Nightly Tea

Today I Meet Julia Face to Face

2012-01-26T10:25:00.001-06:00

I grew up in a home where common sense did not reside. It is still a mystery to me that my parents -- a professional violinist and tone-deaf research scientist -- raised four children. Sheet music, orchestral scores, and music manuscripts littered our living room. My father would conduct experiments throughout the house, including an ill-fated backyard skating rink in the dead of a Chicago winter. Dinner? I can remember my mother looking up from her music as if emerging from another world, it never occurring to her we would need to eat today.

If it weren’t for my widowed grandmother who lived with us for several years, we would not have eaten at all. She cleaned, she sewed, and she made food from what was already in the cupboard as she did not drive. Mom would go to the grocery with nary a meal in mind, choosing instead what was marked down from produce to outdated cans which she usually bought by the case. Bread, she purchased, from an outlet store, most often white sandwich loaves that could be smashed flat with very little effort. Dolly Madison snack cakes were purchased in large cartons and stored in the freezer. When I think of the preservatives that I have consumed in my lifetime, I figure I will live a very long time.

Our house was not known for its culinary expertise. Everything came from cans, including our best friend Chef Boyardee and his associate Franco American. My grandmother could make about anything if you gave her condensed Cream of Mushroom soup and a can of tuna.

When Bill and I married, I discovered the wonders of Bisquick. Our first week of married life, I learned to make Bisquick biscuits -- “from scratch” -- a far cry, I thought, from a can of refrigerator biscuits that you hit on the side of the countertop to open. I advanced to making “real” spaghetti by actually boiling noodles and heating up a jar of Ragu. When we visited Bill’s parents the first time, his mother – a cook extraordinaire – prepared macaroni and cheese for a quick supper one night. I was 27 years old and had never had macaroni that didn’t come out of a blue Kraft box.

Needless to say, learning to cook for me was on the magnitude of learning to bungee-jump. Under my husband’s tutelage and my mother-in-law’s recipe box, I learned to feed our family, realizing first that cookbooks were not written in obscure ancient languages. Through many mistakes, I also realized that recipes were meant to be followed. Some dishes became favorites, and others, well, at least I didn’t burn down the kitchen.

So, considering my background, today I will meet Julia Child face to face, working my way through a recipe for an entree I cannot even pronounce. Step by step. As one of my daughters would say, “Just follow the instructions, Mom.”

Taking up this culinary challenge is one of the things, oddly enough, that I have learned from running. As I have gotten older, I realize that my elaborate justifications-- to not do so many things –- are only really feeble excuses on life-support. For years, I would see runners and say, “I could never do that.” Early one morning, I started a slow jog a half block at a time when no one could see me. And I didn’t die. That was twelve years and six marathons ago.

Today – well, Julia, let’s give this a try.

Do It Again!!!

2012-01-17T17:06:00.001-06:00

The onset of a new day to a two year old is as full of wonder and adventure as the first day of creation. There is no recognition of mundane. To our granddaughter, all is profound from seeing a dog walking down the street to being allowed to use the Elmer’s Glue all by herself. Enthusiasm is her middle name. She will literally run laps through the kitchen, living room, front hall, and mudroom, over and over and over again, each time shouting out “Hi, Momma,” as she passes by. She has an extensive vocabulary for a child her age, but the word “boredom” has no meaning to her at all. A day is never long enough to accommodate her energy and unending questions.

Last week, I taught her the song “The wise man built his house upon the rock,” complete with hand motions. Each time when I came to the end of the song and the foolish man’s house went SPLAT, she would burst out laughing, deep and genuine, and shout, “Do it again, Grandma. Do it again!” The repetition only seemed to reinforce the joy she was getting from hearing the song about forty times in a row, until I could break away and do something exciting like changing her brother’s diaper.

At night, when finally the house was silent with two sleeping babies and two exhausted parents, I curled up under the duvet in the study and re-read one of my favorite books, Orthodoxy by G. K. Chesterton. After a non-stop day of songs and running laps and building towers of blocks (all the stuff that Grandmas are licensed to do), I chuckled at what I read, as if this specific page arrived right on schedule.

p. 58 …it might be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. His routine might be due, not to lifelessness, but to a rush of life. The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical encore.

That is the joy and wonder in which we were designed to live.

…and a little child

shall lead them.

Isaiah 11.6

Do it again!

Impossible! My Top Book Picks from 2011

2012-01-10T11:02:00.001-06:00

A thread of impossibility was woven through my favorite books of 2011, not an intentional effort on my part, but a theme deeply embedded and very clear. It is through stories of impossibility that we find hope for our own “impossible” situations. In every story, there was not an avoidance or running from reality, but a running toward it, “what am I going to do about it?” It is not a matter of strength, but viewing life from a different perspective.

Impossible survival. Unbroken by Lauren Hillenbrand. This is one of the best books that I have read in many years, well-written, extremely well-researched, and an amazing story about one man’s survival in World War 2. I recommend it highly.

Impossible grace. Choosing to See by Mary Beth Chapman This mom faced the pain of suddenly losing her youngest daughter in a horrific accident and grappling with the conflict her 17 year old son faced by his role in it, praying him back from the edge of despair. The grace that was shown to their son from the very first moment is something that every parent needs to have firmly in place. The faith that they claimed became a profound reality for every member of their family.

Impossible situation. Dancing With Max by Emily Colson and Charles Colson. This book narrates the struggle of a single mom dealing with the extremes of raising a severely autistic son. It clinched me. As she faces utter exhaustion, emotional distress, and a world that has given up on her son, she realizes that Max is not a burden, but a gift, a means of building character and purpose in their lives. My favorite Emily Colson quote for when anxiety and stress drove her to overeat: “Cleaning is as mindless as eating, but you can still button your jeans in the morning.”

Impossible vision. Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy by Eric Metaxas. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a young German pastor, grasped the meaning of living out his faith during Hitler’s rise to power, even when it meant certain death. He was a radical voice literally crying out in the wilderness, when military and world leaders, as well as churches fell under the deceit of Hitler, realizing too late the horror resulting from the Nazi worldview. Bonhoeffer was not an extraordinary man, just one who was willing to stand up for the truth.

Impossible ideas. Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson. With innumerable interviews and years of research, Isaacson crafted a narrative about a man who connected art and technology, a man of great ideas and stubbornness. When faced with what others saw as impossible, Steve Jobs would state, “So what should we do about it?” In one presentation, Jobs quotes Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass. After Alice laments that no matter how hard she tries, she can’t believe impossible things, the White Queen retorts, “Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” That is the story of Jobs’ life. But while many have idolized Jobs by what he accomplished, the author does not spare the reader the dark side of Jobs who was a difficult man to live and work with.

Of making many books

there is no end.

Ecclesiastes 12.12

Time Out!

2012-01-06T09:01:00.001-06:00

A few days ago, the Northwestern Wildcats took on the Fighting Illini. The university basketball players on both sides had done their drills, honed their skills and practiced specific plays designed to take the ball away from the foe and into the team’s own basket. But in the excitement, all seemed to be forgotten. The game began with a flurry of ball-grabbing, missed baskets, and foul upon foul. When the frenzy resulted in players sprawled on the floor crazily grasping the ball like selfish three year olds, the first time-out was called, a short breather to break the madness, regroup, come back to reality, and put strategy ahead of mindless desperation. After each time-out, the players seemed renewed in their quest, focused rather than frantic.

Just a few days into 2012, it may seem that the year has surged into a sense of urgent lunacy. We are either sinking into the ever-present miry bog of activities, responsibilities and temporary madness…or wobbling precariously on the thinnest of wires suspended above what now appears a bottomless pit of despair. Already, a time-out is in order – to dispel our irrational fears and get a grip.

There is, however, a completely different time-out that does not wait until the point of despair or frenzy. It is a time-out that will change your mind, your heart, and your life. Early in December, I emailed several of my busiest friends from all walks and seasons of life and asked them about their daily habits. They answered as if in unison. Each one of them spends time reading God’s Word every day. They intentionally take a time-out to read the Bible before their erratic day even starts. These are not complacent people who sit around lamenting, “well, i have completely emptied my in-box, answered everyone on Facebook, cleaned my closets, there is nothing on TV, I guess I will –reluctantly— read my Bible.” These are the busiest people I know, from young moms to busy executives with no time to spare, dawn to deep into the night. And every one of them said that they cannot afford NOT to start the day with Scripture.

From a very active mom with three small children:

An extra 30 minutes of sleep-time is precious to a mom with young children, but I've found that spending those 30 minutes in God's word and presence before my day begins it's break-neck speed instead of spending an extra few minutes with my head on the pillow refreshes me in a way that I never could receive if I were still languishing in bed!

My view and reactions towards both the big things and the small things are impacted greatly by spending time with Him at the beginning of each day- THAT is a game changer in this stage of life.

A time-out with God will make your day more efficient and fruitful, because you have already listened to the Coach. His Word is not designed to follow you into the day, but go before to guide, refocus and strengthen – no matter what ferocious team you face.

Your Word is a lamp to my feet

and a light to my path.

Psalm 119.105

Aftermath

2012-01-03T11:48:00.001-06:00

Up and down the streets of our town, the dawn’s light reveals discarded Christmas trees, abandoned at the curb alongside the trash cans, like prehistoric carcasses littering the wintry landscape. What once was center-stage the focus of beauty and admiration has been stripped of its adornments and cast aside with an incriminating trail of still-pungent dark green needles heading down the front walk. “That was a nice one,” we remarked, “better than most,” we eulogized as we disposed its dead body for the garbage truck to pick up on its weekly rounds. And in its place inside, there now appears an empty corner, imperfect and lacking.

