for you. You have, as Robert Frost so eloquently stated, "miles to go before I sleep." Instead, as the sun dips below the farthest peak, you have more mountains to conquer. The woods become surreal, the last, lingering rays playing tricks on your eyes. Yet, you hold off pushing the on switch of your headlamp. The noises of the forest escalate. A deer snorts and runs off. You become in tuned with the birds as they sing their evening songs, the crickets as they chirp, the chipmunks and squirrels as they scamper, and yes, as the mama bear growls. The darkness envelopes; it embraces. You are alone in a vast and wooded space. Sometimes you take it all in. Sometimes you shut it out. You move relentlessly forward.

You know what has to be done. The mileage you must obtain does not jive with the convenient road crossings or comfy hotels. Rather, you count on your crew to gather tents, sleeping bags, food, water and clothes. At least you will have company for the night. You tackle a few more miles that will cap the day, many times in excess of fifty miles. In a carefully orchestrated process, you sponge off with baby wipes, the scent of those moist towelettes permanently recorded in your senses. You eat your reconstituted hiker meal-in-a-bag, brush your teeth and crawl into the tent set up for you. The alarm will allow for six hours of sleep. No more. No less. You drift off, glad the day is behind, trying not to think of the day ahead.

Though set, the alarm seldom sounds at 4:45 am. Your body clock knows when it's time. You start eating your processed breakfast, mend your feet and slide them into shoes still damp from sweat and the nighttime dew. Then you stand at 5:00 am and take yet another step that leads you closer to Springer Mountain, GA, the southern terminus. You are well ahead of record pace but know you cannot let down. You must persevere. You must know that your quest requires more inexplicably hard work. More perseverance. But more sweet, sweet satisfaction in continuing.

Your goal, however, is more than a record; a record that astounds the mind and seems unfathomable to mere mortals. The journey is about using God-given talent to bring glory to the Father, being a light in the darkness, an ambassador of all things wonderful and wild. It is your story to live; your story to tell. So you walk swiftly on. . .and on. . .and on. You are Jennifer Pharr-Davis. No one else could do this.

Post-script:

This story was inspired by hiking with, aiding, talking and laughing with Jennifer for the last 3.5 days. Jenn, you are an incredible woman who inspires and motivates simply by being. You are grounded in your faith and focused on leading a life pleasing to your God. You are mature beyond your years. I have come to love you and care for you deeply. Thank you for the privilege to serve you in this way.

You can follow Jenn's journey on http://draft.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7411028237459709692#editor/target=post;postID=1108140863421385273 or find her on Facebook.

Ideas for the home: Coming soon

2011-07-14T08:54:00.002-04:00

So many of you seem to be interested in projects done around my house; from giant dandelions painted on the wall and carpets painted on the floor, to massive sunroom do-overs and new fishponds. I am hoping to add a section to this blog to share some creativity and ideas for projects on-the-cheap. Stay tuned...it's coming soon.

Statistics

2011-07-10T20:22:00.000-04:00

Statistics are interesting tidbits. Some say that you can make statistics say anything you want. That might be true.

I've been interested in a few stats of my own. Thank goodness for software developers who make compiling stats easy for knuckleheads like me. A click of a button on this blog tells me all kinds of things; how many page views, the most popular stories (and which ones were miserable fails), the URL sources that guide readers to the site, and where those readers are from geographically, among other things. Not sure these numbers are life changers but they are interesting.

Within spitting distance of 9000 blog views, it's hard to believe that so many are reading what I have to say. It's humbling to know that. Most of the readers are from the USA. But who could have guessed that the country with the second most views is Russia. Yes, Russia. That seems strange but strange is sometimes true.

I am thankful to those who are faithful readers and commentators. This blog is an outlet for me and one that I hope will convey truth, put a smile on your face, give a reason to pause, and help us continue on in our lives with purpose, faith and hope.

Thanks again. I'll be back soon.

Spider webs

2011-07-07T11:02:00.000-04:00

With the rain last night and high humidity, the morning was slow in awakening, holding at bay the summer sun that beats down mercilessly. The misty morning held dew drops in suspended animation while the wet grass relished the moisture. It was a silent, still world. A world that seemed to be quiet and content.

And then I saw them. Spiderwebs. Huge, complex spiderwebs. At least seven of them spread between some trees in the yard. With the wind gently blowing, they looked like ethereal garden ornaments floating in mid-air. I marveled at their strength to hold together despite the breeze. Even more so, I couldn't believe how some of the webs, suspended gracefully between trees perhaps thirty feet apart, were anchored by single strands of filament to key points on the ground or among the branches. "Was one spider responsible for all this work?" I wondered. Each of the webs seemed to be connected, spanning about 150 feet all together. Impressive.

I wish I would have taken a picture early this morning. Now, with the risen sun having burned off the fog, the webs aren't as obvious. Not obvious, that is, until you walk into one, the sticky threads clinging to your face and hands. But they are still effective. I noticed multitudes of tiny insects had been lured into the trap, only to await their certain fate as the spider closes in for an early lunch.

"Oh, what tangled webs we weave." I suppose that is a lesson to be learned. And yet, that's not the lesson I want to focus on today. I just want to marvel at the magnificent engineering skills of those arachnids. How did they learn to do that? Did their moms and dads have to spend years teaching them to hone their web-building skills? Doubtful. (The average life expectancy of a spider, assuming a kid doesn't smooch it, is 1-3 years.)

An orb web, those complex silky structures with concentric circles joined together with "spokes", take only about an hour to build. The spider can be seen repairing the web throughout the day but will most often build a new web each night. The silk threads are stickiest when new; much better for catching its small prey. Simply amazing. An exquisite creation designed by an exquisite Creator.

Thank you, Father, for your marvelous creation. Each creature, each plant, points to your glory and majesty. But thank you even more for caring for me. Help me never to forget your love and mercy.

“Consider how the wild flowers grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you—you of little faith!" Luke12:27-28

Some things never change...

2011-06-30T09:38:00.000-04:00

Some things never change...just look at my sidewalks and flower beds.

When I was in the process of writing "Pace Yourself," a daily devotional book spurned from everyday events, there was more than one entry that bemoaned the fact that weeds grew all too easily between the cracks of my sidewalk. I spent countless hours sitting there in the hot sun, needlenose pliers in hand to pull that pesky vegetation out from the roots. It was a tough job that frustrated me to no end. How was it that weeds grew so freely and relentlessly when carefully tended seedlings in the perfect conditions struggled to survive? Not fair.

Then Gary told me about weed killer. Yes. He was right. It was--and still is--easier to pull out dead weeds than ones that are thriving. But there's one little problem. The herbicide he gave me takes about two weeks to work. The only good thing about that is that I get to procrastinate a little bit longer in ridding the sidewalk and beds of the ugliness. There's no sense in working harder to pull those weeds now, is there?

This got me thinking. Those weeds I sprayed yesterday are in the process of dying...I just can't see it. They still look okay. In fact, they appear to be thriving. No brown leaves or wilting stems. In fact, if I didn't know the weeds had been treated, I would assume there was nothing wrong. But, I know that the poison I sprayed onto their leaves is slowly being sucked into the plant and carried to the roots. Though the process is slow, the result is quite predictable: death.

Admittedly, I tend to do this at times. I look pretty good on the outside despite the fact that I have poisoned myself, killing off righteous living one cell at a time. The old adage, "If you play with fire, you're gonna get burned," is all too true. The deadly poison or destructive flames licking away at our souls might be jealousy, envy, subjecting ourselves to inappropriate music or movies, or engaging in frivolous speech or unkind words. Though we may be able to fool some of the people some of the time, there is no fooling God. He knows the thoughts and intents of our mind. We dare not let sin eat away at our insides no matter how good we appear on the outside.

And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

Philippians 4:7,8

To read more on weeds and the spiritual analogies, consult the June 5, 6, and 12 entries in Pace Yourself: 366 Devotions from the Daily Grind. Free shipping is available on http://rebekahtrittipoe.com

Costa Rica Recap

2011-06-27T12:11:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure where to start. How can I possibly begin to describe the Costa Rican mission trip experience? In fact, it is almost surreal now that I am back in the States and beginning to slide into a normal routine. And yet, I never want to forget what transpired during those ten days abroad.

Our missionary hosts, Lamar and Joanna Salley, along with their three children, were skeptical about the wisdom of housing 14 women and one man, Hands of Compassion Int'l president, Chris Tolley, under their roof. Surely, the predominately teenage group would be entangled in squabbles and drama, right? Wrong. I can honestly report that not one bit of discontent or personal conflict reared its ugly head during our trip. No one fussed about who was going to take a shower when and in what order. No one complained about crowded (but comfortable) rooming arrangements. No one hogged the last pancake or selfishly snagged the pile of mango on the breakfast table. It is clearly a testimony of the Spirit working in the heart and lives of the group.

But what about our work? It was exhausting, to say the least. Often, our roll out of bed was at 5:30 or 6:00 am, only to return home between 8:30 and 11:30 pm. In between, we participated in volleyball clinics in the schools, played in mini-soccer tournaments, taught English in high school classrooms, performed the mime (wordless skit) in public parks and schools, engaged in great fun and frolic at an overnight camp for young professionals (age 18-25), and shared testimonies and the Gospel of Jesus Christ in all those venues. The children of the dump town, Carpio, clamored for love and attention, sucking out all the energy we had left. We ate on the run, consuming more rice and beans, chicken, hamburgers and french fries than we could ever have imagined. But none of us would trade a second of it for all the creature comforts and lazy, hazy days in the world.

The interesting thing about short-term mission trips is that God seems to use them to recreate His workers. Only eternity will reveal heart changes in the Costa Rican people. But I can assure you that God did amazing things in the hearts of this mission team.

I know that "campfire" experiences, common with these kind of trips, usually fade with the morning light. It's easy to be fired up and an enthusiastic follower of Christ when everyone around you is also in the same mode. But all too often, claims of commitment fall short when life settles back into normal routine. Will that happen this time? For some, maybe that desire will become a distant memory. For most, I don't think so.

As a group, we talked a lot about NOT being lukewarm in our Christian walk, for God hates that with a passion. But what is a "hot" walk to look like? I think I Thessalonians 1:3 describes just that. The Apostle Paul is writing to the church at Thessaloniki and affectionately tells them, "We remember before our God and Father your work produced by faith, your labor prompted by love, and your endurance inspired by hope in our Lord Jesus Christ."

Consider this: We produce work as a result of faith, we labor out of love, and we can endure because we have hope. All three life characteristics, work, labor, and endurance, are direct results of faith, love and hope. It really is a simple concept. Unfortunately, our propensity for sin stands in the way. So, what to do? As Ephesians 5:15 and 16 a says, "Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity. . ."

The girls are eager to pursue righteousness, desiring mentoring and accountability relationships. They desire to pour themselves into others. Ideas of how they can practically minister to others are rampant. I look forward to continuing to meet with them on a routine basis so that we might together reflect Christ in our lives and mature in our faith.

