The Rocky Ridge

Rebekah, Joy, Sue

I really wasn't counting on the rocky route across the ridge.  But there we were; three woman in their fifties ambling along. We were three-fifths of the girl contingent that converged in the mountains of Virginia. Joy, my sister-in-law, discovering she had an open week at her timeshare, had her sister, Jackie, fly in from California for the occasion. Joy's friend from childhood, Sue, flew up from Florida along with her sister, Jackie's best buddy from yesteryear. A full week of lounging, reminiscing, watching movies, cooking dinner, and other stuff one only does on vacation was planned. I was invited but could manage only a single-night sleepover and one day of fun. Still, it was better than nothing. But I digress.

The three of us more adventurous types decided on a little hike. The trail descriptions were read over and over again, trying to decipher what we were getting into. We didn't want a paved path through the woods but Joy and flat-lander Sue didn't necessarily want ten miles of treacherous trekking. After some debate, we settled on the Ridge Trail, parking up the mountain where access to the trail was easy. The route would lead us along the spine of the mountains and take us to the top of a ski trail at the Massenutten resort. From there we would descend the mountain and hike our way back to the condo. We would reclaim the truck still at the top of the mountain later. I'm pretty sure Joy mentioned something about five miles in seventy-five minutes. Hum.

"Ah, look at them. They have their little backpacks. Looks like they're prepared for a hike," I commented as we watched four grandma and grandpa types ascend the steep stairs leading to the trail. A few minutes later and just as we crested the stairs, here they came. They had enough. . .all three minutes of it.

"Good luck if you are going to hike," they quipped. "Too many rocks." But we weren't worried. They could not deter us from our adventure. After all, we were much younger.

Off we went. The trail wasn't smooth but was still runnable, I noted to myself. But we weren't there to run. We were happy hikers. After a few minutes of following the blue markings painted on rocks, we noted a blue diamond nailed to tree. "0.25 miles RT." One-quarter mile in the bag with a couple miles of Ridge Trail to go.

Conversation flowed easily as we caught up on everything. No one struggled as my companions had daily walks and fitness to count on for conditioning. However, as the trail continued, our progress slowed as the rocks, pointy and standing up on edge, seemed to rise from the surface with increasing frequency. Still, we were content to feel the mountaintop breeze and take pictures along the way.

We had read that the trail was "difficult, steep and rocky" about halfway in. "This must be what they were talking about," we surmised as we picked our way along the narrow and now much rockier trail. We had not seen additional mileage signs though numerous minutes had passed. "They must have decided not to put up anymore signs."

Sue climbing up the rocky trail

We had to reconsider our assumptions. Sections further down the trail, if you want to call it that, took us on steep rock scrambles along the very narrow ridge. No dirt. No mud. Just rocks. Lots and lots of rock, boulders, even. The journey was so interesting we even decided to sit and contemplate life for a few moments every so often. It would have been nice to "contemplate" over a sip of water. . .but we didn't have any. Unfortunate.

After what seemed like a very long time, we spotted one of those blue diamonds. "1.75 miles. RT"

"1.75 miles?!?!?" We were incredulous. How could that be? We figured we had traipsed at least three and a half rocky miles by then. But we had no recourse other than putting one foot in front of the other. We could see the ski slope off to the left along the same ridge and knew we were getting closer.

Continue on we did. We were pleased that no one had tripped, bloodied themselves, or fallen to an untimely death. No concussions. No twisted ankles. No heat stroke and no one would likely die from dehydration. Those rocks had nothin' on us. We came, we saw, we conquered...

Conquered, that is, until the rocks gave way to kinder, much gentler trail. It was easy going, nothing compared with what we had just done. We relaxed, our pace quickened. . .and then we all repeatedly tripped, stumbled, and faltered. What's with that? A life lesson, that's what.

When you think about it, we are forced to concentrate on the here and now in a time of crisis or hardship. Instinctively, we focus our attention, keenly aware of our surroundings, circumstances, and necessary actions. We read our Bibles, pray, meditate, and solicit God's guidance in every waking minute. We are steadfast. We are strong. But as soon as the storm passes, we relax to the point where we lose mental and spiritual acuity. We simply proceed on in an automatic gear. Should we really be surprised when we stumble over the easiest obstacles, awakening only as we hit the ground?

Be steadfast. Steadfast when the way is difficult. Even more steadfast when the path is smooth. Take nothing for granted.

And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.

(I Peter 5:10)

Pushed to new limits

"To the line, Group 1. Ready? Go. Keep it steady. Hold that pace!"

Group 1 took off on their appointed task, leaving Group 2 on deck and Group 3 in the hole. I held stop watches in both hands, trying to time laps and rest periods for the twenty-some teenagers making their way around the track. Lap after lap, they started, stopped, and sucked down gallons of water on command. Their faces told the story.

After casual running throughout the summer, this practice was the first true test of so many things: fitness, speed, endurance, motivation, discipline, and of course, attitude. I tried to prepare them mentally for this difficult workout: a ladder run at tempo for 400, 800, 1200, 1600, 1600, 1200, 800, and 400 meter distances. The rest periods were slim at 1, 2, 3, or 4 minutes between the various rungs. It was tough; I proved that in the surreal fog of the early morning hours prior to practice when I ran the workout alone. I had told the kids I would never ask them to do what I was unwilling to do. Hence, my own fast paced laps.

I was interested to see how they would respond. With the sun climbing higher in the sky and not a cloud to provide shade, the kids persisted. Each time they came to the line they brought with them determined faces despite fatigued muscles and labored breathing. No one complained. No one whined.

By the time the last runner crossed the line, they were exhausted. Yet, I could tell they were pleased. It was a tough workout and they had divided, conquered, and returned with honor.

I am proud to call them "my" team.

(Describing the August 17 pre-season workout and in honor of the 2010 Liberty Christian Academy Cross Country team.)

Bye-bye

"Lord," I prayed this evening before supper, "thank you for this beautiful day and safety as we went about our separate ways. Thank you for my run in the mountains and the jobs that the boys both have and now for this food that you provided. Help us to have a great evening together and . . .Well, OK. Bye."

"Ok. Bye." WHAT did I just say?!? Did I just say bye-bye, adios, Ta-Ta, Auf Wiedersehen, farewell to God? Yes. Without a doubt, I did. Seth told me so. There was a moment of silence before Caleb tried to suppress a laugh. Seth joined in and before I knew it, my eyes misted over as I clutched my side in raucous laughter. The more I thought about it, the more I laughed. And the more I laughed, the more the boys did the same. It was ridiculous. But, I bet God laughed, or at least snickered, as well.

Was I irreverent to say "bye" rather than a hearty "amen" at the end of my prayer? If I was, I certainly didn't intend to be. I know we are to approach the throne of our King with piety and great consideration. But I know that this heavenly King is also a Father who wants us to approach often and without hesitation. Do we not say hello and good-by to our fathers when coming or going? Why not with God the Father?

Sometimes we think that we have to go through some elaborate process to speak to God. I also think we make it too complicated. I once had a pastor who suggested we never say a final "amen" at the end of a prayer because it is, well, so final. It's as if we can take a big 'ol red pencil and check off that box on our to-do list. But what if we didn't say amen but rather utter, "Bye-bye. Talk to you soon" just like we do with our friends? Do you think we would leave with the expectation of continuing the conversation? I do.

Let's be careful not to compartmentalize prayer as if it should only occur in church or in special times of need. Keep the lines of communication open regardless of day of the week or time of day. Anticipate a great conversation. Listen for His call and respond on bended knee. . . or in the car, the cereal isle, or the repair shop. Anytime. Anywhere.

And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the saints.

(Ephesians 6:18)

Answered prayer

I should have written this over a week ago. Why didn't I?  Am I not happy, delighted even? Is my relief almost palpable? Then why wait?  I guess life got in the way and inspiring words went missing. So now, I must write. I can wait no longer.

If you have followed this blog over the last several months, you will remember the unique set of circumstances the our oldest son, Caleb, found himself in. After an unfortunate and completely unanticipated medical discharge from the Navy, his plans were turned topsy-turvy, his future uncertain. Since then he has been biding his time at home, deciding that a job at Liberty University might be a good alternate flight path: a steady income, benefits, and free tuition. Only problem is, those jobs are hard to come by.