Bereft of Christmas decorations, the mantle looks bare, the doors so plain, the living room with a cavernous hole, the site of the tree now occupied by a single widowed chair, a poor substitute for the magnificent eight-foot evergreen. Equally barren, the new year stands before us, cluttered already by a few plans and scheduled events penciled in, always and forever subject to monumental change. Like our now-emaciated living rooms, there are empty places ahead of us in this newest of years, things that we cannot see yet from here, and perhaps even then, we will not be able to fathom.

And it becomes not a matter of us laying our year before the LORD for Him to fill in the cracks and reinforce our plans like so much scaffolding, but letting Him reveal HIS year for us. One day at a time. Because when it is HIS year or HIS day we pursue, even an interruption takes on new significance. We see our days with different eyes. It is not a matter of filling up life, but Him fulfilling ours, a year of great possibilities and even greater purpose.

Now to Him

who by the power at work within us

is able

to do far more abundantly

than all we ask or imagine….

Ephesians 3.20

Something New

2012-01-02T09:31:00.002-06:00

Twelve years ago, as our oldest daughter set off for college, I started emailing a daily Bible verse first to her, and then subsequently to each of our girls as they left home. Through the years, our two son-in-laws and some friends have been added to the daily email. As one of them remarked to me just last year, “on busy days, sometimes that is the only Scripture that I read.”

You are now welcome to join us – to give you a little bit of God’s powerful Word to go on through your day. A new blog - Du Jour - will post a daily verse to give you encouragement and nourishment for your busy life. A link on the blog enables you to subscribe and have it delivered directly to your in-box, if you desire.

The Du Jour blog is found at www.worddujour.blogspot.com

This blog Nightly Tea will continue as well.

May God’s Word bless you and transform you in 2012.

Happy New Year!

In Whatever We Do

2011-12-20T15:32:00.001-06:00

My oldest daughter and her family traveled from Cleveland to visit us this past week. It was a jumble of great fun and the joy of just being together.

One chilly afternoon when there was the bustle of activity in the kitchen, I noticed my two year old granddaughter in an adjacent room, playing on my mother’s old piano. I tiptoed out of the kitchen behind her to see what she was doing. She was not banging away on the piano keys, as you would expect a toddler to do, but carefully plunking each one as if following a sheet of music. She had an old hymnal opened before her, and she occasionally stood up on the piano bench and turned its pages. And in her sweet little voice, she sang Joy to the World, over and over again. Her passion was of one unaware of the concept of performance, and deep in the purity of one unencumbered by the limitations of others. She sang with amazing joy.

I stood there silent behind her, afraid of disrupting this precious moment of a little one worshiping God in her own profound way and giving Him glory. She was singing from the bottom of her heart, enunciating every syllable with great feeling. And I could feel His delight in the room.

But Jesus said,

“Let the children come to Me,

and do not hinder them,

for to such belongs the kingdom

of heaven.”

Matthew 19.14

And What Do We Miss?

2011-12-08T17:12:00.001-06:00

Whenever we go to the mountains, I am overwhelmed by the hand of God in His creation. Each time as we drive through the cathedrals of trees, no matter the season, each time I run through the woods, no matter the weather, I hear and smell and see something new. Sometimes it is the mist through which trees seem to float eerily, sometimes it is the grandeur of snow clinging to rocks in a rushing creek or the branches of trees that engrave the sky with dark lace, sometimes it is the deep smell of pine needles carpeting the autumn floor of the forest.

But my favorite is the sighting of a black bear, which happens more often than not. I always watch from a safe distance, I know to respect their space, but the opportunity each time takes my breath away by the majesty of these creatures, so integrated into their environment that even a dark rock, a shadow, the hollow blackness of a fallen tree become phantoms in the wild.

Once while driving through the mountains and watching out the window like an excited little kid, I prayed silently, “O God, just one, give us a glimpse of just one bear walking through the woods.” And in my silliness, I stopped short. Because I realized very suddenly to Whom I was praying, the Creator of the Universe, the LORD of all creation. And I knew that if He chose, it would take nothing at all for Him to send out a hundred bears dancing a jig.

What am I praying for today? Do I realize what God is capable of doing?

May the bears dance, O LORD.

I lift up my eyes to the hills.

From whence does my help come?

My help comes from the LORD,

Maker of heaven and earth.

Psalm 121.1

The Littlest Angel

2011-12-05T10:36:00.001-06:00

When I was three and so shy that I was mostly invisible, I was designated by the choir director to participate in the church’s annual reenactment of the Christmas story. I was given the part of an angel. All I had to do was stand behind the manger which held a rough-looking plastic baby doll wrapped in an old towel. It was not necessary for me to attend the rehearsals as I did not have a speaking part. I just had to stand there and look, I guess, angelic.

My grandmother Mammy, who lived with us, toiled over my costume. An old white bedsheet was sewn into a small robe and around my waist was tied a golden metallic cord, leftover from a previous Christmas. A strand of dime-store tinsel was bobby-pinned into a halo of sorts in my unruly curly hair.

The evening of the event, my grandmother took me backstage. Suddenly, this didn’t seem like such a fun thing to me anymore. I was surrounded by giants dressed like characters in my little Bible. And there were people out there, lots of people, staring at the stage.

When it came time for Jesus to be born, this little angel PANICKED. And with the tenderness that only a grandmother can have in a moment of pandemonium, Mammy just gently took my hand. On cue, as if it were the most natural thing for me to do, I stood on stage with my arms held out, just like I was supposed to. Behind the curtain and out of sight sat Mammy on a folding chair, holding the tiny little hand of a terrified angel on stage. Even though I could not see her, I knew she was there. I could feel the warmth of her hand. And it was ok. I could do this very hard thing.

Quite frankly, we all are faced with situations when inside we are terrified three-year-olds wearing adult costumes on the outside. And with shaking knees we have to put on a game face and big girl panties and get out there. But we can KNOW we are not alone. “Be not afraid. I am with you,” the LORD says. Those are not just words but promises woven repeatedly throughout the entire Bible. His Presence surrounds us. No matter what role we may be called to play. He is there.

Fear not, for I have redeemed you,

I have called you by name, you are Mine.

When you pass through the waters

I will be with you,

and through the rivers,

they shall not overwhelm you,

when you walk through fire

you shall not be burned,

and the flame shall not consume you.

For I am the LORD your God,

the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.

…Because you are precious in My eyes,

and honored, and I love you…

Fear not, for I am with you.

Isaiah 43. 1-5

Christmas on the bottom shelf

2011-11-29T09:47:00.001-06:00

I stopped by Target yesterday for a few things, including the Fisher Price Little People nativity set for our grandchildren. The toy department was daunting, to say the least. After looking up and down the aisles for a few minutes, I spotted an employee wearing the familiar red Target shirt. I told her what I was looking for. She looked quizzically at me. “Fisher Price,” I repeated. She started to lead me down an aisle. “What was it again you were looking for?” she asked. “The Fisher Price nativity set,” I told her. “What is a nativity?” she asked me. “You know, Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus,” I explained. I could tell by her face that my explanation meant nothing to her at all. “The Christmas story,” I emphasized. “Is it a Christmas toy?” she asked. We were surrounded literally by a canyon of toys, threatening to bury us alive.

At that point, I saw it, in the middle of an aisle, down on the bottom shelf, by itself.

And I was hit broadside by two things:

1. This clerk had NO idea that Christmas had anything at all to do with Jesus.

2. In the entire store, including a whole section devoted to holiday decorations, this plastic nativity set was the only thing I saw that represented what Christmas is really about.

When our oldest daughter was just a toddler, we had some friends nearby who recognized even then what was happening to Christmas. And so, as soon as you walked in their door, there was a nativity set, front and center, situated so that it could never be overlooked. I have never forgotten that. Make it the first thing you notice.

Christmas can be fun. But it is also a time of great joy and hope in a world that has no idea that joy and hope even exist. Never assume that someone you meet or someone you love knows that Jesus has everything to do with Christmas and everything to do with the cries of the human heart. “He is here!” the angels shouted with glee.

For you with young children, read them the Christmas story over and over, until they can recite every word. Let them play-act the story, over and over, costumes and all, yes, even if they make a huge mess. Invite the neighbor children to join them. Let them play out the story with a nativity set, so that they physically see what happened. Memorize with them the account from Luke 2. You would be amazed how quickly they can do that, verse by verse, even at an early age. It will be engraved in their memory forever. One of our girls memorized it at age five, and twenty years later, she can still recite it.

And above all, make sure that your children KNOW the difference between what is pretend and what is real. The Christmas story is not just another “story.” It is unlike any other made-up tale like Dora and Curious George. Because Jesus is REAL. This is Truth.

For unto us a Child is born,

to us a son is given,

and the government will be upon His shoulder,

and His name will be called

Wonderful Counselor,

Mighty God,

Everlasting Father,

Prince of Peace.

