10 hours and counting

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

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. . .

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

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

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

(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

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

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 makes his 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

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

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

"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,"

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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)