Thank you, girls, for being such an encouragement to me.

For more pictures of our trip, please visit my Facebook album at http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2169531393358.2134015.1098909215&ref=pd

A day at the dump

2011-06-21T00:36:00.000-04:00

A typical Carpio home

The young children of Carpio

Literally. Today we got to feel what it would be like to live and work in and around the city dump. A modern day Samaria, many Costa Ricans would never think of stepping into the town known as Carpio. Occupied by Nicaraguan immigrants, they came to improve their positions in life. And, believe it or not, living in the squalor of the dump is a step up.

Waiting to enter the school

Driving into the area, we were all impressed by the houses, the tiny sidewalk shops on each street corner, the filth, but most of all the children roaming the streets. Even little ones, perhaps three and four years old, played alone in the narrow passageways crowded by cars and speeding dump trucks. It seemed to be an accident waiting to happen.

The school we were allowed to enter was protected by huge bars on every window and intimidating iron gates. I wondered if it was to keep the children in or evil out.

Our job was to teach two different classrooms of children a little bit of English. Crowded, dirty and ill-equipped rooms could not prevent the explosion of excitement at the sight of gringas entering the classroom. But it was no easy task. Many students were unruly and few knew even a syllable of English.

When the girls pulled out the photo albums they brought, the children clamored to keep the photos. In moments, each photo and every newly acquired bracelet and anklet purchased during yesterday's souvenir shopping excursion was relinquished to the kids. By the time we left, my girls had voluntarily been stripped. However, more important than the physical possessions left behind were the beaming faces of the kids with their newly acquired treasures.

The church is the building with the blue sliding doors

Then it was off to play with the many of the children at the "church" around the corner. An indoor playground turned into a chaotic frenzy when the school children, dismissed after just three hours, poured through the doors. Inside that humble building with it's unfinished and uneven concrete floors, marginal toilets, and areas still under construction, swings, climbing, face painting, volleyball clinics, hugs, kisses, and yes, a few bullies who took advantage, kept us occupied throughout the day.

The final Kid's Carnival culminated in games and dispensing treats and a new toy to each eager child. But as the toy was handed to them, we necessarily had to say adios and push them out the door. Many tried to enter again, claiming they never received their gift, some even trying to steal from the box. It was odd to close the heavy metal doors behind them, only to hear them clamor and pound to enter once again before conceding their special day had come to an end. Yet others, climbed the windows, grasped the metal bars, their heads forward and peering in. It had a sad, zoo-like aura as we watched them yearn for more time and attention.

Indoor playground

It is good to be reminded of how fortunate we are to have clean facilities, nice homes, and intact sewer systems, plenty of food to eat and people to love. And yet, despite the daily challenges that the people of Carpio face, children still smiled, waving feverishly at the bus as we passed on our way out. Though we were anxious to shower away the filth of the day, may we never rid ourselves of the lessons learned.

Another day in not-so-sunny Costa Rica: A short update

2011-06-17T01:09:00.000-04:00

Well, the girls on this team continue to amaze. We are watching them grow in so many ways. They are becoming more bold and confident each day as they interact with the kids and freely share their faith and the wonderful gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Today was a lesson in flexibility. It seemed that the plan changed no less than every seven minutes. And yet, they never missed a beat, never complained, and rose to each occasion.

After a time of devotion in the morning, we traveled to our destination for a soccer tournament, only to find it cancelled. So, back on the bus, we took a thirty minute shopping trip followed by a stop at a busy downtown park. The kids performed their dramatic mime, causing many on the busy streets to stop and watch the eight minute presentation. Then it was time to pass out gospel tracts, finding few who refused the offering.

The afternoon was filled with an English teaching session in a large high school. However, prior to entering the classroom, the girls were like magnets, drawing many of the kids into conversation and impromptu games. The session in the school was well received and helped the soccer games that followed to be contested in a friendly manner. Then, it was back to do another lesson at the school for adult ESL students. Again, the students engaged freely with our girls and watched intently as the mime was once again offered.

Finally, after another 12 hour day, we returned home only to be encouraged with our own team time. What a continued privilege to watch God working in all our hearts.

Tomorrow we will be taking about 25 Costa Rican young people (age 18-25) to a rustic camp for a couple of days. We will have no web access but I hope to be able to report again (with some pictures!) later Saturday night.

Stay tuned...

Two days down

2011-06-16T00:41:00.001-04:00

Up at 6 am. Breakfast. Leave by 7 or 8 am. Volleyball clinics in elementary schools. Indoor soccer 5-on-5 tournaments, dramas in parks and testimonies shared. English classes taught in high schools. Dodge deafening downpours while running for cover under tin roofs. Return home by 11:30 pm.

Our sports-centered mission team hit the ground running. Not literally. San Jose, the bustling capital city of Costa Rica is anything but runner friendly. Narrow, winding streets, all without name or numbers, make running the streets and staying alive simultaneously nearly impossible. But we are not left wanting for physical activity. Working with SCORE missionaries, we have done four volleyball clinics for elementary school kids. The children, with their big, beautiful brown eyes are eager participants and just as eager to give hugs and smiles.

The soccer tournaments, two so far, are played on turf fields under the protection of metal roofs. Two hours running, the play is fast and furious...or at least for those who know what they are doing. The teams played last night were made up of very skilled young women, perhaps in their late teens or early twenties. You could tell they had been playing for a very long time. The team we played tonight was not as experienced, allowing us gringas to play unencumbered by intimidation.

However, beyond our athletic endeavors, the team of athletes have been performing dramas in the schools, after athletic contests, and even in public parks. To watch their transformation from timid to bold presenters of both the drama and their personal testimonies has been a privilege.

Today, they added teaching English in a large public hospital. Assuming all responsibility to use games and conversation to teach English, they stepped outside their comfort zones and did a great job.

I am most impressed by the maturity of these girls accepting the challenge of these busy days. They are not along for the ride. They are, in fact, the ride. What an experience for them and for us who observe. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

10 hours and counting

2011-06-12T19:01:00.000-04:00

My head is spinning. Actually, it's been spinning a bit off it's axis for the last couple of months. Coaching, unexpected teaching responsibilities, and challenging home improvement activities have cast me into my private little orbit in far out space. Good thing I was tethered to the mothership. If not, I would still be drifting in the deep and distant darkness.

But, I do have one more mission before coming in for a splash-down. I will be getting on a plane tomorrow with a dozen female athletes, traveling to Costa Rica. Over a period of ten days, we will be jumping, running, playing games and kicking soccer balls with our Costa Rican counterparts. But why?

Let me explain. A frequent question asked of me over the years as been, "Why do you run?"

My standard quip was usually "Because I can." But that's not really it. The last several years I have been impacted by the thought that my athletic ability was not an accident or a handy skill sculpted and honed by coaches. No. I am an athlete because God made me that way. And just like the musician, engineer, artist, or doctor, I have a responsibility to use that talent to bring honor to the Father and point toward his love for us. Hence, a mission trip with like-minded athletes to serve young Costa Rican athletes and share our faith.

Our team of athletes has adopted a theme for this trip: "Go with love. Return with honor." Our purpose is to use our love of sport to establish relationships with the athletic high school girls of San Jose. For in relationships, communication is established and trust is forged. It will take setting aside what is familiar and comfortable and an embrace of a different culture and perspective. We will need to see those girls not as an oddity or a refreshing respite from American culture but as people who need to understand the truthful claims of Jesus Christ. If we do not go with love and serve with compassion, we cannot possibly return with honor.

We have been praying that God ordain divine appointments with just the right people at just the right time for just the right purpose. It is our desire to use the platform of athletics to share the hope of an abundant life in Christ. As God brings us to your mind over the next week and a half, please pray for our safety, willing hearts and Spirit-guided minds, and an effective ministry because God is choosing to draw those ticas (Costa Rican girls) to himself.

If technology does not fail us, I hope to be able to post here while we are in country. Also, please check http://www.handsofcompassionintl.org/ or follow us on Facebook for pictures and information about our daily activities.

The perfect race

2011-05-22T23:15:00.001-04:00

Decisions. It was all about decisions.

As the bus pulled out of the parking lot, carrying our track team to the state meet, I wanted a few moments to chat with the busload of young and excited athletes. Not just my distance runners but sprinters and field event contestants alike. On the last day of practice, Cody, a team leader, mentioned how motivating it was to have seen the initials "TBD" beside a listing of championships won by various school teams during this year. "To be decided," he explained, "means that we all need to decide right now that we will win the honor." He was right. Now it was my turn to talk about what it meant to decide.

To the exact day and three years prior I had written a piece entitled "Decisions." I scribed, ". . .The point to remember is that we must choose to extend ourselves and then commit to do it even when it is scary, intimidating, or painful. But we must also realize that doing this in our own power will likely fail. Thankfully, God has promised to fully equip us for each task. . . Set goals that will push you beyond your own limits and into God’s limitless realm." (Pace Yourself: 366 Devotions From the Daily Grind, May 20)

As I read the story aloud, the mood was somber, anticipating what may lay ahead. I continued. "You need to embrace the fear. Go deep inside to a place where you have never been, never explored. For it is only there you will optimize the talent God has given you." I concentrated hard not to cry, nearly overcome at the prospect each of the young athletes faced. Would they go to that place? Would they push the line further, hurt a little harder, feel the pure satisfaction of a 100% commitment? Few athletes really know what that means. Only a handful have experienced that rare encounter with the impossible becoming possible. But I never anticipated what the day would bring.

Photo by Gabe LaMartina

One after another, my distance runners stepped onto the track to race and stepped off the track with honor. Personal records fell like rain. "I've never felt that way before," senior Cristen gushed. "It was as if I was watching myself run, lap after lap. I didn't want to stop." I watched them pick off runners in front of them on the back stretch, tucking in before the curve. They ran fast and smart, crossing the line and running into their personal record books while scoring points for the team.

Late in the day and with few races left, Trey took to the start line of the 3200 meter run. This junior, full of potential and an insatiable desire to improve, had his eyes set on breaking the magic ten minute mark, just narrowly eclipsed by three short seconds in prior races. He had practiced well, running ever more smoothly, efficiently and faster with each and every day. I could feel it. Today was his day.

The gun sounded and the pack in this top heat started off. Trey was toward the back as he settled into the quick pace. On each back stretch, a lonely piece of real estate, I coached from behind the fence, encouraging him to pick off another runner. I hit the lap button on my watch each time I saw him pass the start line. After half the distance, he was a full three seconds faster than his race goal which is no easy matter. Lap 5, 6, and 7 saw the young, talented runner move up into fourth place. He had this. My own excitement grew with each fluid stride. He passed by for the 8th and final time, quickly gaining on the runner now in third place. The pace was furious and intense. Every muscle, every cell, was fully engaged, his focus piercing. Now, I ran in the opposite direction on the outside of fenced oval to meet him at the finish. He was running the perfect race. The end was sure to be joyous.