Like all huge organizations, it seems like you have to know someone to get a foot in the door. We knew a few people in the IT department, Caleb's field of choice. Still, it was a long shot. But Caleb took the advise given him, completing an on-line application and applying for an apprentice position. Such a position pays little more than minimum wage but offers full benefits and free tuition, a necessary component allowing him to finish his degree. He would be delighted with that. Then we prayed.

After several long weeks of waiting (see a pattern here?), the call came. "Can you come in for an interview?"  This was just what we had hoped for. He prepared himself by talking with a VP of a large IT firm, absorbing all his wisdom about how to succeed. Then he went and bought a book to study to prepare for an A+ certification. Don't ask me what it is. Just know it is an impressive credential to have and shows that you know something about networks. He read 300 of the 600 pages immediately. On the day of the interview, Caleb left the house looking very handsome and polished, his confidence appropriately high. He returned with a smile--but no firm answer. His interview went well and his network problem-solving test was successful. He would have to wait...again.

An answer was promised in a week. On or about day six, my phone rang as I was rummaging about in the wide Wal-Mart isles in quest of a few needed items. "Mom. I have some news," Caleb reported.

My heart leaped. He got the apprentice job, I thought to myself. Yahoo! But wait. There was more.

"Actually," he continued, "I didn't get the apprentice job...they decided to make me an associate right away! Full time, full benefits, decent salary and free tuition. Can you believe it?" I heard the excitement in his voice. I felt immediate relief.

Me, the emotional being that I am, started sniffling right there in between the small appliances and the ironing boards. "What an answer to prayer. You do know it is an answer to prayer, don't you? So many people were praying..."

"Yes, Mother. I know."

Sometimes what we "know" and "believe" are two separate things. May we never, ever forget that our God hears us and answers. . . in His own time, in His own way. . .even when our faith is small.

So we fasted and petitioned our God about this, and he answered our prayer.

Ezra 8:23

Keep on keeping on

Don't you just hate it when you think you're making progress but have nothing to show for it? It's like when you are trying to lose a few pounds but the scale just won't cooperate. You even go out to buy a new scale. Surely, the calibration in the old one is wayyyyyy off.

Or, how about this? A long road trip is required and you are eager to arrive at the destination. The signs all point north and display decreasing miles to the city's border. Decreasing that is, until a detour routes you in the opposite direction. Ugh! Though you continue to move, it hardly seems like forward progress.

I've been feeling that way as of late. This new-fangled Garmin GPS watch is both a blessing and a curse. I feel compelled to strap on the heart rate monitor and hook the watch to my wrist every time I step out the door. With anticipation, I head down the road after pushing the right buttons. Knowing that is is measuring out my time and distance, I don't feel too relaxed since that smart-alek watch will quip "Behind by "x" seconds" should a faster run have been recorded. I try not to look at my watch, which, truthfully, I can't see very well without my glasses anyway. But I don't want to take a chance on being discouraged. So, I simply press on.

Once back at home, the watch starts talking to my computer and before you know it, my course is mapped out, minimum, maximum and average hearts rates, speed, and elevation gain and loss all laid out for me to see in pretty graphics. Sometimes, I can only sigh at the report, disappointed on some level. Other times, there is a slight improvement and with that, a small glimmer of hope. But what I am really looking for is not a glimmer, not a sliver, not a smidgen but a great big, bright and beautiful door that shows the way to grand improvement.

Alas, I still wait for that door to open and the light to come streaming in. I am working hard. I am back to charting my daily performances and recording my every move. I'm even trying to keep up with those young whippersnappers on my cross country team. Surely, I should start to see some improvement soon. I look at times for specific runs recorded years ago and compare that to nowadays. I can't fathom (or even remember) what it was to run like that. Now, I doubt I can ever regain the speed of yesteryear but it sure would be nice to achieve some gains.

How long will it take for those gains to come? How many weeks (or months) will I need to sweat and struggle to achieve my goals? I don't know. You would think that a little more time will stop the watch quicker on my daily run and get me through those mountains before the heat of day catches me. But I'll never know unless I keep on moving. Keep on trying.

I am reminded of my spiritual journey; a journey that at times seems to be going nowhere fast. I become discouraged in my own spiritual growth and even more so in my inability to minister effectively to others. It feels like my Biblical scale is broken and my spiritual watch only reports deficiencies. And yet, I must remember to press on though I have no idea where the course will take me or how long the traverse will be. I must keep on keeping on.

Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. All of us who are mature should take such a view of things. (Philippians 3:12-15a)

Book signing is scheduled

On September 16, 2010 from noon until 2 p.m., I will be doing a book signing at the Barnes and Noble Bookstore on the campus of Liberty University.  If you're in the area, stop by, chat, and pick up a copy of the book. These make great everyday reading gifts for friends, family...and yourself.  It's the book that lasts all year long!

Friend, Friendly, Friendliest (a.k.a. Good, Better, Best)

For years and years, I looked forward to the Sears catalog arriving at our house. In particular, the Christmas catalog was the best. Hundreds of pages filled with images conjured up visions of what it would be like to have that "Easy Bake Oven" and "Creepy-Crawler" maker. But somewhere in between those pages holding my highest interest was the section on home goods and appliances; something slightly irrelevant to a young girl. But even the eyes of a youngster could see a pattern. The catalog writers promoted their goods as a continuum of value. Hence, good, better, best.

I got to thinking about that tonight. On the way out the door, one of our sons (who shall remain nameless) said, "Just because you don't have any friends to go hang with...."

Somewhere between taking offense and laughing raucously at such a statement, my brain lit up when millions of synapses connected all at once--and trust me, that doesn't happen too often these days. Though I held my tongue, my mind screamed out, "Whoa there, Buckaroo. That's just enough."

Gladly, we do have friends; lots of them. Some are the good kinds. You know the type. We can remember their names (most of the time), carry on conversations and share a few laughs. They are certainly more than acquaintances but we may not be stoked about spilling our guts to them about our deepest concerns. Most of us could fill a page with the names with these kind of friends. That's a good thing.

Then we have the better kinds. The relationship goes a little deeper. We share common ground whether it be work, families or faith. We might get together over supper or even take to the road on a joint vacation. The walls of our lives become more transparent and our inadequacies difficult to hide. But still, there is a back hallway that remains off limits, some things better left untouched. The names of these friends could also fill a page--as long as it isn't the size of a large legal pad.

But finally, we have those friends who mean the world to us; the best kind. These are the people that would drop everything to tend to you. If good news is the topic of the day, they will know it before the sun sets. When difficulties come, their number is on your speed dial and in your email address book. They know when to ask probing, uncomfortable questions and they know when to keep their mouth shut. They know how to encourage. They take extra care not to discourage. They know when chocolate is needed; lots and lots of fine dark chocolate. They will laugh and cry with you, having plenty of tissues on hand for either occasion. When they say they will pray, they do. When they say they will help, they come armed with all that is needed, even if that means cleaning a yucky bathroom or helping to tile a wall. They do not lead astray. They keep your best interest in mind. Even if circumstances or miles separate, the friendship cannot be extinguished. We are fortunate if the names of these kind of friends can fill a small note card. Actually, make that a Post-it note.

I have a special group of friends. We call ourselves the "Sisters of Mercy." There is little that we don't know about each other (although I did find out today that one of them was a waitress at a swanky restaurant for some period of time.) Ladies Night out is our therapy session, locks colored and toenails painted in the process. We know what is going on--or not--with all of our kids. There is no pretense of perfection; just simple honesty. There is a code of respect about what is said and what should never be repeated. The Sisters are quick to come to the aid of one who is hurting. You can act goofy and look ridiculous and they won't care. They may even join in. They will love, laugh, hug, encourage, commiserate, and yes, even admonish when necessary.They'll tell you if your new haircut sucks. It is like the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, only better. Much, much better. For what binds us together is not based on emotion or convenience or similarities. If you saw us all together, we are as different as night and day, salt and pepper, hot and cold. What binds us together in sisterhood is our Father, from who we all find our being and purpose.

My son reminded me of how grateful I am for my Post-it note friends. Thank you, girls. I treasure y'all (which is Southern for "The whole stink'n lot of you").

