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)

"Pace Yourself" in the hands of Sarah Palin

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

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

Cedarville University article

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

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

Grace givers, grace killers

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

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

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

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

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

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

The failed eye exam

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is no shame in wearing spiritual glasses.

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

(Psalm 66:5)

1/1/11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Topping Terrapin

LCA runners atop Terrapin Mountain

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

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

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

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

Abby Quigg follows Trey Fisher through Fat Man's Misery

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

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

I love them being this gullible.

Whiter than snow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ugly Truth

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

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

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