Photo by Gabe LaMartina

A battle ensued down the homestretch of this grueling two-mile run. Neck and neck, shoulder to shoulder, Trey and the third place runner contested the race. Trey pulled ahead, closing in on the finish line. He gained several yards on the other runner, transiently capturing the third spot. But then, he stumbled and my heart went into my throat. Ever so briefly, he straightened, only to have his legs come out from under him. Down he went, hard. The crowd gasped. "Nooooo. . ." I remember yelling to no one in particular. I fought my way through the spectators, trying to get to him. "Out of my way," I screamed. "That's my runner!" Trey struggled to stand but could not. Now, just 10 yards from the finish, he flailed on the track as the runner behind him passed by. Somehow, someway, he found the line as he crawled forward. Then, he collapsed in a molten heap. The time was 10:03. The crowd, watching in suspense, hushed.

Photo by Gabe LaMartina

Arriving in the next moment, Trey was heaving, trying desperately to find his breath. His face was white, lips blue. He writhed on the ground in agony, his eyes seeming wild and scared. "I was so close. So close," he whispered.

A crowd of other coaches gathered as we turned him onto his back, legs elevated. I knelt beside him, now more of a mother than a coach. "Trey, try to slow your breathing," I softly advised. Hyperventilating was not helping his condition. He looked at me, his eyes communicating deeply, and did as I asked. We perfectly understood each other. He had run deep and long. He had gone to that place where few dare venture. I was glad my own eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. I felt them well with tears of joy and respect as I witnessed this runner push to and beyond his limit with courage and honor.

Photo by Gabe LaMartina

It was a slow progression to get Trey upright. Gone were the muscle glycogen stores, gone was any reserve. Slowly, the blue tinge around his lips was replaced with pale color in his face. He looked drained, completely empty. The crowd rose in a thunderous ovation when this runner finally took to his feet. I held onto the young man as he began with faltering steps, making our way back toward our team tent. The lengthy applause continued, and rightly so.

Photo by Gabe LaMartina

Trey is a warrior. A warrior who had entered the battle prepared to act on his decision to achieve a big, bodacious, bold goal. It was his decision to reach deep inside and explore the depths of his soul, the depth of his commitment. He had chosen to ignore the pain, the agony of oxygen-depleted muscles and heaving lungs, to go beyond and into the abyss.

Trey ran a perfect race...including the ending. No other race will be remembered as well, no other athlete respected so fully. On his arm was written a scripture verse but his honor, dignity, and courage clearly confirmed that testimony and strength of will. It was his God who enabled him to venture into the darkness and return to the light.

Thank you, Trey, for an object lesson of enormous magnitude. It will be forever remembered and has sealed my continued commitment and privilege to coach. I wouldn't ever want to miss something like this.

Like a deer. . .

2011-05-20T22:02:00.001-04:00

Oh my goodness. It's been nearly a month since I have written anything here. Not because I haven't thought about it, planned or started to. I feel bad. Writing is cathartic and a means to contemplate life. Most of the time, it puts things in perspective for me. I have yearned to peck away at the keys but the speed of life has had me whirling about at dizzying velocity.

Four or five weeks ago, I received a call from a school administrator asking me to sub the next week. Sure. Then he called back. "Could you actually teach Biology, Chemistry, and Geometry for the rest of the year." I nearly fell over as I waited in a check-out line at Wal-Mart. The rest, they say, is history. Now the routine is up at 5 a.m., to school by 6, study, prepare, and teach till 11:15, study more, go to track practice, get home at 6 p.m., make dinner, take care of my 100 online students and prepare more for the next day. Sandwiched in there are weekend track meets, on-going projects to put in a fish pond and finish a big remodel while getting a group of girls ready for a mission trip. I am tired. No. Exhausted. Sleep is not overrated.

However, for weeks, I have been awakened in the night by my thoughts, apparently worming their way to the surface of my restless brain. For example, during the planning period and anticipation of moving the first shovelful of dirt for my pond, I could think of little else. I was so excited! I love doing things like this. The labor, the rocks, the dirt, the mud, the water...all of it. Can't get enough! But, even I was amazed at how pervasive my thoughts about the pond became. I found that I drifted to sleep scheming my attack and upon waking, never missed a second of continued planning. Then, I remembered the deer.

The deer is almost a joke. Another family hated that resin creature. Not sure why. He's really quite cute. Nevertheless, at a swap meet of "stuff," my friend was delighted to let Bambi go home with me. Since then, I've loved the way the little guy is molded to lay there in my garden, so blissfully content. Perhaps it reminds me of the cement deer that my Grandma had in her yard which later came to live at our house. Good memories. Good times.

The deer had found a place of rest near the spot where my pond was going. Obviously, he had to relocate for awhile. I have to admit that I ignored him for some time during the construction process. But as I was putting the final touches on the pond, placing rocks around the perimeter and lining the bottom, I absentmindedly picked him up, setting him down by a big rock bordering the pathway. The gentle sound of flowing water at his side seemed so right. Hum, I thought, he looks content there. Perhaps I'll leave him be.

So he remains. He remains not because he is a charming garden ornament or a conversation starter as guests meander by. No, he has found a new home because every time I come or go from the house, he reminds me how I should live. How my thoughts should be guided. How my priorities should be determined and structured. For as silent as he is, his message speaks loudly, chiding and convicting.

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God?

Psalm 42:1.2a

Need I say more?

Bounding in the promise land

2011-04-25T10:33:00.000-04:00

I saw her shortly after turning onto the final leg of my journey; a 2.3 mile steep descent on a gravel road. Her unmistakeable black and lime green jersey was the tasty carrot that drew me down that hill and toward the finish line. I was running well after thirty-some miles but I knew from experience that this downhill would hurt. Forcing myself to keep the pressure on, I felt my left calf begin to quiver. My mind screamed out to the offending muscle. "Relax. Relax." Twice I momentarily stopped to stretch it. It helped.

Donna Elder and me racing toward the finish

Still, with 400 yards to go, I caught Donna. My breathing was labored, to say the least. I'm sure she thought it was a freight train coming up behind her. "Oh, hey, Rebekah. Good job," she offered. I did not return the greeting. I couldn't. There was not enough air to both breath and run. My friend did not slow or let me pass. I had mixed feelings about that. It would have been easier had she relented. But it also would have diminished our finish. Her persistence kept me honest.

Onto the final blacktop road and through the mud at the top of the driveway. Now, with 75 yards to do, I wasn't sure if I could hold on. "So what if she gains a few yards on you? Who cares? Just cross the line with a smile. You did good enough," a tiny voice chided. The thought was so appealing. I was red-lined but still moving. But that is not the only voice I heard.

"You tell your runners to give it all they have. To turn it on and leave it all out on the course. You have to see if there is another gear." The dueling conversations lasted for 30 yards. Now with 45 to go, the decision was made. I reached down into the abyss of my will. My speed picked up, legs churning. I was startled by my body's response as I accelerated despite trail-weary legs. Donna and I hurled ourselves toward the cheering crowd, faster and faster. Crossing the line, I was spent. Breathing was difficult. But it was worth it. I would be able to tell my team that I gave it all I had. I had to lead by example even if they weren't there to see it.

I ran smart. I ran hard. I am pleased.

That's how the race ended. But that's not the whole story. With a light rain falling, many runners looked bundled up as we headed up the mountain in the early morning darkness. I pitied them knowing they were destined to carry their long sleeves and jackets for the race's duration. Within a mile, my own arm warmers came off and got stuffed into my pack. My sleeveless tank was all I needed.

Running with Sophie Spiedel

Up, up, up I went, determined to have a good day. My goal was to run smart and strong, not content to just "finish." Some passed me and I passed others on my way to the top. Now down the grassy road I ran, taking in the clouds hanging in the valleys below and a mist hanging in the morning air. Everything was lush and green, birds shouting out their spring pleasure in song. Sooner than expected, I reached the bottom and began to climb again, a common theme on the tough Promise Land course with a reported gain of about 9000 feet. Another couple miles brought me to Sunset Field aid station in the company of some very strong runners. That pleased me.

Down, down, down to the valley floor. Along the creek, into the woods, running strong. The cold stream crossings felt refreshing. Pick up your heels. Don't step forward. Stay calm and relaxed but don't back off. The mental reminders helped, carrying me through several more aid stations. I mostly ran alone though brief greetings were offered as I passed others. I liked it that way. I embraced the solitude, the gentle quiet of the awakening springtime forest. But it didn't stay that way--and that's okay.

Jennifer Nichols is a rising star. With a blazing fast past in high school and college, this once track and road runner is making quite the impression in the ultrarunning world. But battling a recent cold and cough and being a mom to young ones, she wasn't in her finest form. Bad for her. Good for me. Our paces matched on this day as we chatted about this and that, challenges and dreams, failures and goals. At times, we temporarily separated but joined forces again further down the trail. It was a comfortable and unspoken arrangement that carried us up the grueling Apple Orchard ascent.

Jennifer Nichols and I approach Sunset Fields

With just 4.5 miles to go, we left the mountain top aid station together. But soon, as the trail wound it's way downward through the rhododendrons and along a full and rushing stream, we parted company, each to finish the race on her own terms. Hence, I reached the final gravel road alone to finish well what I had started. The whole day had been a choice. It was a choice to run hard. A choice to hurt. A choice to dig deep. But it was also a choice to smile, to be content and happy. It was a choice to not look at my watch. Rather, it was a choice to simply ask and answer the question over and over again: "Am I doing the very best I can do right now?"

Yes. Praise God I can honestly answer "yes."

Law Breaker

2011-04-22T16:26:00.000-04:00

A law breaker. That's what I am.

My day yesterday was another filled to the brim with responsibilities and duties, one of which was a trip to Lowes. Still entangled with a big sunroom do-over project, I was appointed to make the trip to buy a truckload of drywall, insulation, and a variety of other things. With list in hand, I grabbed my purse and gave it a quick look-see. Oops. I had taken out my wallet the day before and locked it in the center console of the car--Gary's car. I called to report my error and inform him that he would have to do it after work. I had a track meet to coach.

With my schedule somewhat tidied, I retreated back into the office. But it wasn't for long. "Hey," Gary said when the phone rang. "I have cash in our hidden spot. You can still go get the drywall." I swear I heard him crack a dastardly grin through the phone. Ugh.

"But my license. I won't have it to drive there," I countered. He probably heard my smirk.

"Too bad, so sad. You have to drive into school to get it from my car before the meet anyway. It will be fine."

Resigned to my criminal destiny, I was particularly careful about my speed en route to the store. I was quite sure that my brainwaves were transmitting signals that police scanners would intercept. I felt stripped naked without my trusty wallet. If I got stopped, I really couldn't say I was on my way to get it. Hum. Surely, a police officer would understand the importance of a truckload of nasty drywall.

Thankfully, I made it home without incident. My terror at the thought of drywall sliding off the back of the truck as I went up each hill, drawing unwanted attention from the authorities, finally dissipated as I pulled into my spot in front of the house. I had gotten away with my despicable behavior.