If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!
(Ecclesiastes 4:10)

Update on Caleb

Just thought I would let everyone know what is happening with Caleb.  If you have been a blog reader, you know that he was medically discharged from the Navy for a dime-sized spot near his belly button.  They said it was psoriasis which is a deal-breaker for being in the military.  After three horrendous weeks in the discharge unit, he came home two weeks ago today.

With hopes that he could turn around and go right back in with a diagnosis other than psoriasis, he visited a local dermatologist.  She said she saw no evidence of psoriasis.  Good news, right?  Not really. Since everything was clear, she could not make a definitive diagnosis.  So, the  rapid re-entry is off the table.

The plan is to stop using any ointment and see if it comes back.  If it does, he will have it biopsied with hopes of a more definitive diagnosis since it could be a simple dermatitis.  If that were the case, he could wait a year and then reapply and start all over.  It's along shot but...

In the meantime, he is looking for a job. Caleb has his application in for a full time position at Liberty University which, after six months, would extend free tuition to him.  He also has his resume in at a large IT firm.  This week he will be following up on those jobs and looking for others.  We are praying that he would soon be encouraged by a job and new direction for his life.

Thank you all for your concern, notes, and prayers on his behalf.

Every little step

Yes! What a score!!!

I was excited. Really excited. I had wanted a GPS watch for quite a while. But now that I am a cross country coach with miles of trails at my fingertips, I want to be able to send the kids out on runs of known length. So, on the way home from an appointment I stopped in at a local sporting goods store to look at their selection of devices. I had no intention of buying since I was confident I could get a better internet deal. I wandered the store and found nothing. A simple question to a sales associate, however, sent me to a disheveled sales table.

"I think there was one of those green Garmin 'thingees' in here somewhere," she said as we began rifling through the disorganized bins. I found bits and pieces of a cheap tin camping cook set, fishing lures and countless other items, most sans their original packaging. But suddenly, I spotted it: the allusive green Garmin Forerunner 405. I tried to control my excitement, my pulse quickening with anticipation. I began to search in earnest for all the components, the instruction book lighting the way as to what I was looking for. Little by little, I placed each found piece in a ziplock bag labeled with a price tag of $349.00. Too rich for my blood. However, for the trouble of a successful search and find mission and some wrangling with the manager, I walked out of the store with the watch, books, heart rate monitor and all the adapters, chargers and USB sticks for $175 even. Thank you, Lord!

Now, I just have to figure out how to use this modern piece of technology. The touch-tone bezel is new to me; simple taps of the finger on the watch replace cumbersome buttons. It can record heart rate, courses, elevation gains and losses, speed, mileage, GPS position, and can even guide you back to where you started. It interfaces with your computer and creates lovely charts and graphs. You can set it for interval workouts, repeats, and hill work torture tests. The possibilities are endless.

Last night I strapped it on and headed out the door. I tapped the bezel and pushed one of the two buttons as I remembered the booklet to instruct. However, without my glasses, I had a hard time reading the watch face as I sauntered along. It was only upon my return that I saw that the battery went dead somewhere along the way. I'll have to get used to an eight-hour battery life and plan better. Nevertheless, with great anticipation, the watch and computer had a successful conversation once I snapped on the charger. I was amazed.

There, right before my eyes, was a graph of my run. One line showed the ups and downs (but mostly ups) of my heart rate. Hum. No wonder it felt so hard. Another line on the graph showed my pace. Ugh. Not very impressive. I'll chalk it up to the heat, humidity and too much meatloaf for dinner. A click on an icon pulled up a chart of the average pace, heart rate, feet of elevation gain and loss and a myriad of other parameters, even the calories spent. (Yes! I can have a snack!) And, it even showed a map of my route, that is, the route before the battery went dead. Pretty cool.

When I wear this watch, I can't cheat. It knows when I go fast, slow, or in between. It even flashes "Off course" if I leave a pre-determined path. It records the thub-dub of every heart beat and knows every second spent in motion or stopped dead in my tracks. Scary. At least when you think about it.

Oh dear. How often do I forget that my every heart beat, my every step, the thoughts and intentions of my mind and my actions, big and small, are all within the purview of my heavenly Father?  There is no escape; there is no battery to go dead. I have a feeling that if I really understood that, my everyday behavior might be different.

O LORD, you have searched me

and you know me.

You know when I sit and when I rise;

you perceive my thoughts from afar.

You discern my going out and my lying down;

you are familiar with all my ways.

Before a word is on my tongue

you know it completely, O LORD.

Psalm 139:1-4

Golf ball run

The air was hot and thick. I was covered with sweat, my arms and legs brown and dirty. I had just finished shoving downed branches and limbs through my chipper. It was a filthy job but I needed mulch; it was worth the effort. But now, with daylight promising to fade, I simply took off down the road to get in a short run. I should have changed shoes but didn't take the time. I noticed my heel was hurting and any spring in those worn-out shoes was long gone miles ago. I felt sluggish, running merely out of obligation and guilt. I didn't feel very inspired.

When I got to my pre-determined turn-around point at the top of a hill, I started back down. Off in the weeds I noticed something white and round. "Ah, a golf ball," I thought to myself. "I should pick it up." But why? I don't play golf nor does anyone else in my family. Still, it's hard not to pick up a found item no matter what it is. I feel a sense of pride every time I return home with some random object, showing it off to whoever will give me the time of day. So, compelled to do so, I picked it up and ran on. But not very far.

Soon, I saw another and another strewn along this lightly-used country road. They were not clumped together. Rather, over the course of a mile and a half, I continued to find perfectly good golf balls. And since I picked up one, I was compelled to pick up all the others. Soon, I had four in each hand and another eight or so stuffed into my running bra. It was quite a sight. My chest had turned into a voluptuous, albeit bumpy, uniboob. Talk about some bounce. The chested balls had a tendency to pop out as I ran, sending me to chase them as they rolled down the road. But chase them I did, wondering what circumstance produced this smattering of golf balls along my route while hoping that none of the neighbors were watching. My run now had purpose and I was delighted.

About a half mile from home and just when I could not find another millimeter of bodily storage space for the next found ball, there in the ditch was a basket, the kind you find at a driving range. My growing and carried load had a new home. Good thing. I found another half dozen before turning down the driveway.

Did I need those golf balls? Hardly. Was it fun to find them? You bet. Almost as much fun as finding all those candy-laden eggs my Grandma used to hide come Easter morning. Thank God for small pleasures. Proudly, I placed the basket full of golf balls on the counter and waited for the questioning to begin.

Birthday mishap: A tribute to my now 19-year old son

 (Taken from the July 14th story from Pace Yourself: 366 Devotions From the Daily Grind.)

Five years ago to the day we were sitting in our lawn chairs at “church.” At the time, our start-up fellowship was meeting in a three-car garage, worshiping without the trappings of a formal sanctuary. Our church had just suffered a split and I was preoccupied with a bad work situation. I didn’t have it together.


Sitting in that hot garage, I glanced over at Seth. To my surprise, tears streamed down his face. To coin a phrase, “Oh dear, what could the matter be?” The matter was this: we had forgotten Seth’s 11th birthday. The young boy was distraught. He could not be consoled regardless of heart-felt apologies. No “Happy Birthday” upon rising, no special breakfast, no unique gifts. It was just a lot of nothing.

Seth eventually got over his disappointment and to this day, it is one of our long-standing family jokes. So, as the sun set last night, I made sure to get in the first birthday greeting in anticipation of today. I certainly did not want him to think I could forget his birthday. . .again! On the way home from work, I made a stop to pick up some plaid shorts as a gift. I was relieved he liked them; he can be pretty picky. Whew. Another birthday without incident.

Kids are wonderful. Each has their unique personality, sense of humor, strengths and weaknesses. Seth has been “busy” since conception. In utero, he made like a chicken trying to peck his way out. As an infant he refused to sleep longer than twenty minutes at a time and was a front-runner to be a poster child for colic.

After him, no more kids for me. Maybe Leah thought the same thing after Judah's birth. Perhaps he was difficult as well. “She conceived again, and when she gave birth to a son she said, ‘This time I will praise the LORD’. . . Then she stopped having children” (Genesis 29:35).

At four, Seth rode his motorcycle through the woods as fast as he could, standing on the seat like a pipsqueak Evil Knievel. In school, he was the center of attention. And now, as a young man of seventeen, he is an outgoing, know-no-stranger kind of guy, full of wanderlust and enthusiasm. His camera is a constant companion.