Isaiah 9. 6

A Gentle Reminder

2011-11-11T07:59:00.001-06:00

My grandmother could grow anything in any type of soil or container. Anything. She came to live with my family before I was born. When I was very young, she staked out the entire length of windows in our family room and planted a huge indoor garden three feet deep. After all, as a Texan, she was used to a long growing season. We lived in Chicago. So even when the permafrost had set in and we didn’t see the ground from the beginning of November until the end of March, we had an indoor jungle. Wherever we moved, she planted and transplanted, no matter the climate, no matter the soil, whether sand or clay or rock. Nothing stopped her. She had a green thumb, a large dose of stubbornness, and she delighted in God’s creation.

But of all the traits that she passed on to me, her green thumb was not included in my DNA. Plants do not thrive under my care. Actually, most of them do not even survive under my care – or lack thereof. (Did I water that plant sometime this month?)

So much to my surprise this week was an actual bloom on my African violet that has been in need of life support for some time now. I take no pride in what has happened. Actually, I chuckled when I saw it. This is seriously something that only God could do. And I give Him all the credit.

There are times when God sends me a gentle reminder of Who He is and this is one of them.

Let them know that this is Your hand;

You, O LORD, have done it.

Psalm 109.27

Make It Work, People

2011-11-01T14:13:00.001-05:00

The commuter train system in Japan is known for its accurate schedules and efficiency, despite transporting about 21 million people daily with more than 12,000 trains running. In reality, its infrastructure is considered so overtaxed that logistically the system should not work at all. But it does brilliantly, in spite of disruptions. Trains arrive on schedule every two minutes. Its success, however, is not based on perfection, but the opposite. To make this system work, a recent article in The University of Chicago magazine reports that “unpredictability must be a part of the transit equation.”

It is the recognition of that unpredictability, the acknowledgement that the system is not perfect, that actually allows the Japanese train system to work so well and so efficiently.

How do the Japanese engineers do it? By “…creating an environment where technology incorporates irregularity rather than trying to eliminate it,” according to Chicago anthropologist Michael Fisch in his book about the Japanese commuter train network.

I think about how much energy, effort, and frustration that we invest in trying to make our lives at work or at home “perfect,” as if that is an attainable goal. What if we approached difficult situations not from a perspective of perfection, but from the lack of it?

There will be difficulties. Count on it. We live in a fallen world, not a perfect one. So as Fisch says, incorporate the reality that there WILL be problems rather than trying to pretend that they either do not exist or hope beyond hope that everything will go smoothly THIS time. The trick is having a system within the system so that glitches are expected and already accounted for. As I have told many young moms, “From now on, flexibility is your middle name.”

Ask God to help you see these road blocks and variables, not as obstacles but as opportunities in disguise. Make it work with what you have before you. The biggest problem may be that we have stopped trying to do just that.

And I will lead the blind

in a way that they know not,

in paths that they have not known

I will guide them.

I will turn the darkness before them into light,

the rough places into level ground.

These are the things I will do,

and I will not forsake them.

Isaiah 42. 16-17

Woman Hit By Train

2011-10-19T23:16:00.001-05:00

My clothes were set out like a fireman’s. My favorite pink shorts, faithful grey tank top, a pair of well-worn socks, and my running shoes. We pinned 29594 to the front of my shirt and looped the timing chip through the laces of my shoes. I wanted to minimize any surprises in the morning. The alarm was set for 4.30, but I lay awake a good part of the night, just waiting for morning, waiting to run. Four and a half months and 581 miles of training were stored up in these legs. It was still dark when we arrived in downtown Chicago, but the sidewalks already were teeming with people. When the sun arose, 45,000 runners were corralled into the starting area like cattle going to market, so tightly jammed together that there were people as far as I could see in front of me and behind, too close together to even lean over and re-tie my shoes. The gun went off, but it was a full eleven minutes before I even reached the starting line. It was like being caught in the current of a fast moving river.

A marathon is a grueling endeavor which takes you to your limits, and sometimes beyond that. It is a surreal journey through a canyon of cheering crowds and on roads sticky with Gatorade. In Chicago,the pavement rolls through an endless tour of ethnic communities vying for attention: China Town, Little Italy, the Polish neighborhood, and the Hispanic barrios, people shouting, singing, and cheering absolute strangers. People came out of their houses with little cups of water and dripping bags of ice. One man handed out popsicles from a plastic bag, a woman and child offered fig newtons on a paper plate, and an old man joyously sprayed water on the sweaty runners out of his green garden hose. The last six miles was littered with runners who struggled even to walk to the finish. This time, that was me.

My excitement surged when I realized near the half-way point that I was on pace for a Boston qualifying time. And then, within another few miles, the wheels began to fall off my wagon. I began to slow down, a couple of blocks at a time, gradually to a walk. My legs had cramped up to a point that I struggled to run at all. I walked a little and ran a little. I tricked myself to keep going, “Just run until the next corner…or the next traffic light…or the next water stop.” There came a time when I thought it was over. I stopped altogether at the aid station at mile 20. I lay face-down on a cot drenched in the sweat of other runners and I did not even flinch. A volunteer placed large bags of ice on my legs. She offered me some water. Minutes passed. “Well, we can get you on the transport bus back to the finish,” she said. And I lifted my head. I was down, but I wasn’t out.

That old familiar voice of stubbornness that has pushed me into a lot of trouble through the years shouted at me, “You came 20 miles just to ride a bus back????” I gulped down the water, limped back on the course, and shuffled and ran the last six miles. I finished. Pathetically, to be sure, but I finished. And when I crossed the finish line, I raised my arms as if I won a gold medal in the Olympics.

I came home with a finisher’s medal and a few more lessons in marathon running.

Problems: As in life, I should have admitted earlier when I needed help. Most problems don’t just go away on their own or dissolve with pride. A big glass of water earlier in the race would have kept me going.

People: A running buddy in a race (or life) makes a significant difference. At mile 10, one of my daughters jumped in to run with me for a few miles. Because I was having problems, she ended up encouraging me for 16 miles. She wore a hand-lettered tank top that said, “Cheer for Karen,” with an arrow pointing toward me. And total strangers became my personal cheering squad.

Pressure: As in your teenage years, peer pressure runs rampant in a race. I started out too fast, and it caught up with me. Always run YOUR pace, no matter what others are doing.

Perspective: One of the sights that kept me running that day was seeing a teenage boy in a wheelchair with a microphone and loud speaker, cheering on runners he didn’t even know.

Prize: Keep your eyes on what really counts. Years ago, a friend of ours went to Europe to race bicycles. He didn’t do well against the other cyclists. But he learned one thing far more valuable: “God doesn’t need us to win to bring Him glory.”

Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom,

let not the mighty man glory in his might,

let not the rich man glory in his riches,

but let him who glories

glory in this,

that he understands and knows Me,

that I am the LORD…

Jeremiah 9.23

There comes a time…

2011-10-06T13:30:00.001-05:00

In any endeavor that stretches us beyond the boundaries of our own imagined strength, there comes a time when we suddenly realize our dependence on what we do not control. And we make the tragic mistake of either looking back or looking down or quitting altogether because the uphill was, well, a little more uphill than we thought it would be. “What was I thinking?”

Passion and adventure are hard-wired within all of us. But complacency is an idol that binds our feet and repeats over and over “you can’t do that,” until we not only believe it, we stake our lives on our fears. We become disabled souls, paralyzed by a maligned self-diagnosis.

On almost a daily basis, I hear people say, “I could never do that,” about something good that might stretch them just a little bit. Our reluctance gives birth to a million excuses. “It will be hard, it will hurt, I will probably fail,” we whine. And the lies we believe keep us in a place where we choose to do nothing at all, held hostage in our own windowless temperature-controlled comfort zone.

Are we so afraid of being dependent on God? Of what amazing things He can do with our lives, if we let Him? As my friend John Bryson says, “What am I doing that if God was not in it, I would fail?”

I contemplate these thoughts on the eve of the Chicago marathon, coming up now in three short days. It is a rigorous physical endeavor, that is to be sure, but for me, it has become a different kind of exercise, a stepping out and trusting God to move me beyond the limitations of my own wisdom and strength to a scary place where I finally acknowledge my dependence on Him. Over the 18 weeks of marathon training in heat, rain, and the daunting fragility of old age, sometimes slogging along by myself and sometimes eating the dust of those much younger and faster than I am, I have both thought and verbalized, “Why am I doing this?” And I sense God replying, “Trust Me. Let Me use this in your life.” There is meaning. There is purpose. The marathon is not an end in itself and, indeed, may not be about running at all. But perhaps, it is just getting out the door for what lies ahead.

Therefore, since we are surrounded

by so great a cloud of witnesses,

let us also lay aside every weight,

and sin that clings to closely,

and let us run with perseverance

the race that is set before us,

looking to Jesus…

Hebrews 12.1-2

A River Runs Through It

2011-09-08T17:20:00.001-05:00

Recently my husband and I went kayaking with a couple we have known for 30 years. They live in a community north of Chicago which surrounds a 100 acre lake. The sun warmed our skin, the strong breeze kept us honest in our paddling, and wild herons and swans graced the shore. When we came around one bend, there was a small eight-foot bridge that looked like the railing on someone’s backyard deck. “That,” said our friend Sandy, “is the dam.” Forty years ago, three inconsequential “you-could-jump-over-them” creeks were dammed to form this lake on what used to be a farm. A small obstacle served to create a large scenic body of water.

Someone had the vision to strategically place a small disruption in the flow of those meandering streams. The creeks still flow through the land, but now, instead of being the end, they are the means of nurturing something much bigger than themselves.