Later in the afternoon, I once again got behind the wheel and headed out, this time to actually retrieve my license. I was so relieved when I finally had that wallet in my hot little hand. Whew. Jail time avoided. I resolved to always check for that item before taking the first step to the door.

My resolve was real. My intentions good. Unfortunately, as I got out of the car and headed into Lowes again this morning, I reached into my purse for the sales receipt of an item I was returning. To quote a pop star, "Oops. I've done it again." No wallet. It was still in the bag I took to the track meet. I wanted to scream. But back in the car I went, driving home license-less. Brain transmissions peaked as I scanned the horizon and the rear-view mirror for flashing lights and blaring sirens. However, I once again avoided an encounter with the law. I was grateful.

I broke the law even though I didn't get caught. But the simple fact is that that one transgression, as insignificant as it may seem, labels me as guilty. That reminds me of Romans 5:12, memorized long ago in Awana Club. Therefore, just as sin entered the world through one man, and death through sin, and in this way death came to all people, because all sinned— Poor Adam. His sin made us all guilty.

But, praise God, it is by one man's death that we are declared righteous. For if the many died by the trespass of the one man, how much more did God’s grace and the gift that came by the grace of the one man, Jesus Christ, overflow to the many! (Romans 5:15b).

In this Easter season, I am reminded that though I transgress, the God-Man, Jesus Christ, assumed my guilt on that Friday long ago when the skies darkened and the earth quaked. There He hung, despised and rejected, in agony, his father's back turned. Into the ground his speared body went, for three long days. But despite that awful Friday, Sunday morning dawned and He was gone. Jesus Christ conquered the death brought on by my sin. And now, I live in Christ because of Christ.

Hallelujah. What a Savior. My very own, personal Savior.

For just as through the disobedience of the one man the many were made sinners, so also through the obedience of the one man the many will be made righteous.

Romans 5:19

Eagles and Vultures

2011-04-19T09:50:00.000-04:00

(An excerpt from Pace Yourself: 366 Devotions from the Daily Grind)

“He mounted the cherubim and flew; he soared on the wings of the wind” (Psalm 18:10).

When David penned these words, they were a song sung to the Lord. God Almighty was described as a great defender of the afflicted, figuratively swooping down from His throne to defeat the enemy. I envision a spirit lighting on the winged angel and taking flight together across the sky. Perhaps I’ve seen too many pictures of the mythological Apollo’s chariot. Nevertheless, the picture painted by the Psalmist is one of power and strength.

I was not far into my run today when, glancing to the left, a movement caught my eye. The pasture sloped downward toward a creek and a herd of cows grazed contentedly. The sky was a brilliant blue and the clouds, fluffy and white, floated effortlessly across the sky, a stout breeze coaxing them on their way. And then I saw it; a beautiful demonstration of soaring on the wings of the wind.

A huge vulture, not generally regarded as handsome, spread his wings and took off. A flap or two made him rise to catch an invisible air current, launching him even higher into the sky. There he glided, adjusting the position of his wings ever so slightly to turn this way or that. He looked so free, so powerful. I wondered what it felt like to experience flight unencumbered by the trappings of an airplane. I was so intrigued by watching this giant bird I nearly ran off the road.

Regaining my bearings, I got to thinking about the inspirational “wings of eagles” verse found in Isaiah 40:31. It’s not hard to imagine a creature as majestic as an eagle soaring on the wind. Eagles are beautiful and commanding, swift and regal. Soaring is what they are supposed to do. But turkey vultures with their big ugly red heads and whose lives consist of eating rotting road kill…Well, it just doesn’t seem right that they could soar just as well as their cousins.

To me, the lesson became clear. Truth is, we may not be an “eagle.” We have imperfections and flaws that some might say disqualify us from flying with the beautiful crowd. And yet, we have been equally equipped to soar high and often.

“but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” (Isaiah 40:31)

Saved from the junk pile

2011-04-13T11:11:00.001-04:00

Rottenness abounds

A few weeks ago, I was in the midst of raging a full-out battle against the stinkbugs that had taken up residence in every nook and cranny in our house. Armed with my loaded gun of caulk, I swarmed into each room, laying down ribbons of the gooey stuff with the hope of sealing them in. The sunroom was the worst. Huge panes of glass mounted in, well, nontraditional construction methods, provided a virtual playground for these horrible bugs. As I was attempting to fill the many voids, a curious thing happened. My hand went right through a 4x4 support beam. I took that as a bad sign since I doubted I had developed the ability to reach through walls like a super hero. Anyway, further investigation revealed a totally rotten structure damaged from years of water damage. We had not planned on a big construction project but now we had no choice.

Landfill-destined junk

We hired a friend who does this type of work. Seth is working as his helper. It took a couple days to rip the thing apart and even more to put it back together. In fact, construction is still underway. But in the process, huge piles of see-through lumber, 36 cumbersome sheets of glass and tons of construction carnage decorated our yard. Yesterday and between raindrops, Seth and I spent some time "organizing" the junk. We separated out good wood from the bad, trash from the salvageable. What resulted was a huge pile of aluminum that we'll be able to sell to a recycling company. What once looked worthless and headed to an eternity in the land-fill has been pulled from the rubble and restored with value.

Valuable junk: saved and recycled

I can't help but think of the spiritual analogy. Because of our intrinsic sin, we were in the trash pile. No value. No hope of a productive, purpose-driven life. I realize that such a sentiment is not politically correct but it's true nonetheless. However, when God reaches down with that strong arm of love and plucks us from that mess, His choice to recycle us gives us value; not because of anything we have done but because that divine act bestows value.

I am so thankful that God extended his grace and mercy to me. I would much rather be trash saved from the heap and re-made into His image than live where my sin naturally calls home.

As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins...we were by nature deserving of wrath. But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

(Ephesians 2:1, 3b-10)

Choosing to suffer

2011-04-05T12:48:00.007-04:00

Scotty Curlee

"I came to realize that I wasn't very good at team sports. Look at me. I'm too small for football or basketball. But I found out that I am really good at suffering. . ."

Those were the words Scotty Curlee delivered to the Liberty Christian Academy track team last week. Every kid in the room was captivated with this professional cyclist and pharmaceutical rep turned actor and movie director. (The Potential Inside) He continued. "I was the guy who could hold the heart rate and crank it up Apple Orchard Mountain despite the pain, the rain, the cold. . . to race at the Olympic and world-class level, you must choose to sacrifice much. You must choose to suffer."

Jenny Anderson

In recent days, Jenny Anderson chose to suffer along Spain's El Camino de Santiago. Cold rain, freezing temperatures, sleet, snow, shoe-sucking mud and gale-force winds could not keep her from completing the course in record time. She endured bleak darkness, sleep deprivation, physical and emotional pain and loneliness for ten straight days. She chose to suffer.

Rick and Tammy Gray

Rick Gray, an experienced and effervescent ultrarunner, chose to suffer last Saturday. With a goal of sub-20 hours for the miles of the Umstead 100 Miler, he took step after relentless step. But somewhere between the start line and the finish, his stomach turned south, enduring retching and heaving, the kind that reduces a person to mush. The last 25-30 miles was filled with suffering and slow, agonizing progress. And yet, he endured to the end despite missing his target time. He, too, chose to suffer.

Great feats of physical accomplishments provide stellar examples of persevering through adversity. Such stories inspire and motivate. I find that I tend to make new commitments and establish lofty goals in the aftermath of hearing such tales. I make a mental decision to endure and become a disciplined woman because of the pursuit. But alas, I fail more times than not.

Suffering is hard. So very hard. All the prior mental decisions vanish as the lactic acid accumulates, the legs begin to fail, and the lungs cry out for mercy. Being in the think of it distorts the goal. The finish line is lost in the distance, obscured by the rainstorm of pain and agony. It is only the athlete who completely and certifiably understands the significance of the finish that attains the prize of accomplishment.

There is another grand example of suffering. Suffering that surpasses all suffering. No athlete and his endeavors comes close. For this suffering was endured because of the greatest commitment of all. This one suffered because of a conscious decision to those who had no power to endure. In fact, they had no power on their own to even enter the game. They were lost without hope.

This greatest sufferer "was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem. Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed. Yet it was the LORD’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer, and though the LORD makeshis life an offering for sin, he will see his offspring and prolong his days, and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand" (Isaiah 53:3-10)

Suffering can only be endured when the goal is compelling and clear. And should we persevere, the reward is great; we will see the light and be satisfied (Isaiah 53:11).

Join with me in suffering, like a good soldier of Christ Jesus. (2 Timothy 2:3)

Before and after

2011-03-31T01:58:00.000-04:00

Ya gotta love before and afters. They are so telling. . .most of the time.

Take, for instance, all those home shows. A horrible yard turns into a resort-inspired retreat with the help of a professional crew and some willing homeowners. An ugly, grime-encrusted kitchen morphs into a warm, efficient, and aesthetically pleasing hub of the home.

As of late, I've been enjoying the guilty pleasure of before and afters. My yearning to release some pent-up creativity and rid my home of bland, boring decor has resulted in the application of numerous paint colors in a variety of patterns. The results have generally been well-received. But the highest cudos come from folks who know how yuk the hallways and rooms looked before the creative crash rushed in and took over. They knew the before and can appreciate the after.

But these aren't the only kind of impressive before and afters. Think about all those print ads and TV commercials touting the benefits of some new fang-dangled weight loss program. The before shots show plump, pudgy, and positively unattractive people. But the after shots? Well, the previously fat and frumpy are now bikini-clad, pumped, and primped.

The same goes for the age-correcting serums. I should know about this one. I've been researching the benefits of this lotion and that potion, all in an effort to slow down the skin sag in my face and the orange-peel skin on these 'ol legs. There are some pretty amazing testimonials and wonderful before and after photos. Ahhh...If only they were all true.

The trouble with many before and afters can be found in the small print: "Results may not be typical." In fact, in weight-loss advertisements, 88% of all ads contain those infamous side-by-side comparisons. The first photo is snap-shot quality with poor lighting, horrible posture and a blank and listless expression. In contrast, the after shot is most often studio quality, the model smiling after a hair and makeup session, standing straight and tall and sucking in everything that could look flabby. Plus, a good photographer with photo-altering skills at his disposal doesn't hurt either. Hence, though the ad promises hope of a magnificent before and after, the truth may be disguised.

Oh dear. What if someone took a picture of my spiritual before and after? I wonder if there would be a sharp contrast between images. And, I have to question if the after image is for real. Have I painted on a facade to give an appearance of a polished, mature Christian when, in fact, it is merely a creative illusion?

"What you see is what you get." Is it really? If we are truly a Believer, the before and after should be obvious and verifiable.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come. The old has gone, the new is here! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God. God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.