I thank God for Seth. He’s a special kind of kid.

“and she gave birth to a son and named him Seth, saying, "God has granted me another child.” (Genesis 4:25)

Daily challenge: Little kids are like kittens: cute and easy to love. But don’t be blind to the beauty in your big kids.

"Recalculating"

Gary steered the car along the exit ramp and turned left into a gas station. "Recalculating," she said. "She" is the tiny little woman who resides inside our GPS unit. I shall call her Gertrude.

Gertrude can be a great help. This past weekend we traveled to a family reunion in Pennsylvania. I carefully plugged in the address of my aunt's house. Sure enough, zipping along the interstate, over hill and dale and through the rolling countryside, we successfully pulled into the driveway at our destination. Gertrude had been good to us. However, she was not always happy with us.

Several times we ran into construction and re-routing along a detour. Gertrude did not approve. She clearly took issue when we took an unexpected turn. She annoyed us with her constant "Recalculating. Recalculating." When the detour took us in a big circle, she cried out even more. We didn't want to hear it. In fact, we even unplugged her when we thought we knew better.  Apparently, either she did not understand what was going on or she protested because we were in err. Hum...

Sometimes it was hard to figure out where to go. Gertrude told us one thing while the atlas suggested otherwise. What to do? What to do? If we chose the map, Gertrude protested. Protested, that is, until she  convinced us that her route would get us where we needed to go. She then fell silent, content that her will and the map's will matched. It was a peaceful, easy feeling.

I've been feeling a bit conflicted myself, hearing "recalculating" as recent events forced a course change. I bet Caleb feels the same way. The way seemed so clear, so obvious. But then unanticipated construction - or was it destruction? - caused a detour. Around and round we all went, losing our perspective. Where are we? Where are we supposed to be going? But now, though traveling an unfamiliar road, Gertrude's voice remains calm, directing us little by little. The final destination is still in the distance, the route unclear, but the wheels are turning in the right direction.

I run in the path of your commands, for you have set my heart free.

Psalm 119:32

Still waiting

It is so hard to wait. . .just ask Caleb.

It is now one day shy of three weeks when Caleb was told that his dime-sized red spot on his belly button was a deal breaker to stay in the Navy. That decision sent him immediately to a holding division, so grief stricken that he could only sit in stunned silence on the cold, hard tile floor, his back against the unforgiving wall.  He bore the pain alone until he was able to call Gary the next day. He was distraught, nearly destroyed. It was then that we plunged into the depths of disappointment and angst, waiting along with him, wanting to reach out and hold him, wanting to ease his hurt. And we wait still.

The occasional phone call tells us that despite the conditions, his wait for discharge has moved from a full-blown knock-out punch to incomprehensibility to a glimmer of hope to an ultimate acceptance of what he cannot change. It has been a hard process.

The holding division is a place where bureaucracy meets inefficiency. The result is a no-mans land of endless days and nights with nothing to do. There are up to 80 men in residence at any one time. Some are there for medical discharges. Some because they tried to run away. Many others are being discharged for new diagnoses of anxiety, stress, and even attempted suicide. They rise at 6 a.m. each morning to face a purposeless day. Except in a lounge where access is limited, there is no furniture to sit on. Beds are off limits, the concrete-tiled floor their only option. Some books are available and an occasional DVD movie is allowed. They cannot go outside. There is no exercise. There are no tasks. There are no knives at meals to limit suicide attempts and no shoe strings for fear of the same. They all simply wait.

Caleb decided to work as he waits. He volunteered to be the yeoman for the unit; scheduling appointments and completing volumes of paperwork. He gets to sit in one of the few chairs. Still, he waits to see his name come through on the departure list. He hates it that his original graduation date quickly approaches and he is no longer part of it. He is in limbo; a place where frustration and shattered dreams collide.

But out of the dust, the soul survives. Something in his brain has clicked. He has accepted the inevitable and entertains future options. He will get second opinions and assuming a diagnosis different than the Navy's, may pursue his option to obtain a congressional waiver and re-enter the fray all over again. Our congressman stands willing and at the ready. But he also considers full-time employment, working his way through to finish his degree. His planning tells us that though the stealth tsunami violently tumbled him into a deep and dark sea, he will hit the beach alive and well.

May we all learn a vital lesson as we further wait; wait for answers.

I wait for you, O LORD; you will answer, O Lord my God.   

Psalm 38:15

Father knows best

Who could have imagined the events the last week have brought? We were living high on the continuing stream of good news trickling out from Great Lakes, Illinois. Caleb had entered Navy basic training and excelled in every way. We were shocked (pleasantly so) to see him transform from a laid-back, somewhat unmotivated kid to a man with a passion for excellence. He was at the top of his division. He scored perfectly on the tests. He did everything right.

Then last Friday, one dime-sized red spot on his belly button turned the world upside down. A referral to a dermatologist and a less than 30 second assessment ended it all for Caleb. When the word "psoriasis" was written on the record, this disqualifying condition rendered him unfit for military service. That's it. End of story. No exceptions. He was removed from his division and placed, like a leper, in a holding compartment (barracks) to wait out his discharge. Despite valiant efforts from my Navy captain brother and the commanding officer who tried everything he could to find a way to keep my son, he will be sent packing next week.

How do we reconcile what we thought for sure was God's will for Caleb and what has happened? It seemed to be exactly what Caleb needed at this time in his life. Things were going so swimmingly. The Navy was going to be his perfect ticket to pay off student loans, finish a degree, and partake in the best nuclear engineering training possible. The circumstances all pointed to the fact the God had ordained this path. But what should we think now? Were our assumptions wrong?

Does God still care? I know intellectually that He does. Has He abandoned my son? A good Father doesn't do that. Did He make a mistake or was the mistake ours to misinterpret the facts? Hard questions all in a time of crisis...except for the one about God making a mistake.

There are many instances when we can only see the work of God's hand in retrospect. Perhaps this is one of those times. It seems as though these short five weeks have developed a side of Caleb that we had never before seen. Maybe all these recent days in the holding compartment and the endless hours of introspection and conclusions reached were reason enough for this short-lived journey.

If I truly believe that God does have a perfect plan for Caleb, and I do, then I have to accept this surprise ending as a part of that plan. But it's hard. I cry because Caleb cries. I am disappointed because Caleb is disappointed. I grieve because my son grieves at the loss of a dream. I would do anything I could to "fix it." But I can't. I have neither the power nor position to fix anything.

It's easy to trust God when the way is clear and the path well lit. But do I trust Him when the road becomes shadowed and dark? I must. For the mere presence of the shadow proves the existence of the light; the light of the Father. And truly, my Father knows best.

Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul. Psalm 143:8

Anatomy of a DNF

I had been worried.  Worried that I had been working on a fibular stress fracture in my right leg. I hadn't told anyone about it but had done the research. I had all the symptoms supporting the diagnosis. I decided to head to Ohio anyway and hope for the best. This was to be a special run with my brother. It was to be his first 100-mile finish. I need not have worried about the leg.

I left early Friday morning for the long drive to the Mohican State Forest where the race was being held. It was a glorious day, even cool enough to wear a jacket for a time as I sped through the countryside in my little Miata convertible. As the day wore on, I thought about putting the top up to get out of the sun. But, since I had on sunscreen and drank lots of fluid, I figured I'd enjoy the wind-blown look for a little longer.

Upon arriving at the busy campground, host to the start and finish, I found my quite, wooded campsite and happily set up camp. My brother, John, had not yet arrived with his crewman, Chris, and daughter, Hannah. With tent pitched, I grabbed my phone to check messages. I listened to my husband's strained voice falter as he spoke. "Caleb called and it's not good news." My heart stopped.

Caleb has been at Navy basic training since mid-May and has excelled. He has fully embraced the training and scored perfectly on tests. He has been at the top of his division. Now, another physical for the guys in the nuclear engineering program was given.  A doctor said he had a very mild case of psoriasis on his scalp.  For that, he was immediately removed from his division and the Navy is processing his discharge from the military. End of discussion. How could this be? How could this be?

With trembling fingers, I called Gary. As he filled me in on the details, another phone rang in the background. "Let me take care of this situation," Gary said. I had a sickening feeling. It must be Seth. It was. Last week, Seth's Mac Book was destroyed with an unfortunate encounter with moisture. A photographer without a computer is like a cook without a stove. Now the news was that his professional camera and expensive lens had been stolen. No insurance. That is like a cook without the entire kitchen.