In His Word, God talks a lot about the imagery of water: being planted by rivers of water, walking on dry ground in the midst of the Red Sea or Jordan River, Christ as the living water, and our lives as being rivers.

Do I have the vision for obstacles and difficulties as something God has placed in my life for a reason and purpose? Do I SEE them differently? Or only as an annoyance and something from which I cry for deliverance – or complain about? That obstacle may not be about me after all. As Oswald Chambers says in My Utmost for His Highest, “…out of us will flow the rivers that will bless to the uttermost parts of the earth. We have nothing to do with the outflow -- This is the work of God… If you believe in Jesus, you will find that God has nourished in you mighty torrents of blessing for others.”

Let God use that interruption today, that change of plans, that unplanned outcome, that traffic jam, for His glory. Ask not “why God?” but “what?” God’s purposes are always deeper than we can envision.

When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none,

and their tongue is parched with thirst,

I the LORD will answer them,

I the God of Israel will not forsake them.

I will open rivers on the bare heights,

and fountains in the midst of the valleys;

I will make the wilderness a pool of water,

and the dry land springs of water.

…that men may see and know,

may consider and understand together,

that the hand of the LORD has done this,

the Holy One of Israel has created it.

Isaiah 41. 17-18, 20

Facing the Hordes

2011-08-23T12:55:00.001-05:00

All too often fear sneaks through an unlocked door and takes up residence where it can no longer be ignored. Most often, it stands by my bedside, waiting for me to stir in the middle of the night. And then, it pounces. In the dark, it is hard to decipher what is only an illusory monster under my bed. Those amazingly irrational fears cast the biggest shadows. They are the hardest to eradicate because, like spiders, hit one and a hundred more take its place.

There are those days when it feels like a multitude of barbaric warriors have you surrounded. As Oswald Chambers once prayed, “I seem to be paralysed by my own littleness…” At these times, we want to hide in the closet at the very moment we should be heading out the door. But perhaps the awareness of our own littleness should be, instead, a cry out to God, an awareness of His enormity. One afternoon this summer when I was wallowing in a moment of dismay and praying for help, outside the window I heard the voice of my little granddaughter singing on the porch, “My God is so BIG, so strong and so mighty, there is nothing my God cannot do.” Literally, God spoke to me through the mouth of a babe. To whom am I listening? To fear? To my own littleness? Or to the Creator of the Universe?

This problem is nothing new. Indeed, the Bible is FULL of what I call “God’s little pep talks.” This morning, I read one of them. God may not take me out of a battle or sticky situation, but He can still deliver me in its midst. It is all in how you look at the TRUTH of the matter, not a perversion of it. This summer I watched three girls, about ages 8 to 10, playing in a shallow creek. All of a sudden, they started screaming at the top of their lungs “a SNAKE!!!” and took refuge on the top of a large flat rock until their father came to their rescue. He reached down into the water and pulled out the problem. The littlest turned to the girl who started screaming first and confronted her, “We were scared of a STICK?!?!” God has a way of deflating those fears back to reality. Take courage, my friend. And know Who is with you.

Be strong and of good courage.

Do not be afraid or dismayed before the king of Assyria

and all the horde that is with him,

for there is One greater with us than with him.

With him is an arm of flesh,

but with us is the LORD our God,

to help us and to fight our battles.

2 Chronicles 32. 7-8

There WILL Be A Glitch

2011-08-11T12:16:00.001-05:00

A friend whose daughter is getting married this weekend asked me for advice in navigating the wedding ceremonies. The best thing that I could tell her was to have fun and EXPECT something to go “not quite as planned.” There is a level of insecurity and frustration in expecting everything to be perfect. And there is a peace in knowing that we (as well as the people who are working the wedding) are imperfect. SOMETHING will go awry. In my oldest daughter’s wedding, the flowers arrived an hour late. In the next family wedding, the groom’s tux was missing. I attended a wedding in Memphis a couple of years ago where – after months upon months of planning the perfect summer wedding– the air conditioner at the church was not working on one of the hottest days of the year. And, at the end of the day, in all three situations, the bride and groom were married, which when it comes down to it is the whole point of the day, glitch or not. Some things ARE beyond your abilities. When our girls were little and plans were spoiled by sickness or bad weather or other childhood calamities, I used to tell them, “There are some things in my control, and this is not one of them.”

And through all of the things in life when detours, speed bumps, and dead-ends happen, remember that the situation did not come as a surprise to God. Because in God’s economy, there are no glitches. There is a reason and a purpose, even if it is something we cannot see and even if it is only to remind us that –surprise!-- we are not in charge after all. Last weekend, the battery in our eleven year old truck died. We were inconveniently stuck for awhile at the farmer’s market, but hey, at least we weren’t stranded on a lonely section of Interstate somewhere in a rain storm in the middle of the night. My husband went to get a new battery at Autozone since that was where he had one replaced before about eight years ago. When the clerk went to check their records, it turns out that the full-replacement warranty had 18 days left on it. Eighteen days. That “glitch” in our Saturday morning plans turned out to be a blessing.

Biblical worldview is not just what you believe. It is how you see life through God’s eyes.

Many are the plans in the mind of a man,

but it is the purpose of the LORD

that will be established.

Proverbs 19.21

Bored With Nothing To Do

2011-07-14T14:44:00.001-05:00

Bored – Nothing To Do! is a delightful picture book about two brothers who undertake an adventure on a summer day when there was “nothing to do.” I was reminded of it last night when I read an article in the Wall Street Journal focused on a new “underserved” marketing niche: boys 6 to 11 years old. Why? Because, “boys watch more animated series than girls and represent a lucrative sales opportunity for videogames, toys and sports merchandise.” Put into a nutshell: it is the middle of summer, there are A LOT of kids passively watching a screen in front of them, and they are bored to death.

Boredom seems to reign supreme in this new generation of kids. And that is a shame. Children of this generation – boys and girls alike – are so pre-programmed, over-scheduled, and pushed, even in the earliest months, that “spare time” is filled with a bizillion channels of cable tv, endless video games, DVD players even in the SUV, and i-pads to soak up every bit of their remaining attention.

Addictive behaviors begin early. And so does a lack of creative initiative. Indeed, a couple of years ago, when I was taking care of a friend’s children, her kids were excited to find Lego’s in the toy closet. They quickly became frustrated, though, trying to follow the pre-planned instructions, and began squabbling over the pieces. “You know,” I interrupted, “You don’t have to follow the directions. You can make ANYTHING you want.”

“We can?” they replied, incredulous.

The next two hours flew past, each of the kids building and rebuilding the “best rocket ship ever,” and the “best fighter jet ever,” and the “best castle ever,” from the pile of tiny plastic pieces. And they GLOWED when their mom came, so proud of what they had made. Their faces, in turn, fell when their mom replied, “Ok, time to pick up the toys. We need to go.”

The next time they came, the oldest child made cookies with me. For the first time ever.

One summer in Kansas City when our girls were elementary and middle school age, we challenged them to not watch tv for the entire summer. It was like they were released from jail. They put on plays in the basement, they ripped up the sideyard playing with a Slip N Slide that they bought for a quarter at a garage sale, they rode bikes to the neighborhood pool, and one of them started a “mold garden” under her sink to “see what happens.” They figured out how to sew simple things for their American Girl dolls using scraps of cloth and yarn…and much to his horror, constructed outfits for our dog Jack. Each of the girls had “mud clothes” and an old pair of shoes for exploring the undeveloped field behind our house. And that summer began their adventures in cooking--with recipes and without –a pursuit that continues to this day as adults in their own kitchens.

Quite frankly, they made a big mess.

And they had the time of their lives.

When the summer ended, tv wasn’t even mentioned until November. C. S. Lewis was once asked how he developed such a vivid imagination. He replied that he and his brother were left with large amounts of time on their hands. Creativity took over from there.

Our oldest daughter Beth, now the mother of two small children, has a wise friend who advised her, “You have 18 summers with your kids. That’s it. Make the most of that time.”

So tonight, let them pitch a tent in the backyard and sleep under the stars. Let them come up with ideas for supper…and make it. Let them run through the sprinklers in the yard, and draw with colored chalk on the driveway, and make forts with pillows and quilts in the family room, and research and plan a family outing somewhere in, let’s say, a 100 mile radius of home. And yea, they WILL get dirty. They might even have so much fun you will have to throw out their clothes. They can film their own movies or create a video scavenger hunt or play Capture the Flag at dusk. You may even discover latent talents in them. As a poor Brooklyn kid back in the Great Depression, my father built a miniature golf course in their tiny yard – and made money with it. He charged a few clothes-pins a game, and then sold them back to the neighborhood moms on laundry day.

And when it comes time for your kids to write the perennial essay What I Did On My Summer Vacation, your kids will smile at the thought of it. “You wouldn’t believe…”

Let them make it the “best summer ever.” It’s not too late.

The Elusive Perfection of Children

2011-07-12T07:02:00.001-05:00

Of the writing of parenting books, there is no end. The first one was written, I believe, in the garden of Eden, shortly after Eve took a bite of the apple from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Satan had promised her, PROMISED her, that she would become like God. And nothing since has been the same. She took a bite, blamed her husband Adam, looked for a new outfit, and began rearranging bushes in the Garden. Before the incident, Adam and Eve basked in perfection; since then, we have been seeking it. And as if we have come to grips with our own imperfection, we have been appalled at its presence in our children.