(2 Corinthians 5:17-21)

Trotting on Terrapin

2011-03-29T11:24:00.000-04:00

Photo by Seth Trittipoe

Yowzah! The muscles in both my calves instantaneously drew up into tight rubber-band balls. It brought me to an abrupt stop, grabbing for a nearby tree. The spasm drew both feet in directions not intended for a natural cadence. Using the tree for support, I stretched out both legs and gingerly proceeded on my way. I had been doing so well. But when I spoke to a young runner who had taken a headlong plunge into the woods, I lost my concentration and caught my toe on a relatively smooth portion of trail. I guess I can't talk and run at the same time. If it hadn't hurt so bad, it might have even been funny. Down the hatch went electrolyte drink and capsules and a handful of pretzels in an effort to save the day. It did. . .just at a little slower pace.

The race was Terrapin Mountain 50K. With somewhere between 7500 and 8500 feet of both gain and descent (reports differ), the race is not for the light-hearted. Quad crushing downhills and relentless climbs make an impression on even well-trained and behaving muscles. I had been doing my share of long runs and was consistent in daily training with my track distance runners. But not all those runs were substantial in mileage even if they were done at quicker paces. I didn't how I would fair in this race. And I sure wasn't confident enough in my training to push to the red line and hold it there. I was afraid it would quickly become the dead line.

Upon waking in the inky pre-race darkness of 4:30 a.m., I felt a peculiar calm. The sense of dread so familiar in previous years was absent. Rather, sipping my coffee on the way to the start, I smiled just a bit as I prepared my mind for the task. I just hoped the body would prove equally prepared.

Run when I can. Walk when I must. Drink often, nibble frequently, get in the electrolytes. Repeat over and over again. That's as simple as it gets. Occasionally, I chatted with those around me. Pleasant enough and a welcome distraction at times. But most often, I liked to be alone on the trail, able to set my own pace and mull over my thoughts. Sometimes I prayed for others. Sometimes I prayed for myself. Sometimes my mind wandered to planning projects on the home front, outlining upcoming speeches, or merely taking in the soothing sound of leaves rustling or gravel crunching beneath my feet.

Before the starting gong rang out it's rich tone, someone asked me what my goal was. Hum. I guess it was to be the first grand masters woman to cross the finish line. The problem was, a friend of mine had just recently slipped into this age group, bringing strong legs and many training miles with her. Early in the race she had pulled away from me. But I knew she was never far ahead. I wanted to catch her and with five and a half miles to go, saw her coming at me on an out-and-back section. My heart quickened and my pace wanted to. Unfortunately, the cramping calves incident had happened just moments prior. Plus, I knew our passing would be all the motivation she needed to keep the lead.


Photo by Seth Trittipoe

Still, hope springs eternal. Arriving at the last aid station, I handed off my pack, downed some fluid, popped a few electrolyte capsules and shoved those pretzels in my mouth, all amidst wiping my runny nose on my sleeve. Yes, quite the picture of beauty and grace. Not. Off I went up the mountain, taking tiny steps so as to not wake and annoy the now quiescent calves. I forced myself to concentrate on my footing, knowing that another lurch forward would bring on more spasm. The cold, rushing water of the last creek crossing was greatly anticipated not because it signaled the remaining two miles, but because it might settle the muscles.

Then, with half a mile to go, my left calf cried out. I stopped dead in my tracks. I could hear the noise from the finish line and the pitter-patter of approaching feet from behind. Gosh. I shook my head, briefly stretched my leg and continued on. What else could I do? I failed to meet my goal, finishing about ten or twelve minutes back from the women four years my junior. It happens. My tenth place finish for the women was good, not great. But the day? More than acceptable. The temperature was about perfect and the rain held off. I was happy, content, and grateful I could be out there. Conversation was good, old friends seen, and new acquaintances made. No blood or lasting injury for me. Post-race movement is decent and determination for future endeavors is growing.

Couldn't ask for more.

Did you run Terrapin 50K or Half-Marathon? Click here to see 850+ professional pictures taken at the creek crossing.

It's all in who you know

2011-03-23T08:42:00.000-04:00

"Oh my goodness. The first night we were there, they brought a tray full of gourmet cookies and ice-cold milk." She gushed on. "And the next day they brought each of us a huge gift bag with a plush signature bathrobe and all kinds of other goodies. At night, the floor gently lit up as you approached the bed. It was a magnificent suite..."

It seems that my friend, Julie, was the happy recipient of lavish accommodations because she knew the right person. Her sister-in-law is a big-muckety-muck at an exclusive, 5-star hotel in the Orlando area. Because of that connection, Julie and company benefited greatly, enjoying amenities known only by the rich and famous, cost-free, no less. You see, it's all in who you know.

Now, suppose you were the son or daughter of a king. Yes, a prince and princess. Do you think that those titles would open a few doors? I sort of doubt you would be staying in a no-tell hotel eating convenient store food. And, I think you would get a free pass to the front of the line for Space Mountain. Later, dining would only be the finest, the prices offering no barrier to satisfying your appetite. Requests are more like commands because you are royalty.

Now, realize that as a Believer, you are royalty; a son or daughter of the King. That relationship carries benefits that we sometimes ignore. We have the ear of God 24/7/365. No appointment needed. No beckoning required. He has already said " “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you" (Matthew 7:7)

Our royal Father empowers, enlightens, loves, and extends blessings so bountiful they can not be numbered. His strength enables and His grace is sufficient. Unfortunately, we don't always act royal nor do we fully take advantage of all that is offered. Bad behavior casts the royal family in an unflattering light. Shame on us.

Take advantage of all that God offers. For it's all about who you know.

To infinity and beyond; Beyond "Pace Yourself,"

2011-03-17T19:36:00.000-04:00

FaceBook is both a blessing and a curse. In a digital world, it's just one more opportunity to get sucked into the big black hole that consumes way too much time and energy from already busy lives. FB brings good news and bad, tidbits about everyday events, details so vivid you question the writer's sanity, and an occasional deep thought that makes putting up with all the trivia worthwhile. Last week I was messaged by a friend and it was worth it.

Seems like Jensen, her daughter and a bright fifth-grader, is working on a project and wanted my input as an author. I was flattered, of course. But this project was not a typical grade school diorama or annoying fund-raising project. She was writing a book. Yes, a big, big book. A huge undertaking, to be sure.

We met up for lunch and between bites of our sandwiches, I was impressed with Jensen's work. When "Pace Yourself" came out last year, she and her parents spent each evening reading the day's selection. They enjoyed it while an idea was formulating in the youngster's head. Come January 1, she began to write. And she hasn't stopped yet.

Jensen with her parents, Christine and Brian Schram

As I looked at her hand-written journal, I read stories from her everyday life and spiritual analogies that few adults could easily discover. Her insight was pure and innocent and accompanied by a fitting scripture verse. She has written every day so far and wishes to create her own year-long devotional book. When most fifth-grade girls fret about getting cooties from the boys or wearing the right hair bow, this one is pre-occupied to journal her spiritual pathway for an entire year. When I decided to do the same in 2008, I was scared senseless. Writing everyday is so, so hard. But don't tell Jensen. In this case, ignorance is bliss.

I pray over "Pace Yourself" quite often and have ever since I began writing. I have no idea what God may chose to do with it. I pray the He will expand my borders and use me for His glory. Just the other day, I received a hand-written note in the mail. I didn't know the author of the note but was thrilled when I read her words. ". . .I can't tell you what a blessing it has been to me and how often the day's writing speaks to my heart and gives me just the message that I needed to hear that day. Thank you for all the effort and care that you put into what is obviously God has laid on your heart. I hope that another book will follow..."

I think other books will follow but don't be surprised if one of them belongs to a young girl who is focused on seeing daily God-lessons. Out of the mouth of babes...

Sticky fingers

2011-03-04T11:16:00.005-05:00

The can clearly said "Handle responsibly. Plan. Prepare. Practice. Wear gloves and protective eyewear."

So, why did I end up with my fingers glued together and stuck to the can?

In retrospect, it's sort of funny now that the dried, expandable foam has been "mechanically removed or allowed to wear off in time." But it wasn't so funny when I was frantically trying to get off the goop that was forming a cast-like enclosure around my fingers. I grabbed all the acetone I had and dunked both hands in the bowl of the fingernail polish, scrubbing hard with cotton balls and kitchen sponges. When that didn't work, I progressed to a blue colored scrubbie. Too bad that it reacted chemically with the acetone. My hands, caked with this awful stuff turned Smurf-like. Oh great. Nothing would remove the blue. Not Clorox, Not Comet. Not nutt'n. And yes, I know that's a double negative. That's how bad it was.

As I have been relentlessly picking and scraping my fingers the last couple of days, I've had time to reflect on the course of events. Could I have found some plastic or gloves before squirting out the first stream of crack filler? Yes. Could I have used something other than a bare finger to push the stuff into tiny cracks or scoop drips off the floor. Yes. Did I know the warnings? Yes. Did I care? Apparently not enough.

How bad could it be? I figured. I would just use one finger to do any necessary smoothing and clean it right away. Too bad it didn't work out that way. One finger became two, three and then four and more. But soon, the mess migrated to my other hand to the point of barely prying my fingers off the can. What a mess. I wish I could have taken a picture of my hands. But alas, Gary would have returned from work to find me, the camera and can united as one. Not a good situation. Had I only followed the directions on that blasted can. . .

But the can's directions are not the only ones I fail to heed. There are everyday, simple directions to follow. For example, speed limits are laws--not mere suggestions. But no, we think its okay to be heavy on the accelerator. Okay, that is, until we see flashing lights in our rear-view mirror.

But speeding pales in the face of other laws we choose to ignore. Let's not be surprised when we have to bear the consequences of ignoring the clearly-written instructions.

Exodus 20

1. “You shall have no other gods before me. . ."

2. "“You shall not make for yourself an image. . ."

3.“You shall not misuse the name of the LORD your God. . ."

4. “Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. . ."

5. " Honor your father and your mother,. . ."

6. “You shall not murder. . ."

7. “You shall not commit adultery. . ."

8. “You shall not steal. . ."

9. “You shall not give false testimony against your neighbor. . ."

10. “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house. . ."

Birthdays and empty rooms

2011-02-28T15:13:00.001-05:00

"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 tears of joy, either. The tears come from the tiny pinpricks in my heart; the heart that holds a child in a tight caress. The pinpricks are not mortal wounds. But something changes as the blood slowly seeps out, awaiting a healing callous. That first born no longer needs me to fold his clothes to fit just-so in his dresser drawers. He no longer needs a reminder to set his alarm or settle his accounts. He is capable of doing all that on his own.

College soccer pic 2006

That fact means that we have been at least somewhat successful in preparing him for independent living. But it also means that my role as a mom has morphed from a doer to an observer. All that pain delivering him, all the school projects and soccer games, all those ups and downs, blessings and admonishments. . .all those things are in the past. Now, I am relegated to watch from the sidelines. It will take some getting used to.