Within just a few moments, the stupid race lost its appeal. No draw at all. I wanted to get in my car and run home to cry on my husband's shoulder. I knew it wouldn't help but it would make me feel better. I felt so lonely, so isolated, so helpless sitting on that rustic picnic table. Lord, I cried out, what are you trying to do? What are your trying to teach us? I lost my appetite. I felt sick. I cried.

In time and still waiting for John to arrive, I drove to the pre-race dinner. In my arms I carried a box of new books that I hoped to sell.  But the place was a zoo and not conducive to such things. I looked for familiar faces and saw none. With dinner behind schedule, I chose to hide in a corner and charge my now-dying phone. I wished there to be a plug for me as well.

My brother and company arrived and showed me love and sympathy. At their urging, I stood in line for the few rotini noodles that remained along with a little bit of salad. I drank one glass of whatever it was. That was my tasteless and meager dinner. The pre-race briefing that followed was just as disappointing, my disposition perhaps clouding my judgment. There didn't seem to be a lot of substance or helpful course information. We slipped out before the crowd.

Back at camp, I tried to think through drop bags. I couldn't focus. It was like wallowing in mud. Eventually, I decided on two bags for aid stations inaccessible to crew.  Just a pair of socks and a different shirt. I mindlessly filled my hydration pack making sure to carry plenty of electrolytes. I was sure to need them. I brushed my teeth and drank a little bit of water before retreating to my tent.

Alone again, I cried out to God. I wondered how Caleb must be feeling, isolated from his division, his promising career being yanked out from under him.. . . and just when he had found his passion and started to excel. And Seth, my goodness. . .the lessons he has had to learn in the past few weeks. I ached for my boys; ached so hard it hurt. What more could go wrong? Drunk, arguing couples, yelling and screaming. That's what. Besides my mother's angst, the racous outside my tent and down the hollow robbed me of much needed sleep. I figure I restlessly slept for 30 minutes.

John and I took to the start line. Someone said "go" so we did. I took small sips of my electrolyte drink often. I knew I had to if I was to survive the predicted heat and humidity. At about six miles, we stopped briefly to pee. I was surprised. I could only produce a trickle and it was nearly brown. Uh-oh. At mile 11, I felt my left calf quiver. Double uh-oh. I upped my drinking and chewed on more electrolyte blocks.

John and I talked as we ran, catching up on family news and events that get lost when living miles apart. We enjoyed seeing our crew and appreciated what they did for us. I ate what I could and tried to drink substantial amounts of fluid when we saw them and at other aid stations. The 23 miles of road, some exposed to the sun, found me having to draw up to a walk with increasing cramping after short distances of running. It was in the 90s with equal humidity.

I looked forward to the crew-inaccessible aid stations with hopes of a variety of food and cold, cold drink. I was disappointed more times than not. I pulled out every trick in the book to get a handle on my fluid and food intake. My pee continued to get darker and the drips minimal. I was worried. A knife-like pain was in my distended stomach. I puked about ten times in succession and for the moment, felt better. Maybe I could pull this out after all.

At 52 miles, we met our crew. I sat so I didn't fall. I was so hot yet had chill bumps. I forced myself to drink, made easier with ice availability. The standard chips, pretzels, some chocolate chip cookies, and a few PB&J sandwiches had no appeal. But, when Chris handed me an apple, it tasted great-especially when I added some peanut butter. I took more electrolytes before heading across the road and down the other side.

Within the next mile or two, I noticed that the cramping in my calves, hanstrings, hands, and even my chest muscles was subsiding. We ran for extended periods of time. My legs even felt strong. It looked like I finally got my electrolytes levels worthy of muscle function. And yet, I struggled still to eat or drink, gagging every time. Pulling into the next aid station, I entertained them with throwing up whatever was left in my stomach. It was like I was renting the food; not using it. I was sad and distraught. I sobbed, little wussy girl that I was.

The miles seemed to be so long. The tank was empty. My gut hurt with the impact of downhill running. Back at the start/finish, which was also mile 65, the only thing I could think about was quitting and getting a shower to relieve the pain in my privates. I could not bear to think about struggling on in this 102 mile race. I know that things don't always get worse and found that to be true when my cramping went away. Still, I had not been able to eat, drink, and keep down much of anything for the last 32 miles. My pee was scant and dark yellow, the agonizing sting indicative of acidity-induced chaffing.Why should I think anything would change for the next 37?

Then, there was my brother. He had been letting me lead. I was jealous of the way he was able to eat and drink and even envied his clear, frequent, and copious amounts of urine. Yes, we had thirteen hours to do 37 miles. Should be so easy. But still, if my tank was empty and I never rebounded, I could easily ruin his buckle quest. I was tired. I was distraught. If I tried to go on, my failure might induce his. I apologized for my weakness and watched him run off into the darkness.

At 28:01 into the race, my brother and his daughter crossed the line. Tears poured out of his eyes as he ran into my arms. Hannah cried as well, looking at him and saying, "Happy Father's Day." John was exhausted, his feet a mess. But he did it. I could not have been more proud.

As I looked around the finish line, I revisited the "what ifs." What if I kept going? What if I suddenly found the magic bullet and cured my stomach? What if I could have embraced another dozen hours of pain and persistence to achieve the finish line, those hours so insignificant in the context of a lifetime? I guess I'll never know. With final good-byes, I got in my car, turned on the air conditioning to escape the heat, and started the long journey home.

Postscript:
Though I feel like a failure, there are lessons to be learned. First, I likely went into the race dehydrated. That, I should have anticipated and fixed. Second, despite all the experience in the world and trying to do the right thing, sometimes the body just doesn't cooperate. Third, you have to be totally engaged mentally. 100-milers take a 100% commitment: mind, body, and soul. I don't think I was there. The stress of knowing Caleb (and Seth's) situation weighed heavily. The significance of fighting on to complete the last third of the race seemed unimportant in the big picture. Now, should I have been able to set that aside since there was nothing I could do to "fix" things? Probably. Would it have been wise continue all things considered? Unknown.

As I watched finishers take the final steps, I wondered how many thought "no way" at some point during the race yet continued on. Maybe I should have let John go on and then continued my own race behind him. That way, he would not have felt obligated to stay with me and I could have tested my outer limits. But alas, my surmising does little good now. I came home, tail tucked, another DNF in the history books.

By the way, Caleb sits alone awaiting a final decision from the Navy. He is asking for a second opinion since a dermatologist that saw him in his high school years said it was merely a form of dermatitis. (The two look the same.) Three days of ointment application has cleared up all symptoms. There will likely be an appeal. This is one fight we cannot give up.

Letters

In this age of electronic media, we are held in the clutches of bytes and bylines on social networking sites. Sure, it's convenient. And yes, I wouldn't be able to work without the World Wide Web and everything that goes along with it. But even now as you read this blog, it's not quite the same as tearing open a hand addressed envelope to read news and notes from afar.


Our oldest son, Caleb, has been away at Navy basic training since May 18th.  After that last thirty-second phone call saying he had safely arrived, we have been in the dark zone. No phone calls. No email. No Facebook. No nothing. . .until yesterday.

Seems that the Navy wants to make an impression on these recruits. They want to strongly convey the idea that they now belong to the United States military. They want these kids to focus on the here and now; not the by-gone days of living at home with mommy and daddy. Our letters took several weeks before delivery to Caleb was complete. And although I suspected he was writing in what little free time he had, our mailbox remained devoid of any personal greeting.  But yesterday, the flood gates opened.

Four letters dating back to the first days of basic arrived in a single envelope. Each, dated so that we could read them in order, bore the details of his busy days. Hurriedly, I scanned quickly through each one before returning to slowly digest every line. I laughed at his disparaging words about those not capable of correctly making the bed, positioning the pillow, or properly folding his blankets and clothes. This, from a kid who probably made his bed four times in his life and whose room was seldom tidy, seemed very odd. He chuckled at those fellas who could not follow directions or run in formation and commented about the whole ordeal not being that difficult. Even more surprising, he spoke of how good the food was, especially supper. And he wasn't kidding.