Children misbehave. That is a fact. They misbehave most certainly in the presence of those you want to impress, and just about always when it is grossly inconvenient and your patience is nowhere to be found. “You did WHAT?” “Can’t you children get along for TWO minutes?” We somehow expect them – whether 18 months or 18 years old – to act with the mindset of a mature adult and naturally display the attributes of God (wise, loving, kind, gracious, and good), in other words, as WE would have done :)

With that bite of the apple, performance entered the picture. And so, if our children do well, we take the credit. And if they do not, we feel guilty and judged, and quickly as possible pin the blame on someone else: the bad influence of a neighbor’s child, an unqualified teacher, the whole school system, your own mom or dad… or we carry the guilt, browbeating ouselves, tormented by our own stupidity. “I am to blame. It is my fault. I should have/could have done better. And now my child’s life is ruined.” Really??

As followers of Christ, our homes should be radically different. Your worldview does not just affect your view of God; it changes how you view your children. And that difference should be evident to everyone who enters your home and anyone around you – whether you are playing in the park, standing in line at the grocery, or sitting in an airport terminal with a delayed flight and hungry, tired kids. Be assured, others ARE watching you and your children: not to see how perfect they are, but how you respond in grace.

That Annoying Bird

2011-06-14T11:46:00.002-05:00

In early spring, we began to hear the cry of a bird nesting in the trees of the vacant lot next door. Arrggghhh! It was an irritating sound, slicing through the early morning silence like an annoying alarm clock that won’t shut off. “Oh, no,” I cried out. “Not a crow!” I wanted the chatter of tiny colorful songbirds at our bird feeder, not an ugly bird hiding in the trees, mocking me. The annoying noises continued, day after day.

Last weekend while sitting on the front porch, we heard the bird again, and Bill saw something fly by and perch in our neighbor’s enormous tree. “Doesn’t look like a crow,” he said. It had a white underbelly and a curved beak. It continued to yell at us from high on the tree branch.

Bill went inside and looked it up on the computer. “It’s a peregrine falcon,” he said, “the fastest bird on earth.”

My reaction to the bird was instantly transformed from “Woe!” to “Wow!” An object of annoyance had become in my mind something treasured. I saw the bird differently. It was no longer trespassing on my turf, but graced our lives with its magnificence.

What happened in my mind? It was the same bird. It made the same noise. But now I viewed him from a new perspective.

Looking through radically new eyes, that annoying kid, husband, friend, or neighbor, may actually be a blessing in disguise (or the opportunity for us to be). They may be annoying and irritating only because they infringe on our own agenda, personal peace and happiness or, sadly, how we think the person SHOULD be-- as if we were God.

And yet….it is God who sees all things so radically different. He doesn’t see us as we SHOULD be; He sees us as we really are, without our costumes and disguises, without the baggage we have picked up along the way, and without excuses. He always sees from the way He designed us, always deeper, more graciously, more loving, and amazingly profound and personal. This is God who chose the awkward, the marginal, and the often annoying little brothers to be the leaders of His Kingdom, the people we would never expect, because He sees them differently. He sees us differently too.

He sees the falcon in us.

Perennial Garden

2011-06-09T10:48:00.001-05:00

Early one fall when my mother was ten years old, her aunt who lived nearby transplanted some irises into their garden, just green spears and bulbs with the promise of flowers the following spring. Little did my aunt know at the time how desperately they would need that bit of color and beauty. It was 1929 and about a month later, the stock market crashed and Great Depression began.

Every time my mother and grandmother moved, they brought along the bulbs, dividing the clusters and always leaving some behind, Fort Worth, New York, Chicago, New Jersey, and back again to Chicago. When my parents eventually moved to Florida in the 1990s, we scooped up some of the bulbs for our own garden. The irises have now traveled with us to Kansas City, Iowa City, Cincinnati, Memphis, and Chicago. In each of our nomadic locations, there are irises blooming every spring, the story behind them unknown to those who live in those houses.

This week I have been writing the obituary for my father who passed away earlier this spring. Due to space limitations, the entry can only hit the highlights of his career as a scientist, inventor and entrepreneur. The text seems incomplete, and the words cry out to me what is missing and what really matters. He was a man of integrity (“if you are going to steal, rob a bank”), a father who provided, a grandfather who desired each newborn to go to college, and a shepherd more than a business man – those who worked for him (some up to 40 years) considered him “family” because that is how he treated them. He was not a man of many words until very late in his life. Faith played a large role in his life, even though he didn’t speak much about it. In his own way, he cared about people, even to the point of initiating a “men’s club” among the elderly men in his assisted living facility. He outlived them all, including the one woman member who was blind and acted as their secretary. He was full of stories about growing up in Brooklyn, coming of age in the War, and meeting Eisenhower and Einstein, most of which we never heard until the last few months of his life.

The iris blooms make me think about what we leave behind. Our culture thinks largely of the material – “make sure you have a will” – but those who come after us don’t need a tufted chair or a check, but an inheritance that tells of the hope within. I came across my grandfather’s Bible last week. He was born in 1866, the year after the Civil War ended, and died decades before I was born. As I lifted up the crumbling book, what I desired more than anything was a note to fall out that would give me a clue about who he was and what was important to him. I held his Bible and realized I was holding that evidence in my hand.

When I became a grandmother, the first thing that profoundly hit me was that everything that I do and say and believe and hold as true will directly affect this little child in my arms. What am I passing on to her? Baggage that will weigh her down or perennial hope? The irises remind me what to leave behind.

We will not hide them from their children,

but tell to the coming generation

the glorious deeds of the LORD, and His might,

and the wonders which He has wrought.

,,,that the next generation might know them,

the children yet unborn,

and arise and tell them to their children,

so that they should set their hope in God…

Psalm 78. 4, 6-7

The First Picture Show

2011-06-05T15:00:00.003-05:00

About 14 years ago, we moved to Iowa City and lived on the edge of town with a creek running through our backyard. The fields beyond the borders of our yard appeared, at times, to extend all the way to the horizon where sunsets silenced us by their beauty. It was a precious season in our family when all four of our girls still lived at home, before that time when one by one they journeyed to distant worlds called “college.” It was a time when the washer and dryer droned on a daily basis. Our evenings were full to overflowing with homework and art projects and bedtime readings about Middle Earth. And our mornings were a flurry of back packs and quick searches for shoes before the bus came up the hill.

In that “rush hour” early one junior high morning, as she flew out the door, grasping her coat, backpack, and lunchbag in one hand and toast wrapped in a paper towel in her other hand, our daughter Kate hesitated just a moment, turned to me and said, “Mom, I had the weirdest dream last night. I dreamt that our house was surrounded by corn. I mean, surrounded, like pressed up against the windows.” And with that, she was off to catch the bus.

At the time, I was taking a fiction writing course at the University of Iowa, and I had a deadline for a new story in just a few days. The deadline so far had no accompanying story to submit. That morning, Kate’s words hung in the air, as vivid as apples hanging ripe and heavy in a tree, just waiting to be harvested. I drove the two youngest girls to the elementary school and came back home to a sink full of morning dishes and a laundry room full of yesterday’s dirty clothes. And, ignoring all, I wrote. What emerged over the next couple of days, just in time for my afternoon class, was a story about truth and a boy raised in a house surrounded by corn.

Last night, I had the privilege, no, make that the HONOR, of seeing that story on the big screen. Caught in the middle of the flurry that morning was our youngest daughter Hannah, then 8 years old. She heard Kate talk about the dream. And then, over the years, she grew up knowing the story about that amazing house and the little boy in it, indeed growing up with him. About a year and a half ago, as a film and animation major at Northwestern University, Hannah began translating those words first into a screenplay and then turning that script into visual images. She pitched her idea and won a grant to fund the film. She interviewed actors, she rented an old farmhouse to film, she built a model house and birds to animate, she stayed up for -–I can’t imagine how many --days and nights directing amidst rustling corn stalks, animating checkerboard pieces in the computer lab, and weaving together a story not about corn, but the manifestation of truth.

Last night, as she gave a short speech thanking the “Academy,” so to speak, I saw that imaginative little girl with two dark braids suddenly transformed into a confident smiling woman on the cusp of a great adventure. And this Momma is so proud.

Concrete block walls held together with super-glue

2011-06-03T08:18:00.001-05:00

Bill and I were invited to a get-together last fall by a high school friend of mine. At the party, it became obvious that everyone there had known each other for many years. When asked about our family, we told them about our three girls living in Chicago and our daughter who lives in Nashville. “I have a sister who is a nurse in Nashville,” one woman said.

“You have a sister?!?” another woman exclaimed. “I have known you for twenty years, and I didn’t know that.”

The woman replied, “Well, we haven’t even spoken to each other in, oh about, thirty years or so.” When prodded by the others for the reason why, she hesitated a moment and then responded, “I can’t remember anymore.”

Who is lurking in your closet?

The more time that passes by, the higher and thicker the walls between us. We seem to think that forgiveness needs to be someone else’s responsibility. Sometimes we just don’t know how to go about it. And sometimes we just don’t want to let go of the hurt, thinking oddly enough that holding onto the pain is somehow hurting them back.

Forgiveness is recognizing the gap, acknowledging that something happened or something was said that caused pain. The first step even in Alcoholics Anonymous is realizing that there is a problem. The second step is recognizing that there is pain. Yes, it hurt…and it still does. That is usually when we stop and let it brew longer and stronger.