Caleb circa 2009

I just glanced into his now empty room. It's sparkling clean. No dust-bunnies playing hide and seek. No clothes strewn on the floor. The bookshelves are orderly and no mass of wires and cords seeks to tangle and strangle. The curtains are in the wash and the closet organized. It has potential to be so many things: sewing room, guest escape, or quite reading room. But to get there, I have to get comfortable about letting go of the past; the way it was.

I'll give it a day or two. Then I will embrace the future; Caleb's future.

Silence

2011-02-22T14:04:00.001-05:00

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 like quiet because it helps me focus on what I may not have noticed otherwise. Here in the office it's the soothing tick-tock of the wall clock and the rhythmic flapping of the house flag outside my window. From a deer stand, it's the rustle of a chipmunk or the sound a single leaf makes fluttering downward. And on a long run, a momentary pause makes me aware of a far-away chirp, the babble of a gentle brook or the wind rustling through the treetops. In those moments, the world seems simpler.

In our world, there is far too little quiet. We are bombarded with noise of all kind: music, traffic, honking horns, sirens, talking, cheering, screaming, the roar of machinery, TV news and so much more. Sometimes, we seem to embrace the noise, preferring its company to silence. Are we scared to be alone with our thoughts?

Quiet is hard to come by. Even in a sound proof room, one can hear his own faint but steady heartbeat. But quiet should be cherished. For in quiet, our hearts are calmed and thoughts directed.

The Psalmist says, "Be still and know that I am God." (Ps. 46:10) Why? Because it is when we are still before our Father and secure as His child, that we can live boldly in quiet confidence.

So, hush now. Be still. Be quiet. Be renewed.

"...in quietness and in confidence shall be your strength..."

Isaiah 30:15b

Lift up your head

2011-02-16T22:49:00.000-05:00

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 softly replied. "I'm afraid not." She reached out to tenderly touch the weathered wooden post. I followed her gaze upwards. I was beginning to understand.

"My daughter was killed in an accident five years ago." She shook her head sadly but bravely smiled. "This is her sign."

The sign read, "Drive safely in memory of Kristy Dawn Overstreet."

My heart skipped a beat as I surveyed her face. She was silent and strong, though I wondered if her sunglasses hid an escaping tear. My own quivering voice gave away the emotional impact of the moment. "Oh, my. I can't imagine losing a child." I felt my own eyes begin to cloud thinking about her child and my two sons. I was glad that I, too, wore sunglasses.

"It's something I can't describe. And, we were the best of friends," she added. She held out a picture of Kristy for me. As she did, her smile was politely forced. The woman's voice was wistful as she recalled happy, blissful days. I had unwittingly interrupted a mother/daughter moment.

What could I say? I offered my condolences again, awkward as it was, before continuing down the road. "You be careful along this highway," she advised. With one last look at the sign, which, incidentally, I had never before noticed, I offered a silent prayer that this woman would be cradled in the loving and gracious arms of the Father.

My mind whirled. That sign, constructed like a cross, is a memorial to the life of a young woman. It serves as a reminder of her youth and vitality. But it also serves a purpose to those who notice: it inspires, memorializes, and encourages.

That sign is not unlike another. The Israelites, under Moses' leadership, wandered about the desert for forty long years. There were good times and bad. Times of honor and dishonor, obedience and disobedience. But as they traveled from Mount Hor along the route to the Red Sea, to go around Edom, they became impatient and discouraged. They got angry at God. So God sent snakes to put things in perspective. The venomous vipers brought death to many. It was only by His grace that God provided an escape. "Moses," God said (and I paraphrase), "Make a bronze serpent and place it on your staff. Lift it high. Whoever raises their head to look upon it shall be saved." Those who looked up by faith, lived.

Several thousand years later, others needed to raise their heads in faith. A cross on a hill. The perfect God-man hanging there. A tragic, painful, unjust death witnessed. But those who looked, lived.

Yet today, that cross still stands. It inspires, it memorializes, it encourages. And yes, it still saves. An empty cross, an empty tomb. The Savior had to die. There was no other way.

Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him.

John 3:14,15

Intentions

2011-02-15T10:35:00.001-05:00

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 errant timepiece as a valid excuse for my late arrival. Sadly, but not surprisingly, my parents did not buy it. My intention to deceive brought about consequences for me and disappointment for them.

If we are to have direction and purpose in life, we must be intentional. We must determine what is important and set our course, letting nothing deter us. Our intentions must be solid. They must be substantive. But they must not stay intentions. They need to be realized.

We must carefully and consciously intend, plan, and do.

Live as children of light. . .and find out what pleases the Lord. . .Be very careful, then, how you live-not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity.

(Ephesians 5:8b,10,15,16a)

Run against--and with--the wind

2011-02-09T22:11:00.000-05:00

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. Problem was, if anyone saw me, I'm not sure they would describe my running as fast. By the time I got home, I was depressed.

But the sun came up again this morning. Fancy that. A couple of us headed out to mark a race course. I was dropped off, entered the wooded trail and took off, yellow streamers in hand. It was cold again, in the twenties. But this time, the air was still. Soon, I was calculating where to hang the next streamer. I had to make sure it could be easily seen from both directions given that this course was a forward and the reverse loop. I ran swiftly, if you discount having to stop every seventy-five yards to mark the way. I took in the morning crispness, the deer and squirrels scampering about, the stillness of the lake's water. Unlike yesterday, I felt fleet of foot, strong and powerful, runner-like. It was glorious.

I am reminded that a key to persevering in a sport is remembering that things never stay the same. A bad spot, a bad day, even a bad week, does not seal shut the coffin. It simply makes the trip a little more interesting.

Be encouraged. There will be good times and bad. But even a bad patch is good if it means that you didn't have to buy the coffin.

Training in the tropics

2011-02-08T09:17:00.002-05:00

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 course, there will be a necessity for each of us to raise our support for such a trip since none of us have such an expense budgeted. So, be aware that you might be given an opportunity to help support our trip in the near future.

Stay tuned...

Wiley Coyote

2011-02-01T11:31:00.005-05:00

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 moment, we were Pike and Long, Fremont and Muir, Lewis and Clark.

Up and up we climbed through the snow piled high. We wondered if the mountain was playing a winter game, moving it's summit further away just to tease. We were not particularly humored by that. But we were humored by the small and consistent trail of divots made in the snow by an animal, perhaps a coyote or a bob cat. Though the snow made it tough to discern the path of the trail, the creature seemed to know. Around every turn and up the rocky way, the animal stayed the course. We needed only follow its footprints to travel the trail.

There were a couple of exceptions. When the trail curved distinctly to the left, the footprints went straight. "Perhaps we should follow Wiley Coyote," I offered. "He seems to know this mountain." But we didn't. Our course swung us wide and around several switch backs. As we finally turned back to the right, there he was again. Wiley took a much shorter path straight up the mountain, now intersecting with us again. Our path followed his until further up the mountain. Another tight turn for us, a short cut for him. We were impressed. Had we the faith to follow his trail, our efforts could have been minimized.

Sometimes it's hard to discern the right course, to choose whose footprints to follow. Most of the time, it's a good idea to follow those who have gone ahead; those who have learned by experience and logged the miles. Other times, we do well to chart our own course and leave the comfort of the trodden trail. But never should we venture a step without crying out to God, "Direct my footsteps according to your word; let no sin rule over me" (Psalm 119:133)

"Pace Yourself" in the hands of Sarah Palin

2011-01-22T10:46:00.000-05:00

Yes. . .I sure did. I sent Gov. Palin a copy of my book. Though I can't imagine how much mail she gets, I sent it anyway. Why not? Other than the fact that she is a key conservative figure in today's political scene, past governor of Alaska and vice-presidential candidate, she seems "normal" enough to relate the "normal" stories found in the book.

I figured she or her girls might enjoy it. Like a dork, I even sent it with a tracking number so I could trace it's journey. How corny is that, right? I wrote her a letter and signed the book with hopes that it would end up in her hands. It did. Though the note I received back from her is standard, the signature is real. How cool is that?

Cedarville University article

2011-01-21T16:35:00.001-05:00

The public relations department at Cedarville University recently published an on-line article about yours truly. I graduated from Cedarville back when it was a college in 1978. It's a great school with strong academics, a beautiful campus, and a sound Biblical foundation.

Check it out at http://www.cedarville.edu/Offices/Public-Relations/CampusNews/2011/Extreme-Devotion.aspx

Grace givers, grace killers

2011-01-14T10:17:00.001-05:00

I am in the middle of a great read; The Grace Awakening by Chuck Swindol. It is so relevant with some of the present circumstances and people that are currently in my life. I recognize times in my own life (including a few instances as of late) where I am guilty of being a grace killer rather than a grace giver.

In short, a grace killer is one who inflicts his personal decisions onto other people, creating a long list of does and don'ts and measuring spirituality by the level of compliance. We are not talking about black and white biblical directives. Those are non-negotiable. What we are talking about are things of conscience. For example, having grown up in legalistic churches, it was pounded into me that to go to movies, play cards, dance, drink alcohol, etc, brought great displeasure to God and were, in essence, sinful. No further discussion needed. The focus was on what not to do. I John 1:9 ("If we confess our sins He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness") hung like a ready bandaid around our necks for we were told that we would need to confess our sure-to-happen transgressions 24/7.

On the other hand, one who lives by grace understands Romans 6. There is nothing that justified us to the Father other than grace. We did not contribute one iota to the process. We were as dead as the proverbial doorknob. Nor can we add to the grace that was extended to us, earning brownie points to gain higher spiritual marks. We have been freed from the bondage of the sin master. We have been given the ability to concentrate on living a life not focused on "my sin, my shame, my failure," but rather on "His forgiveness, His grace, His life." That makes all the difference in the world. Our faces transform from sad and disparaging "no" faces to glowing and cheerful "yes" faces.

Swindol offers this analogy. There is a long and twisting mountain road with dangerous curves and sheer dropoffs. The state has two options. They could build emergency clinics at the bottom of the cliffs to tend to those who fail to negotiate the curves. Or, they could place warning signs on the road to instruct the motorists to slow down and use caution. Swindol points out that while the clinic at the bottom of the cliff is useful at times, it would have been better to avoid going over the edge in the first place. He equates the clinic to I John 1:9, a sometimes necessary restorative option but one that can, for the most part, be reserved for emergency situations. But, the signs along the road are more like Romans 6. Isn't it better to live positively in righteousness than to constantly call for first aid from the clinic?

This is not to imply that confessing our sins and being restored and forgiven is not important. Indeed it is. But we must begin to realize that God has saved us so that sin no longer is master (Romans 6:13-14). Waking up in the morning to realize that we are empowered by His grace to live righteously is far better than grimly assuming that we are destined to blow it.

It's all about grace. Grace that we have been given and the grace that we extend to others to live righteously and according to conscience.

