How do I know when I'm finished?

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

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

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

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

Photo by Regan Brooks

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

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

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

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


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

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

First XC Meet of the Season

Coaching can be serious business

It started off well. It ended well. Whew.

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

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

Middle Schoolers take to the line

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

Abby Quigg and Rebecca Roberts

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

Trey Fisher en route to victory

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

The fun after the run

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

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

Team Peculiar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to bowl in a new season

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ok. I get it. Change my perspective.

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

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

Crooked is as crooked does

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

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

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

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

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

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

Real Beauty: Just the Girls

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

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

Ain't technology grand?

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

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Run for the memories

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Thanks for the memories.

In the dark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Psalm 18:32)

Grounded and focused

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


Post-script: 

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

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

Ideas for the home: Coming soon

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

Statistics

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

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

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

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

Thanks again. I'll be back soon.

Spider webs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some things never change...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Philippians 4:7,8 

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

Costa Rica Recap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A day at the dump

A typical Carpio home

The young children of Carpio

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

Waiting to enter the school

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

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

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

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

The church is the building with the blue sliding doors

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

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

Indoor playground

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay tuned...

Two days down

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

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

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

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

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

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

10 hours and counting

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?