The third step is determining to do something about it. Forgiveness does not mean saying that “it’s ok,” or “you didn’t mean it,” or “letting someone off the hook,” or “pretending that nothing happened.” Forgiveness is letting go of the bitterness. Bitterness manifests itself in any number of ways that physically and emotionally affect you – and everyone around you, even if you don’t realize it. When you let it go, it no longer has control over you. Let go of the hurt. And do what YOU can to reconcile. I thought for a long time that forgiveness meant having to go to someone and say, “I forgive you for hitting me, or ruining my life, or fill in the _____.” Sometimes all that does is stir up the past. And sometimes the person has no idea that they have done anything wrong. If YOU are in the wrong, then asking for forgiveness is in order. If not, sometimes the kindest and most forgiving thing is to just let it go …and move on. Put the relationship first, not the hurtful action. And pray that God would show you how to see that person differently. They may hang up the phone on you. They may never answer your emails. They may not hug you back. But then again… they might.

There are two great movies available about the impact of forgiveness: An Unfinished Life (2005) starring Robert Redford, Jennifer Lopez and Morgan Freeman, and just out on DVD Get Low (2010) starring Robert Duvall and Bill Murray, which is, by the way, one of the best movies I have seen in a long time. Nothing is more powerful than redemption…and nothing more destructive than a lack of forgiveness.

It is a long way home. It may be a friend or a parent or a sibling or even one of your kids. But don’t wait until it is too late. Regrets are even harder to live with.

Now What Will I Do?

2011-05-26T09:50:00.001-05:00

As of this afternoon, there will be millions of grieving, forlorn women. Their longtime friend who visited daily for 25 years will not be knocking on their door today. For some, she is even a childhood friend, and they have grown up together with tears and laughter, compassion and outrage, and literally through thick and thin. After 5000 visits, Oprah is no longer coming over for a cup of afternoon coffee.

Oprah, I am sure, relished having so many viewers. Little can she conceive how intimately these women are attached. She was welcome in their homes. She ruled their schedules. She filled an hour of their day. Since 1986, she was their best friend.

My mother never watched Oprah, but she was glued to the news. Every afternoon, Carol Marin, a local Chicago newscaster, appeared right across the room from where my mom sat on the couch. Mom welcomed her, and if one of us was there, she would comment on Carol’s hair or clothing choice. My mom was not so pathetic as it sounds, but in her eyes, Carol was her friend who came every afternoon to see her. My parents’ house at the time was across the street from the high school. One day during a so-called earth-shattering news event, the television cameras were lined up across the street. Mom always kept a stealth eye on what happened at the school, vigilant particularly during the sit-ins and protests during the Viet Nam war. As she peered out from behind the curtains, she spotted Carol, getting ready for the broadcast. Mom dashed across the street, probably still in her slippers, ran up to Carol, and hugged her like a long-lost friend. I am sure that Carol was duly shocked and delighted at the same time. Mom talked about it for weeks.

That is the kind of attachment I am sure that Oprah had, even though most women I know always said to me, “Well, I just so happened to see Oprah the other day, and she said….” as if it were a rare occurrence. But there was a tremendous draw and impact through this television idol.

“Now what will I do?” many will ask today as they scroll through the channels. The only thing God never meant you to do is to live a mediocre life. God has something special in mind for every one of us. Day by day by day, and we are too distracted to know it. As Donald Miller wrote in his book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, “get up and do something.”

Think about what you can do with one hour a day. God can change the world.

“My times are in Your hand.”

Psalm 31.15

Great Expectations

2011-05-24T16:23:00.002-05:00

Last week, flipping through Redbook magazine, I came upon an article that stopped me in my tracks about a mom who struggled with accepting her child (http://www.redbookmag.com/kids-family/advice/i-dont-like-my-child?click=pp). It was a powerful and convicting essay because of its honesty, revealing feelings few are willing to admit. “I viewed Sophie through a lens of failure,” she wrote. This is not an isolated story. It is my story. And it is yours. It has everything to do with how we treat everyone around us, how we see them, what we expect, and how we are frustrated because they don’t fit our grid, be it a child as in this story, or a spouse, or a parent, or friend, or co-worker. “You are not who I want you to be,” we think and vocalize in so many words, as if WE are so high and mighty, the perfection of all things. We let those phantoms reign destructively in our lives and relationships, and then wonder what’s wrong.

I carried the haunting words of her article around in my head for days. At the same time, I was deep into writing an article about worldview. Worldview is the way we see reality and make sense of the world. It infects how we see all of life, including how we view and respond to other people. Biblical worldview, based on the reality of God, is different, because it sees life through God’s loving eyes.

And that is radical indeed.

In April, I read Dancing with Max by Emily Colson, a moving account of a single mother who raises her severely autistic son. I was touched by the struggles she endured in everyday things such as picking up a prescription at the drug store, or confronting school administrators to provide an education for her son, or desperately seeking the advice of so-called experts, one of whom advised her to lock Max in a closet. She saw Max differently. “I don’t think this diagnosis steals our dreams,” she wrote. “What if it were the very thing to build our character, to give our lives purpose?” As her perspective continued to change over the course of twenty years, so did her expectations. Her expectations were not diminished, but whole new dimensions of life opened up for both of them.

If a relationship is based on performance, the other person can never be perfect enough, always viewed through a convenient lens of failure. But in the eyes of God, “…you are precious in My eyes, and honored, and I love you.” (Isaiah 43.4) Our relationship with God is based on grace alone. That changes the lens completely. We are all created in the image of God, precious in His sight. And as a result of the Fall, we are all depraved, in need of redemption. If we really get that, it changes how we treat others and how we view ourselves. What’s wrong with the world? As G. K. Chesterton once replied, “Sir, I am.”

And what emerges through that redeeming work is the restoration not of our own eyesight but seeing through God’s lens and His great expectations for how life is meant to be.

Design 101

2011-05-13T21:18:00.001-05:00

Last month, my husband and I traveled to the mountains in east Tennessee, emerging from cold grey Chicago into another dimension where the adorned mountains seemed to sing out loud, and the trees were decked in a million shades of tender green, lifting their limbs upward against a blue too deep to comprehend. The waters of the creek danced over the rocks. The woods, trail sides, and hills were carpeted in an explosion of color, millions of flowers that no one even planted. The beauty was so radical I wouldn’t have even been surprised if the animals could talk. The winter cold had been redeemed, the world turned right side up with a glimpse of the way things ought to be.

And in the midst of this wonder, I ran on asphalt painted with double yellow lines, designed, constructed and paved by the Army Corps of Engineers and a battalion of earth-moving machinery. This hard inanimate surface wound its way through a living, breathing, totally organic world so interdependent and fragile that the elimination of one species or a single degree throws it off balance, so intimately and intricately designed. It is all seamlessly woven into what we are able to recognize as beautiful. The best description is awe. And it appears every year. Right on time.

The road was engineered. Duh. Anyone could tell you that.

But this beauty… just happened? Always remember, reality reveals truth. Profound. Complex. And amazing.

The Mighty One, God the LORD,

speaks and summons the earth

from the rising of the sun to its setting.

Out of the perfection of beauty,

God shines forth.

Psalm 50.1-2

Royal Wedding

2011-04-29T10:59:00.001-05:00

The other day I was cleaning out one of our closets and I came upon my 30-year-old wedding dress stored in a box and shunned by all my girls as too old fashioned. The girls have all smiled kindly at me and said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

So I had a great chuckle this morning after all the hoopla about the royal dress for the wedding in London today. For there, it appears, Kate was wearing my dress – or very similar. The only difference is I married the better guy!

Confusion of Tongues

2011-04-26T18:27:00.001-05:00

We live in a world where many people have relegated the Bible to the sphere of ancient myths, mostly in an effort to discredit the Bible’s power and its truth within. The Bible is the very word of God. And as a result, it does not require the consent of man to deem it anything more or less. Its Truth cannot be so easily dismissed. Indeed, in the Psalms, it even says, “Truth will spring up from the ground.” Dismiss it as myth, but it is still the Truth. And as such cannot be hidden.

So I chuckled last week, when I read in the Wall Street Journal (Friday, April 15, page A4), an article entitled “The Mother of All Languages” about the evolution of spoken and written words. Researchers have now “discovered” that all languages have come from a single language somewhere near or in Africa, a startling revelation based on distinct units of sound, called phonemes. The study points to a catalyst that researchers have pinpointed to have caused migration of humans from Africa to all parts of the globe. That unexplained catalyst was indicated by a “a sudden and marked shift in how modern humans behaved…likely caused by a key innovation: complex language…” Furthermore, the researchers point out that “Only humans have the biological capacity to communicate with a rich language based on symbols and rules. Without language, culture as we know it wouldn’t exist, so scientists are keen to pin down its origins.”

Note the words “sudden and marked shift.” Hmmmm, well, let’s try Genesis 11. 1-10. “And the LORD said, “Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is only the beginning of what they will do; and nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them. Come, let us go down, and there confuse their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.” So the LORD scattered them abroad from there over the face of all the earth, and they left off building the city.” (Genesis 11. 6-8)

They would discount the Tower of Babel as a myth, but flaunt their own theories as startling discoveries. The Truth is there. They are not discovering truth as much as they are uncovering it… even if they slap their own names on what was revealed in Scripture thousands of years ago.