The failed eye exam

2011-01-06T14:20:00.002-05:00

Back in the day, say second grade or so, school was a fun place to be. We got to color, go to music class, make projects, have recess, and write our math problems with pencils sharpened to a dangerous, arrow-like point. At lunch time, we filed down to the multi-purpose room, a cavernous room (or so it seemed at the time) that doubled as the gym and the stage. There always seemed to be an odd combination of scrambled odors. Perhaps it was a mixture of smooshed PB&J sandwiches, those yucky green peas the cafeteria workers doled out, and the smell of sweaty children after recess. But, bells and buzzers, announcements over the PA system, and select kids proudly wearing their Safety Patrol sash and badges all made the school a mostly wonderful place to be.

That was the 60's, an era that saw the girls wearing dresses and the boys collared shirts. No jeans. No t-shirts. We said the Pledge of Allegiance every morning and had a time of prayer. And, we had health exams. Notably, a dentist would come check everyone's teeth and the school nurse performed eye exams. Quite often, I noted, a classmate would be sent for a referral for an eye check up. I knew that because they would return to school with those big, dark and disposable sunglasses. I was seriously jealous. I wanted to wear glasses and I knew that was a part of the process.

In fact, so jealous was I that the next time a school eye screening came around, I purposely flunked the exam. I knew it was the only way I would ever have a chance of donning those spectacles. So, when asked, I couldn't tell the difference between one letter and the next. It baffles me that the nurse didn't catch on but I considered myself successful when I walked out with that note to take home to my parents. I had miserably failed the eye test and they were to take me to the doctor. Yippee!

I guess I let my guard down because the doctor could not be fooled. The only thing I got out of that visit was a lecture about how much it cost. And, the only glasses to hang from my ears were the wimpy disposable ones which, by now, had lost their appeal.

Just this morning I went again to the eye doctor. (Not the same one. He's probably long dead.) I didn't even need to carry a note from the school nurse. But this time, I wasn't faking not being able to read all those letters. "Is it better with number 1 or number 2?" he asked over and over again. It was all so confusing. Sometimes the view through those googley-woogley lenses was just a big, blurry mess. But with a few clicks of the knob, the doctor was able to clear things up. I walked out of there with the same big, dark and disposable sunglasses--and a prescription for progressive lenses. I get to wear glasses after all.

I'm really not surprised that my eyesight is no longer perfect. It happens with age. First, we lose focus on the small things. It's annoying at the beginning but seriously aggravating when we can't read a price tag or a recipe. But, at least I can still see far. Right?

Wrong. I am discovering that even my distance vision is getting a little askew. The only solution seems to be a pair of glasses that will correct for both maladies. Then, I should be good to go.

This process of becoming a presbyope did not happen overnight. It was a gradual process wherein I compensated for my inadequacies as long as possible. I didn't realize just how bad I was, however, until I looked through the proper, correcting lens. Then and only then could I see clearly.

I think we often view our surroundings without the aid of a correcting lens. Rather, we accommodate small variances and get used to the idea that blur is better. . .or at least okay. It's not until we open our eyes to gaze through the correcting lens of the Truth that we clearly see right from wrong, moral from immoral, good from evil.

There is no shame in wearing spiritual glasses.

Come and see what God has done, his awesome deeds for mankind!

(Psalm 66:5)

1/1/11

2011-01-01T20:55:00.003-05:00

1/1/11. What a cool date. So cool, in fact, a toddler could easily scribble it. And in ten days, it will be 1/11/11. That's even cooler.

But like every other 1/1, resolutions come fast and furious. Some are frivolous, others profound, all well-intentioned. Many will be abandoned before the calendar flips to 2/1/11, an obviously not-as-cool date. But they say, whoever that proverbial "they" may be, that it takes a month to establish a habit. So chances are, if you can make it to February, there's a better than average chance that you may have won the initial battle.

As the clock ticks away at this premier day, I am conflicted. Conflicted about what I want to accomplish this year. What races should I run? Should I seek an 8-5 job or keep doing whatever it is that I do now? How can I get myself in front of audiences in an effort to motivate and encourage? When should I start my next book? What should it be? And most pressing, should I commit to write again everyday as I did in 2008?

I hate making these decisions and I suppose I should get them nailed down before my head hits the pillow tonight. There is some relief in doing that. But, I also understand that once a decision is made, plans need to be implemented. I'm a pretty good planner but sometimes, I lack in the follow through. In that case, my decisions fall into the resolution failure category. I hate it when that happens.

I suppose you may expect me to reveal my decisions right now. Well, not tonight. I need to think on it awhile longer. Lists need to be written, pros and cons arranged. I shall have to weigh each one in terms of what I know about pleasing God and using any talents that He has given me. So, while you are not likely to lose any sleep over this, I'll let you know what I decide later. Happy New Year.

To humans belong the plans of the heart,
but from the LORD comes the proper answer of the tongue.

All a person’s ways seem pure to them,
but motives are weighed by the LORD.

Commit to the LORD whatever you do,
and he will establish your plans.(Proverbs 16:1-3)

Topping Terrapin

2010-12-31T11:29:00.002-05:00

LCA runners atop Terrapin Mountain

After my first season as a high school head cross country coach, my finger felt the beat of adventure running through my runners' veins. They got used to following me anywhere and everywhere on local trails, putting in miles on our distance days. Sarah even decided she never wanted to run a 5K again. She named herself "UltraGirl", helped me sweep a 100-miler, and accompanied me on a 20-mile training run a few weeks back. But for now, my most serious runners transitioned to the indoor track season. I came along as their coach.

For distance runners, "indoor track" is an oxymoron. Seldom do we stay indoors. Rather, it's out into the windy, cold days of winter. While our speedy counterparts come toting shorts and t-shirts to the temperature-controlled track, my kids show up with tights, hats and gloves, and jackets. It's up the mountain, around campus, through the fields. Our faces go numb, lips unable to form intelligible words. Eyes water, fingers go cold. We slip and slide on snowy trails, grabby trees to stay upright on tight turns. Our return trip to the track office is filled with musings about hot chocolate and warm showers.

Of course, we pay our dues with speed work on the track once or twice a week. But too much track work is punishing pounding for the necessary mileage. Sometimes we get inventive. After working hard on the track Monday, putting in a two-hour trail run on Tuesday, we did hills on Wednesday. Never mind that we got to the bottom via sleds. Our workout was climbing back to the peak to go again...and again...and again.

When I suggested we go run a challenging ten-mile loop in the mountains, they jumped at the chance. A promise of a free lunch didn't hurt either. Attempts to recruit sprinters to join us failed miserably. We could only recruit a decathlete, polevaulter, and the head coach. Nevertheless, I distributed every hydration pack and bottle I had before we headed to the start. As anticipated, there was snow. What was not anticipate was how much snow.


Abby Quigg follows Trey Fisher through Fat Man's Misery

By the time we bagged Terrapin Mountain's summit, we were tired; tired of stomping through drifts that swallowed my leg knee-deep. The trip down was more of the same. Run, run, run, splat. Face plants were frequent when the snow refused to release a leg. Even the squeeze through Fat Man's Misery was met not with angst but with excited anticipation. Never once was there a complaint. Never once a whine. Just endless chatter and laughter; resounding, raucous laughter watching most of the group slip, slide, or roll down the final steep incline.

I loved this run. I love these kids. I love it that they are embracing the challenges and accepting these activities as "normal."

I love them being this gullible.

Whiter than snow

2010-12-25T20:46:00.001-05:00

To the door I marched, flipping on the outside spotlight just like when I was a little kid. A smile spread across my face, erasing all the fatigue of Christmas preparations. Filtering down from above, small white flakes fell toward the earth, turning a green yard into a landscape awash in white. It was beautiful. The snow-lined trees were now silhouetted against the dark sky. I lingered a while, watching. And then, opening the door, I stepped into the chill, spread my arms wide and lifted my chin to the sky. I took a deep, cleansing breath as the heavy, wet snow landed on my eyelids. Leaving the noise of chatter inside, I reveled in the tranquil and silent snowfall. The world seemed to slow a bit, as if wanting to silence the frenzy of Christmas day. But alas, I reluctantly returned to the climate-controlled indoors and participated once more in post-dinner conversation.

We awoke on this Christmas morn to a dusting of snow. It wasn't much but the ground was covered. It was fitting for the holiday. As the day went on and despite frequent snow showers, a gentle rise in temperature rendered my wonderful, holiday snow to disappear, changing my yard back to dismal brown. The weatherman had reported no expected accumulation so I wasn't surprised. Yet, I secretly praying he was wrong.

With dinner safely tucked into the oven, I looked to see the snow pick up again. Ah-ha! Brown was again giving way to white. My pulse raced. I excused myself, changed into tights and slipped my anxious feet into running shoes.

"See you in a little while," I uttered to whoever was in earshot. Down the long driveway I went, my feet making fresh prints in the snow. The snow was gentle, the wind still. The neighbor's cows played a game of frolic as I passed by. I think they liked the snow as much as me. Further on my journey, a hunter emerged from the woods carrying his unfired gun. We nodded to each other as we went our separate ways. I was alone with my thoughts, the cool temperatures clearing my mind. I felt alive, thankful for the moment.

All too soon, I stepped back into the warm glow of the house. It was dusk and high time to put on the final touches to Christmas dinner. As we sat down together as a family, the fellowship was savored as much as the food. There we were, me in my running clothes, Grandpa still wearing his own hunting gear, my niece in her new shirt, a Santa hat perched atop Skip's head, and the others in various stages of dress, sharing the beauty of the occasion. As snow continued to fall, it was what Christmas dreams are made of.

The forecast has now changed and the "snow showers" prediction has been replaced with snow measured in inches. I hope they are right this time. I could use another day of whiteness. For me, the snow demands a time of reflection. A time of quiet. And how perfect to have it on Christmas.

When the Christ-child was born, he came to a world darkened by sin. Atonement was necessary. And atonement is what the Lord Jesus provided as he hung on that cross 33 years later. The temple veil was ripped in two and direct access to the Father granted. As the blood sacrifices covered sin in ages past, the blood sacrifice of the Perfect Son covered our sin. No longer are we black-marked. Rather, we are washed in the redeeming red stream and purified as snow, the whitest snow ever.

Rejoice with every flake that falls. Revel in the earth's white garment. Be reminded, even when you need to shovel it.

“Come now, let us settle the matter,”
   says the LORD.
“Though your sins are like scarlet,
   they shall be as white as snow;
though they are red as crimson,
   they shall be like wool. (Isaiah 1:17-19)

The Ugly Truth

2010-12-20T12:44:00.001-05:00

I just discovered something the other night as I was adding Hellgate stories and stats to the extremeultrarunning.com website. After being delighted to report a 14 minute PR for myself, I must recant. Sad, indeed. Here is what happened.

When I looked up prior results, I stopped short when I saw a previous time for me at 15:54 since I did not remember running under 16 hours three times. Guess what? 2004 was the 15:54 but in 2007, I ran 15:40:22. My time this year? 15:40:31. Shoot. 9 measly seconds away from a PR. In the context of nearly 67 miles, that really isn't much. UGH!!!