There is just something about holding a letter in hand and reading it over and over again. You want to glean all you can, reading the lines and what falls between them like a neurotic editor. And the fact that it is written in his own hand makes it all the more special because you know that the words were carefully selected. I can come to know his character, his likes and dislikes because of what I read. It makes the heart happy and the soul content.

What if we looked forward to reading the Father's words written so carefully long ago? I must admit, sometimes that book of letters stays on the shelf way too long. Unfortunately, those letters, though bound beautifully between rich leather covers, do us little good if we don't read and digest them. I suspect I would know the Writer much better if I spent more time reading what He wrote.

And so I challenge myself to a summer of reading worthy letters from Him.

Boomerang

When I was in college I traveled with a singing group to the land down under, a huge continent surrounded by magnificent blue oceans. It was a new experience for me. Though we traveled primarily between Melbourne and Sydney, we had encounters with koalas and kangaroos. We ate meat pies with as much enthusiasm and frequency as fast-food hamburgers here in the States. And, we learned not to push back from the table exclaiming, “I’m stuffed.” To do so would have meant an admission of pregnancy. Probably not the best thing for us single women representing a Christian university.

Of course, the trip included picking up various souvenirs for family and friends. Collectible spoons, tea towels with the continent painted on it, and a few cheap pieces of jewelry embedded with small opals, a stone common to the country. But the most intriguing gifts were for my brothers: boomerangs.

Now boomerangs are interesting pieces of engineering. Usually carved of wood, the piece is designed to be thrown by and returned to the same individual. It’s a game that requires no friends if done properly. Never does a kid say to his pal, “Hey, want to play catch with my boomerang?” To do so may result in decapitation. To be honest, I’m not sure if they are toys or weapons. But I do know we had a tough time keeping those suckers from landing on the roof or getting stuck in the limbs of a tree. Once in a while, we watched as it twirled through the air and made the turn back to us. But rarely, if ever, did it return to our outstretched arm the same way it left.

Kids are like that, at least ours are. Caleb has already boomeranged. He left for college, came home, left to find work, came home, and has now left for the Navy. Not sure that he’s ever coming back. But in no instance did he return exactly as he left nor did he return to his starting position.

Then we have Seth. As we roll up Interstate 81 on the way to his graduation from a professional photography program, we wonder what kind of boomerang he’ll be. He sure had no intention of returning at all. But alas, his empty pockets have forced the arc that turns him back toward home. Will he be the same kid that left? Probably not. Will his journey to and fro be clear sailing or will he be detoured by obstacles in his way? I’m not taking bets.

This whole experience of parenting grown or nearly grown children is interesting, to say the least. We wish for them to make solid decisions and wonder why they can be so blind to the obvious. We let out the rope and hope they don’t hang themselves for that rope is impossible to reel back in. This is a process; a process each of us underwent to one degree or another. We survived. I guess they will too.

Church

Sitting on a comfy sofa in a USAirways lounge, I fought to keep from curling up in a fetal position to sleep for hours. A 2 a.m. shuttle pick up at the hotel for a 5 a.m. flight made me decide to never even go to bed. Rather, after a nice dinner and hours of chatting with long-lost friends, I headed out the door at midnight to go for a much needed run. I felt refreshed after showering, meeting the much-too-early limo at the appointed hour. However, I now pay for that decision.

Somewhere between drooping eyelids and and fuzzy thinking, I glanced up at the large television at the end of the room. Flashing across the screen and much to the amusement of the broadcaster, the following church advertisement was shown. "Come hear our pastor. He's not very good but he's short."  I laughed out loud.

I suppose many people choose a church based on the level of inconvenience to their personal lives. Some show up on holidays, dressed in their finest. Others arrive like clockwork every Sunday to sit in "their" pew and walk out feeling satisfied to have fulfilled a weekly obligation. And a whole multitude find a church that leaves them with a feel-good status after being entertained by a music production. It's easy to walk in and walk out when the lights-camera-action scenario outweighs the twenty-minutes of pulpit platitudes.


Why go to church in the first place? Is it for social standing or to be viewed as spiritual? Is it to check off a necessary activity and be relieved of any other obligation for the rest of the week?  I don't think so.

While there are many flavors of local church buildings and organizations, the style is much less important than the Christian service it produces. While a pastor has an obligation to optimize his communication skills, his deftness in words (or lack thereof) should not be the primary focus of choosing a church. Nor should the list of activities and groups be key in the decision. Rather, participation is pivotal.

Of course, we need to be discerning that a local church body is true to Scripture and theologically sound. But we dare not be mere spectators. We must be doers. We must choose to encourage and edify. We must be accountable to others and welcome necessary chastisement. We must live and love as a functional family, understanding our role in a hurting world.

No church is perfect for it is made up of imperfect people. But all of us imperfect people are instructed to live perfectly together as the Body of Christ. Let's be careful to guard against both spectator church attendance as well as critical attitudes toward the preacher's or service stylings. After all, we are the Church; not a building or program or personality. Get involved. Love one another. Serve a brother or sister. Be open to their needs. Fill those needs. Encourage. Edify. Challenge. That is the way the church of Christ operates.

Take heed, new parents

"See ya later, Ashley," I called out as Caleb led her out the door and to her car.  "You are always welcome here."  Earlier, we enjoyed a dinner together and then relaxed, chatting the evening away. The banter was light and the company good. I took another sip of coffee, relishing the cup's warmth in my cupped hands and the love in my heart.

After a few minutes Caleb returned. "Was it hard to say goodbye?" I queried.

"I'm OK," he softly uttered. Now there was one last thing to do. Rising from my lounging position on the couch, I fetched the clippers from the closet. It was time.

With Caleb seated on the bar stools in our great room, I plugged in the electric clippers. We both nervously laughed as the buzzing began. With no guard covering the reciprocating blades, his dark brown hair collected into mounds on the floor. I took pictures throughout the process for posterity's sake. I masked the meaning behind the action by laughing along with Caleb at his changing appearance. At last, I rubbed my hand over his smooth head, kissed his cheek and reminded him of my deep affection for him. "Caleb, I love you."

It's been a long time coming. Caleb's wait to join the Navy is over. By noon today, his room will be empty. Not empty of his possessions; books still overflow his nightstands. The room retains that “lived-in” look. The desk is an electronic depot and the floor a depository for dirty clothes. The covers on the bed are rumbled and three-quarters of the glasses from the kitchen cabinet have taken up residency on the bedside table. But the essence of that room will be gone. He is leaving to pursue his career.

It's different from when he left before. His departure is not the kind that happens when a college kid goes off to study. In that case, they predictably return on Christmas and summer breaks. Not so this time. This child of mine, a young man of twenty-two years and anxious to begin his new life is leaving for good. When he returns, it will be only as a short-term visitor. What remains on his shelves and hanging on the walls are merely remnants of a distant childhood that have come and gone all too quickly.

What happened to those years? How did we get to this point? I have always known that children are raised so they can leave. But when it happens, it catches you off guard. Though always a parent, you realize the years of parenting have come to a screeching halt. Your own flesh and blood has slammed his foot down on the brake, propelling you forward into the post-child rearing years. The whiplash from that process can be oh so painful.

New parents take heed. Embrace the dreary-eyed, sleep-deprived nights. Love the poo. Embrace the puke. Hold his tiny hand. Tickle his tootsies. Sing songs in the night. Look for monsters under the bed. Read him bed-time stories. Go for walks in the park. Dare to be silly. Zoom down the slide. Teach him to ride a bike. Help him with homework. No matter how busy, don’t forget his birthday and reduce him to tears. Take pictures to remember his artwork passionately scribbled onto the wall. Let him see you kiss Daddy. Teach him to manage his pennies. Teach him to work. Teach him to play. Talk about God. Live like you talk. Cherish the good, the bad, the joy, the sadness for surely it will be gone sooner than you realize.

Hold onto each moment for “this too shall pass.”

May 13th entry from "Pace Yourself:366 Devotions From the Daily Grind"

Our internet was crawling slower than a newborn baby. Yesterday I had to reinstall Windows and download all the required service packs and updates. Hence, we exceeded the 24-hour bandwidth allowed with our satellite internet plan. After slogging through my email I gave up, went for a run, and then climbed aboard our beat-up lawnmower. With all the rain we’ve had, it was high time to give the grass a whack.