Boiled eggs, a handful of jelly beans, and another ham sandwich

2011-04-25T20:36:00.002-05:00

This morning, the reality of Easter stood before me. Ham sandwiches are on our lunch menu all week, a handful of jelly beans that somehow escaped yesterday will be gone by noon, and I am searching for a recipe that will use a dozen colored hard-boiled eggs smashed on each end from our family tradition of “egg wars.” Yesterday, we celebrated the resurrection of Christ.

I am convinced of the resurrection. Not just by the historical fact of Christ’s resurrection, but from what happened afterwards. The disciples were sure that Jesus Christ was the Messiah. Indeed, the word Christos is the Greek word for Messiah, or Anointed One. And here, their leader had just been killed in a horribly painful and humiliating death. This was not at all what His disciples expected. And so, they huddled behind locked doors, terrified that they would be next. The disciples thought that was it. Let’s hide until things settle down. At this point, the missing body had caused quite a stir in Jerusalem, to the point that in an effort at damage control, the Pharisees spread a rumor that the disciples had stolen it (Matthew 28. 11-15), further imperiling the disciples.

But that was not the end of the story. The tomb was empty, the grave clothes cast aside, a huge stone rolled away, and the Roman centurions guarding it were shaking in their boots. And Jesus appeared. Over and over and over again. He was alive. He had risen from the dead. Christ was who He said He was. Nothing would ever be the same. And this raggedy group of cowards were empowered and transformed from a state of fearfulness and despair into those who were fearless and bold. In the ensuing years, with one exception, each one died a martyr’s death after spreading the love of Christ like wild-fire to the uttermost parts of the world. The disciples were changed. These men who cowered behind locked doors now stood before kings and tormentors. They were transformed. Men will not die for what they know is a lie. But they will give their lives for what they KNOW is Truth. They were eyewitnesses. And nothing could stop them.

What makes the difference is that God is supernatural and life is eternal and Jesus is alive. Death is not “game over.”

That, to me, is the reality of the Resurrection: transformed lives. It still is. I see it all the time. Lives are turned right-side up with no other explanation than realizing the amazing grace that we know as Easter.

He is not here, for He has risen,

as He said.

Matthew 28.6

Posterity

2011-04-11T21:54:00.001-05:00

…from generation to generation

we will recount Your praise.

Psalm 79.13

Twelve days ago, our second grandbaby was born.

My cup overflows.

Lord, Make it Enough

2011-03-31T08:44:00.001-05:00

A sweet friend spent years living on the edge, caring night and day for a handicapped son. There were multiple surgeries, many narrow squeaks, and the overwhelming demands of a growing family intensified by her lack of sleep. She shared with me once that her cry out to God after many a sleepless night was, “Lord, make it enough.” And God would provide. She learned not to dwell on “I am running on empty,” but “Lord, make it enough.”

We have all been there in one fashion or another. And the evil one seeks to pull each one of us down into the miry bog of seeing life without God’s intervention. But He is still there.

The disciples cried out to Jesus, “All we have are five stale biscuits and a couple of cold fish nuggets.”

And God made it enough. “All ate and were satisfied. And they took up what was left over, twelve baskets of broken pieces.” (Luke 9. 17)

The solution was not personal ingenuity or “thinking positive,” or even deliverance from the situation, but God’s blessing on it. Hold up your impossible situation to Him, look to heaven, and let Him bless it. His blessing will sneak into your life today in unexpected ways, despite the storm around you…or the parched wilderness. And in one way or another, you will see it before your very eyes. He will redeem.

Your situation may not change, but God can change you. That is even better. Get ready to stand amazed.

“Lord, make it enough.”

Nudges

2011-03-29T08:58:00.001-05:00

Often when I am out for a run, God will bring to mind people in my life, friends, family, loved ones, and, well, some not so loved. At times it will be a person with whom I have just had a conversation or read an email. Sometimes I am surprised – where did that come from?- someone I haven’t thought about in years. Other times it may be a public figure like the President or person in the news.

These are not aimless imaginings designed to fill up the vast recesses of my brain. Over the space of time and by experience, I have LEARNED to recognize these contemplations as nudges from God. God has placed a particular person front and center in my thoughts not just to think about them, but to pray. And to pray NOW at that very minute. We never ever know what that person is facing at that exact moment, an enormous decision, an overwhelming task, or perhaps, a temptation that seeks to bring them down.

I was reminded of these things last week. The day after my dad died, I received two emails, one right after another, from two old friends who both independently said that God had placed me on their hearts that morning and over the weekend, and that they were praying for me. They did not know what was happening or even where I was, but they knew to pray. And they had no idea how much I needed it. I feasted in the month of March on the prayers of the saints.

So as you go about your day, grasp that opportunity to pray, no matter how random it may seem. Because it isn’t.

The prayer of the righteous

has great power in its effects.

James 5.16

Unfinished Business

2011-03-24T18:12:00.001-05:00

A couple of nights ago, I slept for the first time since the end of January without the impending dread of a phone call in the middle of the night. And for the past three weeks, I dozed lightly like a firefighter – clothes, shoes, and keys set out—waiting for the alarm to sound. I balanced on an emotional edge, waiting to hear “Come quick,” or “I am so sorry to inform you…”

Last Sunday, I knew even before I answered the phone at 4.55 a.m. in the early morning darkness. “He’s gone,” my brother told me. That day and the next, I went through the motions of the things that needed to be done, papers signed, keys turned in, and a final run-through his cluttered apartment. Condolences arrived, but my heart and mind seemed in the final six miles of a marathon, just keep going, one step and then another, almost home, almost home, the rhythm set my pace. Sympathies sounded so weak, drowned out by the assurance of a line in an old hymn in church later that morning, “Jesus has conquered the grave.”

The plane landed late Monday night. I am back in Chicago, feeling like I have completed a long race, spent and weary. My dad went Home to be with the Lord on Sunday, finally crossing from one life into the next in a single breath, after lingering in hospice for three weeks, beyond even the belief of the doctors and nurses. He defied the odds against him his whole life. He wasn’t about to stop now.

One of the maintenance men who helped me carry some cartons out of his apartment said of Dad’s lingering, “Well, he must have some unfinished business to attend to.” As I sat by his side for those three weeks, listening to his tales embellished by dementia, and making sure that he knew he was not alone, I realized that the unfinished business was, perhaps, not on his side, but mine. I had a lot of forgiving to do. Not condoning hurtful actions, but letting go of the bitterness. And through the process, I began to see my Dad in a different light. He could not hurt me anymore. He was an old man now, dying in a hospice room, surrounded by strangers.

Like many women I know, I did not have a close relationship with my Dad. He was largely absent from my upbringing, working long hours, unencumbered by the norms of fatherhood, and dwelling mostly in his own little world. He never played games with the family. He never attended programs or meets or our school activities. I don’t even remember him ever sitting down and watching television with us. He provided, but even that was mostly on a shoestring. He once made a skating rink in our back yard one bitter Chicago winter. And then I found out he was only experimenting with a new kind of plastic. When I graduated with my Master’s degree, he shook my hand. I once asked him why he never told us he loved us. “Because you know I do,” he replied, never a man to waste words. The first time my husband Bill hugged him, his arms froze, straight out, not knowing what to think. I had accumulated a lot of emotional baggage to dig through.

So four days before he passed away, his very last words on earth took me by surprise. I had been with him all day, his eyes were closed, his fragile body rolled from side to side every two hours by the nurses without so much as a groan from him. It was late. I was weary, and I needed to leave. I leaned over and kissed his forehead and said, “I love you, Dad.”

And with eyes closed, he mumbled, “I love you too, honey.”

Never Forgotten

2011-03-18T14:47:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago, I attended a church service where the children were invited to sit on the steps at the front of the sanctuary for “a special time with Pastor Frank.” The pastor started to share with the little ones about times of being afraid and being alone. “I wonder sometimes if God remembers me,” the pastor said. Quite suddenly a little boy spoke out in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear: “He always does,” said the four-or-five year-old. “He knows you by name.”

Out of the mouth of a mere babe comes the truth that should always be foremost in our thoughts and in the way by which we live. It will transform how you see yourself, how you see the world, and how you see God. Nothing will ever be the same.

But now thus says the LORD,

He who created you, O Jacob,

He who formed you, O Israel,

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name,

you are Mine.

When you pass through the waters I will be with you,

and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you,

when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,

and the flame shall not consume you.

For I am the LORD your God,

the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.

…Because you are precious in My eyes,

and honored, and I love you.”

Isaiah 43. 1-4

Wearing of the Green

2011-03-17T06:14:00.001-05:00

We celebrate today not green beer and leprechauns, but one man’s radical obedience to God, through whom God used to change the course of history.

Patrick was born in 387 in Britain, which was part of the then-crumbling Roman Empire. He came from a legacy of faith; his father and his grandfather were spiritual leaders in the early church and served as deacons. When he was 16 years old, he was kidnapped by Irish raiders, taken to Ireland, and sold as a slave. What seemed as a tragedy in a young man’s life, God used for tremendous good. In the long hours slaving as a shepherd in the wilderness taking care of his master’s sheep, Patrick spent long hours in prayer and meditation. In his own words: “But after I reached Hibernia I used to pasture the flock each day and I used to pray many times a day. More and more did the Love of God, and my fear of Him and faith increase, and my spirit was moved so that in a day [I said] from one up to a hundred prayers, and in the night a like number; besides I used to stay out in the forests and on the mountain and I would wake up before daylight to pray in the snow, in icy coldness, in rain, and I used to feel neither ill nor any slothfulness, because, as I now see, the Spirit was burning in me at that time".