Sorry for the misinformation. Somehow, I'm not quite as excited anymore. I was loving the idea of a PR.

Hellgate: Take 8

2010-12-16T11:53:00.003-05:00

How odd that a 67 mile race matched to the name of the parking lot at the start would be so descriptive. And who, pray tell, thought of naming that piece of land "Hellgate" in the first place? Who does that?

Images conjured up by the name "Hellgate" leap to mind. Quotes from sources such as Dante's Inferno ("Abandon hope all ye who enter here") to country crooner Rodney Atkins ("...If you're going through hell, keep on moving. Don't slow down...”) grace t-shirts handed out at check-in. And with runners arriving in the cold and ominous darkness for a midnight start, comrades instinctively join together against the waiting, sinister course. It's just not your normal race.

But a race it is. A race with such growing popularity that many are turned away not simply because of limited race slots. They are turned away because the race director regards them incapable of such an undertaking. It is a not a race for the faint-hearted or inexperienced. Each year on the second weekend of December, the rugged course, daunting climbs and technical descents draw the runners into the inky cover of darkness, some of them destined to never run into the light of day.

I know this course, this race, this pre-Christmas challenge. For each of the eight years of its existence, my name has been on the list of competitors. I’m not sure why. Each year I swear “never again.” And yet, my name appears as if written by the devil himself. To the mountains I must go. I must face the demons that await.

One year, the demons won my soul. I could not conquer the course and surrendered when I could not breathe about halfway through the required 67 miles. However, I out ran them each of the other years. Some years were harder than others to avoid being snared by their wicked grip, but never was it easy. I didn’t expect my eighth year to be anything different.

But it was. I found myself smiling at the start. I did not feel the trepidation that usually trumps all other emotions. I surged into the night anticipating what might come. I had no delusions of grandeur but was comfortable with my task. I counted sets of running steps mixed with hiking steps as the first ascent climbed skyward, headlamps above twinkling like tiny stars. My breathing was controlled; legs working well as I concentrated on small steps and mid-foot plant. Unlike other years, I climbed higher and higher passing others along the way.

Through the night I ran. I was surprised to be shoulder to shoulder with racers accustomed to being in front of me. At times I would pull away, content to take in the cold, still night alone. Occasionally I would run with- and then ahead of- female runners. I didn’t quite understand the excitement of my aid-station tending college friends upon my arrival. Why the hubbub?

Somewhere along the way I realized I was actually the second place woman. It was hard to comprehend. It had been years since I had been in the hunt and the miles through thirty seemed so easy, so effortless. Why was this happening? Had the devils left the woods?

No. I found them hiding behind the trees and lurking under rocks in their own territory: a trail we call “The Devil Trail.” A stomach turning south and waning energy from not eating chased me. So did another female runner. She passed me at about 43 miles. It was third place for me with twenty-some miles to go. My fun meter pegged zero.

I worked hard to gain a ridge high above the valley floor. I ate and drank when I could. My smile had faded but my legs kept moving albeit at a slower pace. Push. Push, I told myself even after a rock reached out to pull me to the ground face first. I didn’t like it that several men had gone by looking much more energetic than me. It was hard not to be discouraged.

But then came Rick. Rick Gray. A faithful friend with a heart as far from gray as could be. Golden, even. He is an encourager and gentleman no matter the circumstances. He was running toward a personal best, pulling me in his wake along the long, thin ribbons of trail. I let him. I needed mindless motion while I struggled to regain my strength and will.

Up and down. In and out. The never-ending trail changed as much as my emotions. I was fighting off sleep while trying to calm my stomach. I nearly lost my will in the gentle currents of the creeks we crossed. When will we be through? Where is the aid station? It seemed so pointless. Pointless until Rick softly called my name and I glanced backwards. Another woman approached, moving well. Suddenly I was awake and moving once again, trying to keep her in contact once she took the lead. Soon the initial surge wore off and the disappointment of falling into fourth position settled in. Nevertheless, her parting words haunted me, urging me onward. “Kerry’s coming.”

Not again, I wanted to scream. She was a strong finisher and certain to run me down. I barely held her off by a hundred yards in a prior year. Rick and I took on the final three mile ascent, glancing often back down the mountain. I knew she was close. I could feel it.

Crossing the gap to fall off the other side of the mountain on the final descent to the finish, I turned again. There she was. My heart jumped, spirits fell. But Rick and I ran on and on and on. . . and on. I dared not look back. My breathing became labored, arms flailing and legs heavy. It was all I could do not to give into the devil’s prompting to stop, abandoning hope even at the late hour. But over the din of the wicked one’s prompting, Rick reached out and grabbed my hand, joining with David, another runner. His message of triumph rang loud and clear, silencing the devil’s clamor. We crossed the line together, exhausted. Rick ran nearly an hour personal best. Me, a best by fourteen minutes.

Though the devil tried to dance, his music went silent.

Standing in the storm

2010-12-07T11:00:00.006-05:00

The wind buffeted us as we ran along, making the 25 degree temps feel all the more frigid. It was hard running into the wind, heads bowed forward to protect our faces and keep our eyes from tearing up. I much prefer a balmy, calm day when I need to get in some miles. But alas, we had no choice.

With another windy day on tap, I just read a friend's blog describing a recent marathon. It was a six mile loop that when running west, was directly into a stiff wind. Two pacers ran in front of her in an attempt to block the air currents making progress a bit more pleasant. But still, it was hard going. I'm sure she wished for the gale to cease.

As I began to work in the office this morning I clicked on the morning news and was captivated by a special piece on Elizabeth Edwards, presumably in her last hours. At the end of a long struggle with cancer, the story highlighted her life with all of it's ups and downs; the political scene, the pressure of being the perfect wife, the gut-wrenching lose of a son to an accident, the birth of other children later in life, a devastating diagnosis and equally devastating infidelity of her husband. Drawn from an interview in past years, she was quoted as saying that she wished her children to remember her as a woman who "stood in the storm...and adjusted her sails..." That is quite the legacy.

The analogy of a storm is not unfamiliar. Think of Jonah on that boat headed to Nineveh. The storm raged and he was thrown overboard since the crew's storm-fraught predicament was all his fault. Jonah was running hard from God, not standing tall in the face of what God asked him to do. In fact, trying to escape on that boat was his way of slouching cowardly, turning his back on God. So into the churning sea he went. I bet he never expected that big 'ol fish to swallow him up and then spit him out. But it was only when hit the beach on his knees that he could stand tall. He could stand to face the challenge because he knew his God had been in the storm with him.

Ever feel like you're in a storm? I do. Pressures, challenges, and heartache come from all directions. It is not a particularly pleasant experience. Fortunately, some come and go quickly. Others show no sign of clearing skies. Still, it is in those dark and blustery days that we must learn to stand tall in the storm. But just as important, we must learn how to sleep in the storm. Really. I'm not kidding.

Sleep is reserved for those who are at peace. Remember how the Lord was in the boat when a vicious storm arose on the Sea of Galilee? Waves washed over the sides, nearly swamping it. The disciples were frightened senseless. And yet the Lord slumbered, the disciples thinking him oblivious to their peril. Finally awakening him they said, "Teacher, don't you care if we drown?" (Mark 4:38b). I can see it now. Jesus probably gave them that “give me a break” kind of look, drew in an exasperated breath and then told the wind and waves to cease.

Silence and calm. That’s what happens when the Lord is in control. But we error if we think God was not--or is not--in control when the seas churn and the winds blow. The only difference is our ability—or perhaps, willingness—to believe that God is as much God in the storm as in calm.

Stand tall in the storm. Then find rest and sleep despite the roar of the crashing waves.

"The engulfing waters threatened me, the deep surrounded me; seaweed was wrapped around my head. To the roots of the mountains I sank down; the earth beneath barred me in forever. But you, LORD my God, brought my life up from the pit. “When my life was ebbing away, I remembered you, LORD, and my prayer rose to you, to your holy temple." (Jonah 2:5-7)

Time trials

2010-12-02T11:31:00.002-05:00

OK. I did it. I said "yes" to being the distance coach for indoor track just when I was eagerly anticipating free afternoons at the conclusion of the cross country season. But alas, I could not turn down the kids' pleas.

We started practice a few days ago. At least fifty kids showed up in the classroom for the first meeting. There was standing room only. I knew the cross country kids but everyone else was a stranger. The head coach addressed the anxious athletes, laying out the rigors and rules for the season. Then he dropped the bomb. "We will be having time trials on Thursday. You'll have to run the minimum times to make the team."

This was the first time he had decided to take this approach. In other years, all-comers were welcomed. But not now. With dwindling access to the indoor track and sprinters who don't fancy running out in the elements, he decided that stampeding the hallways of the school in large herds was not a good idea. Hence, the tryouts.

I understand but have mixed feelings about it. I look at some of my cross country kids who have hearts of lions but lack the predator's power and the speed. These kids will do anything you tell them-and with a smile-but they won't get to the finish line first. They are great team members, encouraging and supporting without hesitation or jealousy of those who are swifter. Their improvement from the first of the season to the end is measured in minutes, not seconds. Anyone of them could have been awarded the "Coach's Award" for admirable traits. But alas, now they must face the click of the stopwatch. I wonder how they will fare.

None of us like to fail by missing the mark-or see those we care about do the same. It is a painful process. But we do know that it's a part of life. Not everyone who runs wins the victor's crown. Still, my guess is that some of these kids, cross country cross-overs along with others, will not make the standard. How can I help them through this process without coddling or patronizing?

There are a bazillion quotes about failure, some of them quite poignant, others cliche'. Try these:

Fear of failure must never be a reason not to try something.” - Fredrick Smith
The greatest barrier to success is the fear of failure. - Sven Goran Eriksson
The only real failure in life is the failure to try. - Unknown
Life's real failure is when you do not realize how close you were to success when you gave up. - Unknown
Try and fail, but don't fail to try. - Stephen Kaqqwa
Failure is a detour, not a dead-end street. - Zig Ziggler
A man may fall many times, but he won't be a failure until he says that someone pushed him. - Elmer G Letterman
Failure is not falling down but refusing to get up. - Chinese Proverb

Enough of that.

But I was interested to read what Job, the persecuted and tried man of old, thought about failure. Here he was, an illustration, and flannelgraph object lesson even, used by God. His possessions, family, houses, status in life; all taken from him. The only thing left intact was his ability to take in sustaining breaths and that was not without difficulty. Did he feel like a failure? Yes. Was the process heart-wrenching and painful? Yes. Did all these maladies make him "feel" good? No. And again I scream, "NO!" It was horrible, terrifying, numbing. And yet the man never cursed God. He took what came his way and despite the misery of it, reveled in God's sustaining mercy. He came out on the other side of the adversity as a man standing tall.

So to all those who momentarily know the pain of failing-or fear that possibility-take heart. At least there is hope for a tree: If it is cut down, it will sprout again, and its new shoots will not fail. (Job 14:7)