Our riding mover is an interesting piece of machinery. We bought it seventeen years ago and it has lived a hard life. Grass still falls in its path but the blades, even being replaced and sharpened frequently, are anything but pristine—too many rock encounters. We have to dump in half a quart of oil with each use, the grass shoot is catywampus and the deck is bent. And embarrassingly, we use a screw driver in the key slot to bring life to the old engine. The vinyl seat is split in several places, the edges rubbing uncomfortably on bare legs. But, I guess I shouldn’t complain. It beats cutting several acres with a push mower.

I don’t mind riding the mower. I love to look back at the lines in the grass, looking so tidy in contrast to the uneven grass and weeds yet uncut. Gary and the boys do most of the cutting but they don’t love it; they do it because they have to. I welcome the opportunity to bounce around the yard. My love for working outside come from my parents, I’m sure. Though time-consuming, it’s relaxing. And this year, there’s no shortage of mowing opportunities around here.

Come August, however, it will likely be a different story. Grass without rain is a terrible combination. Before long, the grass turns an ugly brown, no longer feeling soft and squishy on bare feet. With last summer’s drought, there were weeks that went by when no mowing was necessary. The ground was brown and dusty, the life sucked out of the blades of grass.

Though grass is fragile and short-lived, there is something that will stand forever; the Word of God. No drought or blazing sun can kill the Word. It lives on, strong in truth and perfect in directing our lives.

“The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever." (Isaiah 40:8)

Daily challenge:
Our lives should be green and lush when watered by the Word.

Books are in!

Now is the perfect time to order a copy of "Pace Yourself."  With Father's Day and Christmas in July, birthdays and a myriad of other opportunities coming up, the book will make a perfect gift. Buy an extra book or two!  With free shipping and handling for the month of May, you get to buy yourself a cup of Starbucks for the money you save; a perfect companion for starting in on the book.  Go to http://rebekahtrittipoe.com for more information and secure online ordering. (Credit cards and PayPal.  Your choice.)

Finally. . .

 Pace Yourself: 366 Devotions from the Daily Grind  will be available for purchase this week. My stash of books are in transit and are expected to be delivered this week. For those of you who have already ordered, I am hoping to get your books in the mail as soon as hold them in my hand!

Thanks in advance for your support of this project.  Information about any of my books or information about having me speak to your group can be found at http://rebekahtrittipoe.com.

Into the promised land

It seemed like forever ago. It was an odd feeling. For years, I've felt like I was beating my head against the proverbial wall. Try as I might, I was reduced to a slogger. (Interpretation: slow jogger) The bounce was gone. The joy a distant memory. I loathed the idea of competing because I wasn't any good at it anymore. Yes, I was older. Much older. I'm supposed to get slower. But still. . . Each time I stepped to the line, I simply wished for the finish; the between time merely action out of obligation. I tried to will up excitement for entering the fray but could not. But now. . .it was another story. I smiled.

The Friday night before the Promise Land 50K is like a camp-out on steroids. Two-hundred or so of my fellow runners set up camp in the freshly mowed field in the shadow of the mountains through which we would run. People mill around, shoveling pizza and treats into their face, the calories welcomed in light of the Saturday's challenge. I was part of it this year. Not as a race helper but as a participant; a willing one at that. As dusk hinted at the coming night, I quietly slipped off to my Jeep and crawled into my sleeping bag. It was strange to again be corralling my thoughts into race mode rather than dreading the starter's gun. With distant laughter and the crackling bonfire merging into the night air, I closed my eyes and awaited my time to run. I smiled.

I was determined to do my best. My training over the last few months was much more consistent than previously. Long runs no longer crippled me the next day. My confidence rose as the times for my daily runs became faster and more intense. Most of the time, I felt smooth and efficient. I ran more. Walked less. I even looked forward to group runs because I could actually be a part of the group. It's a far cry from when the "group" part ended in the first five minutes. Why bother? But now, now I run into the darkness, wanting to be anonymous in the first miles so I could settle into my own pace. My own race. I had something to prove--to myself. No one else. I smiled.

Up the gravel road, alternating running and walking. A sharp right onto a single track trail doing the same. And then came the long and undulating grassy road. I felt strong and agile. I looked forward to running further up inclines than normal. My breathing guided me. By the third aid station at fourteen miles, my legs still responded and my watch encouraged me to race by the table and continue pursuing my dreams down the mountain. I smiled.

The miles flew by. Even the valley's nearly flat dirt road failed to discourage. I passed people. They did not pass me. This was odd indeed. The Whitetail Trail ushered me back into the forest, white streamers beckoning me along the narrow way. Then it was up a hill, around the corner, past another aid station filled with happy volunteers and onto another grassy route. Though I had anticipated a quiet solo run, my perfect running companion of the previous ten miles continued with me. Scott and I enjoyed pleasant conversation as well as moments of contented silence as our paces perfectly matched. We arrived at the last low-country refueling station and quickly left, anticipating our climb skyward. I was still smiling.

The weather could not have been more perfect. The skies were overcast, a gentle breeze tousling my hair. The mountainside creek rushed downward as we climbed the rocky trail still higher. We both counted 173 wooden steps above the cascading falls. My slight stumbles elicited an "ouch" from Scott as he saw my calves tighten in cramped response. I continued evaluating my condition, keeping the intake of electrolyte tabs and drink a constant. And then we arrived at the parkway; the gateway to the last downhill portion of this race. I grabbed a cookie, exchanged bottles from my awaiting son and ran--did not walk as in other years--across the parking lot, roadway, and down the trail. The smile went with me.

Down, down, down. We ran together knowing the end was near. A few stumbles, a slip in the mud, and a calf threatening to rebel did not prevent us from waving as we passed by the aid station folks at the top of the last 2.6 mile descent. I felt good. Though tired, I was not scathed. My feet were fine. No blisters. No painful grimaces. Just a relentless downhill flow with my trail buddy and now another friend, Jaime. Perhaps anticipating the sight of the five-foot squirrel mailbox denoting the road's last turn too much, the loose gravel beneath my feet betrayed me, sending me belly-sliding in the tire track much like a baseball player reaching for home plate. Both calves seized immediately, rendering me incapable of gaining my stand. "Pick me up! Pick me up," I blurted to my amused friends. Laughing, while investigating the less-than-expected damage to my hands and knees, I was pleasantly surprised that I could run on without further difficulty. As the finish line drew near, I smiled as we hooked arms to cross the line, a gallant gentleman on each side. I smiled because it was more than a race. It was more than a finish position. It was more than an elapsed time. It was the dawn of a new era, a better era.

And I still smile.

Be Careful

With less than two weeks to go before "Pace Yourself: 366 Devotions From the Daily Grind" is released, here is an excerpt originally written for May 1. Enjoy!



I saw tragedy strike today right before my eyes. It was dreadful. I may have nightmares about it. With no deviation to the right or to the left, he walked straight toward the edge. He went purposely as if on a mission. He did not hesitate nor did he slow his steady pace. And then, it was over as quickly as it had begun. He disappeared into thin air and fell to his death.

So just what was that caterpillar thinking? With all his little legs in full gear he plummeted into the pool, flailing just a bit before taking his last little bug breath. As I peered over the edge to see his floating body, he wasn’t alone. There on the surface of the water were thousands of drowned caterpillars. It was morbidly hilarious. The caterpillar nation must not have an early warning system to warn of imminent danger.

Then I noticed that much of the ground was moving. The hairy creatures were so ubiquitous that one had crawled up to my thigh on the inside of my jeans. Not realizing what it was, I scratched the “itch,” smooching its guts all over my leg. Yuk. It died alone. But incredibly, one after the other, multitudes plunged to their deaths. Maybe caterpillars are blind. Nothing else makes sense.

Despite the high casualty rate today, I expect the death toll to rise overnight. You know what they say: “Never underestimate the power of stupid people [or caterpillars] in large groups.” The mob mentality will leave me no recourse but to scoop them out and throw their remains unceremoniously over the fence.

As funny as this may seem, I can act just as unwisely as those caterpillars when I a) ignore my surroundings and b) follow the crowd. I must be more vigilant about what I think and how I behave.

“Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise.” (Ephesians 5:15)

Daily challenge: Let’s be careful where we are, what we do, and who we do it with.

Only the dryer knows

Dryers are funny appliances and seem to have a life all their own. Socks go in and at least one never comes out. They refuse to give up the forgotten coin, hiding it among the tumbled clothes just to drive you crazy. And, despite hundreds of drying sessions of the same clothes, the lint trap is always full; so full that it's a wonder there are any intact threads left. But most interesting, did you know a dryer talks? I've always suspected it but as of late,  its messages have become loud and clear.

"What does it say?" you may ask. A lot!  It speaks the loudest, almost screaming, when I open the door and empty the contents onto the kitchen counter. As I begin to sort and fold the still warm clothes, I hear the statements of fact.

"You sure had a lot of stinking running clothes. Whew! You sweat so much! Gross. Look at all those grimy socks. And the running bras are getting a little worn, wouldn't you say? And hey, set my temp a little lower. You're sure to ruin all those stretchy running skirts if you put me on high. How many times do I have to remind you?  You a moron, or what?" I smile at his candor and promise to do better. Then, I carefully fill my drawers with the freshly laundered clothes, knowing that the process will be repeated very soon.

It didn't always talk to me like that. Last year, the dryer didn't get as much of a workout because, well, I didn't get much of a workout either. The dryer and his sister, Wishy-Washy, didn't have to see much action to keep up. They sat quietly, their silent scorn mocking me only once a week."Wimp," they whispered. "Couch potatoe. Slug," they quipped. "Nothing in here but undies and a couple of jeans." And he was right. What goes in comes out (mostly). It is a telling sign.

You can always count on your dryer to tell the truth. Have any interesting conversations lately?

Book progress

The time is flying until my new book hits the stands.  I have a big assignment to proof the proofreaders' and editors work and sign off on it...all before Monday evening.  But, with the cover (front and back) now complete along with the book's formatting, only a few weeks stand in front of a finished product. Stay tuned for ordering information in the next week or so.

Blisters (June 8th excerpt from "Pace Yourself: 366 Devotions from the Daily Grind," set to be released in mid-May

(Originally written June 8, 2008)

Blisters. They create an incredible amount of pain per square millimeter. I’ve had plenty of agonizing friction wounds that at the time, seemed to surpass the pain of childbirth. Even the smallest of blisters can distract to the point of being oblivious to everything else. Just ask Seth.


For some unfathomable reason, Seth and a couple of his buddies decided to run barefoot on scorching hot tennis courts prior to their soccer game today. Why? I have no earthly idea. For Seth, however, the fun was short-lived as the tender skin on the balls of his feet disconnected with the tissue beneath, producing half dollar-sized blisters. He realized the consequences of his gleeful jaunt as soon as he donned his soccer cleats and took to the field. Eventually, several hundred milligrams of ibuprofen dulled the pain enough to allow him to score a hat-trick in the second half. But now, he is dealing with the reality of the situation.

He and a buddy have a hiking trip planned, starting tomorrow at noon. As a warm up for a photography hike through Yosemite, the plan is to put in thirty miles in two days with fully loaded packs. Thus, wounded feet come at a really bad time. Miles walked on rocky trails, up and down mountains, and under a full load are sure to be a constant reminder of the one minute when his brain lagged far behind his enthusiasm.

Lots of us do the same. We make instant decisions without much thought about consequences. We dive right in on a whim or a guttural response. If we had only taken time to consider the ramifications, we could have avoided much pain and agony.

Personally, I can’t count the number of times I have “opened mouth, inserted foot.” Don’t you just hate it when you mess up and instantly know it—with no way to take it back? The damage is done. So, recall the words of Solomon.

“The wisdom of the prudent is to give thought to their ways. . .” (Proverbs 14:8a)

Daily challenge: Look before you leap.

Springing into shape. . .I think

Sunglasses on and ponytail swinging, the muted sound of each footfall registered briefly in my mind. The sound was a rhythmic, light pitter-patter, not heavy and plodding. I liked to hear the gravel crunching under my feet, a testament to progress. But soon my attention turned to my breathing. I was in the midst of a steep hill and still running. Running and breathing at the same time, mind you. Not the gasping for air kind of breathing but the kind that responds as it should to increased demand. That, my friend, seldom happens.

Topping the hill, I started down the incline. My legs, though not accustomed to such turn over, responded. I felt like a runner again, strong and swift. By the time I arrived back at the house, the big hand on the kitchen clock confirmed I had run well. It felt so good. I hoped it wasn't a fluke.

Back at the ranch-or actually, the YMCA-the line at the bottom of the pool has been a good companion. A while back, the only comforting thing about that line was the end of it, signaling that the wall was within reach. I purposely kept a lap counter on the pool's edge, a good excuse to occasionally stop and move the beads down the abacus-like counter. To swim a full mile was a test of patience and nothing about it felt natural. But now, other than the initial chill of the water, there is nothing I don't like about my swim. No longer do I pant from exhaustion or sputter from not having sufficient air for a flip turn. Instead, I feel free in the water; gliding from end to end with relative ease. It's a great time to think and pray, the water forming a quiet and insulating barrier to the outside world.

Once again, I am beginning to look forward to my daily exercise, whatever form it takes. On most of my recent runs I have felt to be more than a jogger. I think of some upcoming races.  Maybe, just maybe. . . I am tired of not running strong, sometimes using my age as an excuse for mediocrity. Though I may never be as fast as I once was, I know I can be faster than I now am.

I know the road will not be easy and smooth. Potholes of fear may threaten my progress. Life may force some detours. But for now, I have the address typed into the GPS and am heading for the start of a beautiful adventure into the world of fitness gains and challenges.

Caught in the act. . .almost

The tinny little beeps from my watch awakened me well before I was ready to get up. But get up I did. It was Tuesday morning and I had an appointment with a sadistic fitness leader and her 5:45 a.m. core class. In some odd way, I looked forward to it. I jumped into the clothes I laid out the night before (can't rely on my brain that early in the morning) and quiet as a mouse, tiptoed into the kitchen to find some breakfast. Turns out, I really didn't have to be that quiet.

As I went to open the cereal cupboard, I heard a raucous from within. It sounded like a herd, gaggle, yea, even a pack of wild mice having a heyday. I heard them on the top shelf, then the second, crinkling the bag of a cereal package. Since my presence didn't seem to bother them, I decided to look elsewhere for breakfast. Note to self: break out the mouse traps when I return from my workout.

Upon returning and with disinfectant in hand, I warily opened the doors to undertake the inevitable and necessary purge of moose poo. No, make that mouse poo. Whew! Anyway, what I discovered was an all-out assault on my food. That mouse had chewed a hole into the snap-on plastic lid of a large hot chocolate container and climbed into the depths to feast. Then he chewed his way into my beloved frosted shredded wheat cereal. The top shelf was completely covered with doo-doo, the other levels having lesser but still significant levels of yuck. Everything came out and surfaces were scrubbed clean. The cupboard is usable once again and the traps stand ready to snap down on the next marauding mouse who dares ravage my food.

I got to thinking about this whole scenario. How did I know what was going on under the cover of darkness and behind closed doors? Sure, I suspected foul play when I heard scurrying in the cupboard. But the dead giveaway were the signs left behind; the tiny brown pellets and shredded wrappings. Did I have to actually see the mouse to know that he was up to no good? What if I ignored the signs? Would you want to pull a glass from the first shelf and raise it to your lips? Probably not.

But don't we often ignore sure signs of foul play? We figure that if we don't actually get caught, all is well. But nay, not so. The filth of a life lived in secret contaminates everything. Unfortunately, a simple cleaning will only tidy up the symptoms for awhile. If we don't kill, exterminate, totally eradicate the real problem, we only fool ourselves.

Let's be honest. We don't all hide "big" problems like drunkenness, illicit drug use, or adultery. But I bet we might be guilty of trying to hide selfishness, covetousness, laziness, and pride. Our mouths become weapons. Some pens and paper may wander from our cubicle and end up at home because "they" won't miss such small things.We might shade the truth, be dishonest on our taxes, or even cheat our employer of full attention and time.

We must be careful. Our misconduct (or, in politically incorrect terms, sin), no matter how big or small, leaves a stinky residue behind that gives us away. There is no mistaking it. Though the trap may not have snapped yet, it will, sooner or later.  Let's not be afraid to come out from behind cupboard doors and clean up our act. Then we can say with King David, "Though you probe my heart and examine me at night, though you test me, you will find nothing; I have resolved that my mouth will not sin...Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting" (Psalm 17:3,139:23,24).