Also in this time of exile, he learned the Celtic language and became well-versed in the pagan culture of Ireland, as his master was a high Druid, an important leader in Irish religion and culture. All these things God fashioned into tools in Patrick’s life which later would be used for His Kingdom.

After six years of enslavement, after being prompted in a dream that “Your ship is ready,” he escaped and fled on foot for 200 miles and found a ship, ready to sail. He returned to Britain and studied to be a priest. Nudged again by God in a vision, he returned to Ireland, the land of his captivity and a place of fierce opposition to the Gospel, to be a missionary to the Irish people. After 30 years of evangelism, he died on March 17 in the year 461. One of his tools of evangelism was the three-leafed shamrock, which he used to teach unbelievers about the Trinity.

But that is only the beginning of the story. Patrick’s obedience to God then reverberated throughout the known world. As chronicled in Thomas Cahill’s book How the Irish Saved Civilization, God used Patrick as a catalyst for literacy and learning in Ireland while Europe was being invaded and destroyed by barbarians in a period of time we know as the Dark Ages.

So wear the green proudly today in honor of what God can do through one man’s faithfulness to Him. And as a challenge that we may live obediently for God. Yes, it matters. It matters a lot.

I thank my God through Jesus Christ

for all of you,

because your faith is proclaimed

in all the world.

Romans 1.8

Old and Full of Days

2011-03-14T12:47:00.001-05:00

I am sitting here this afternoon next to the bedside of my almost-90 year old father who is deeply asleep, coming to the surface every few minutes to mumble something unintelligible, whispered almost as a prayer, but not to me. For the past two weeks, I have expected his next breath to be his last. And in classic form, it appears the last to go will be his famous German stubbornness.

To some, he was a man of character, to others just a character. He is stubborn and ornery and imperfect and, as he lays here, a picture of redemption. Because in him and his roughness around the edges, I see my own need for grace. When it all comes down to it, we all show up at heaven’s gate with nothing to show for ourselves. Nothing matters but our relationship with Christ, not even what we “did for God.” We are empty handed, undeserving, and stand in awe and shame for how much God loves us. We will all stand here one day and face eternity.

And what is this journey, my Dad’s slow creeping towards the other side of life, but to be released from the groaning of a prison cell, a fallen world, and emerge into a world where everything is what it ought to be. What is broken is restored without seams, all things new. From solid concrete block walls, grey and cold, to a vista beyond our imagination, so bold that the trees and mountains burst into song and laughter. Former things now dissolve and can no longer be remembered, except for what is eternal like a baby’s chuckle and truth not surrendered.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror,

then we shall see face to face.

Now I know in part;

then I shall know fully,

even as I am fully known.

1 Corinthians 13.12

Letting Go, Part 2

2011-03-06T21:43:00.001-06:00

Almost two weeks ago, my daughter and her family moved to Cleveland amidst tearful goodbyes. They left behind reminders of themselves scattered like toys in a playroom.

That same week brought about a letting go of a different sort. That Friday afternoon my cell phone rang and I saw a doctor’s name. My Dad had been in the hospital for over a month. Before I even answered, I knew it couldn’t be good. “There is nothing more that I can do for him,” the doctor said. Dad was transported back to his nursing home. Doctors there observed him for a few days. He continued to decline. And the signs of his body shutting down were becoming more evident.

A few days ago, I signed the papers for Dad to be admitted to hospice. I had been hesitant to travel that route. I had viewed the decision as giving up on Dad. But as the days progressed, I realized that it was not giving up on his getting better; it was realizing that he was not. And it was not a matter of giving up, but letting go. My Dad has mild dementia, so he has no idea that he is so close to the end of this life and the beginning of the new. But although his body is weak, his dry humor is still strong as ever. I was reminding him about a restaurant that we had gone to a couple of years ago. “Do you remember Jason’s?” I asked him. “No,” he said. “I can’t remember if it was last year or the year before,” I said. “Welcome to the club,” he replied.

In the South, people don’t die. They “pass,” followed by a parade of pound cakes to the home of the deceased. “Passing” is a very appropriate expression – as an actual passing from one reality to the next. And in the immortal words of C. S. Lewis, “Christians don’t say goodbye, they just say see you later.”

That is not an expression of wishful thinking. God has not left this process a mystery. You can know without a shadow of a doubt what is on the other side. We can let my father leave with the assurance in our hearts of KNOWING that we will see him again. Several weeks ago, when I came down to Florida for the second time in two months, I talked to him about his faith. Now, please understand that my father was never very verbal about his faith. Actually when we were growing up, he was not very verbal about anything. He was a research scientist whose delight was spending long amounts of time alone in a laboratory. But last month, I asked him pointblank, “Dad, have you ever asked Jesus to be your personal Savior?” He responded immediately. “Of course. A long time ago.” He made a choice that grounded him in life and in the hereafter.

Mom and Dad always enjoyed traveling, many times leaving us with no clues to their whereabouts. But Dad is leaving us now with a destination in mind. That makes the letting go a lot easier. We will all miss him, but he will just be waiting on the other side.

They Tore Out My Heart and Stomped That Sucker Flat

2011-02-22T22:34:00.001-06:00

That is how I felt today.

I knew it was going to be hard, but I didn’t comprehend how overwhelming it would be.

This morning, our oldest daughter Beth, her husband Gary, and our grandbaby Maggie, strapped in her carseat and waving like crazy, backed down our driveway to move to Cleveland. The reality of it hit us like a cold, icy, February Chicago snowball and we cried-- a lot. Their absence is not yet ten hours old, and I haven’t even touched the bottom of it yet. “Turn around,” I wanted to text them this afternoon. I won’t ever again see a bird at the feeder or a squirrel in our yard without thinking about Maggie. Tomorrow is Wednesday. Beth is not going to Bible study, and Maggie won’t be coming over to play. Everything in me says don’t be such a baby about this, but I can’t help it. There have been too many goodbyes.

We rejoiced fifteen months ago when God engineered our move here to live just three miles from them. When Beth and Gary announced that they were moving out-of-state, it was not what we had in mind. It was another one of those times when God kept asking me, “Can you trust Me in this?” I know that just because it doesn’t make sense to me doesn’t mean that there isn’t an amazing divine reason for what is happening. But oh, there were moments today when I thought that I couldn’t breathe.

Last Friday morning before the packing frenzy began, Beth came over at 7 am with Maggie to have breakfast. Beth brought some donuts, I made the coffee, and Maggie supplied the laughter. And while we were eating and talking, I was reminded of an experience 24 years ago when Beth started kindergarten. As I stood on the sidewalk outside the school with tears streaming down my face, my very wise husband told me, “The letting go starts right now.”

Well, today we reached the Super Bowl of letting go. And in the midst of my tears while I was picking up the all-too-silent playroom, God reminded me again that there is no better place for them to be than the center of His Will.

“Trust Me,” God tells me in His Word. He is the God who heals and redeems and restores beyond all that we can ask or even imagine.

LORD, all my longing is known to You,

my sighing is not hidden from You.

My heart throbs, my strength fails me,

and the light of my eyes – it has also gone from me.

…But for You, O LORD, do I wait;

it is You, O LORD my God, who will answer.

Psalm 38. 9-10, 15

The Real Valentine

2011-02-13T20:18:00.001-06:00

For the record: St. Valentine is not the patron saint of greeting cards, Dove chocolates, or restaurant dinners. Indeed, there are probably very few young people who even associate Valentines Day with a saint, let alone a “religious” holiday.

Valentine, known as Valentinus, was a priest who lived in Rome in the mid-200s AD when being a Christian meant certain death. He aided Christian martyrs during their persecution, and as a result was arrested and imprisoned. He survived in jail for a year before he was brought before the emperor Claudius the Second who offered Valentinus to save his life if he worshipped the Roman gods. Valentinus refused. He was condemned and martyred on February 14, 270 AD, beaten by clubs, stoned and beheaded. Hardly a Hallmark moment.

Legend tells that before his death, Valentinus fell in love with the blind daughter of the jailer, who along with her father had converted to Christianity. As a way of saying good-bye on the eve of his death, he wrote her a message and signed it, “From Your Valentine.” The jailer and his daughter were also later sentenced to death by the emperor. Chocolate and soft music did not enter the picture until centuries later.

And it seems very appropriate that a holiday that is associated with love is also associated with God. Valentinus risked his life and died a martyr’s death not to earn God’s favor or gain points with God. Valentinus did it because he loved God. He knew what God’s love meant. It was not something he deserved or earned, but because that is how God revealed Himself to us.

But God shows His love for us

in that while we were yet sinners

Christ died for us.

Romans 5.8

Red is the color of sacrifice. And there is no one who loves you more.

Recently I read about a family who fostered a little boy who had come from a horrific background. Not knowing how long they would be able to nurture and love this little one, they cared for him deeply. Every night when they tucked him in bed, they would ask him, “What does God say when he sees you?” They taught him to say, “I sure do love that little boy!”

God loves you that much too. Don’t ever forget it.

Happy Valentines Day, sweet friends.

Get a Grip

2011-02-12T08:23:00.001-06:00

Chicago was hit by a blizzard of historic proportions last week. And in its wake, the storm left behind literal mountains of snow. Our village requires residents to shovel their sidewalks, which provided me a maze of icy paths, 16 inches wide with walls on each side thigh-high. I know now how the Israelites felt in crossing the Red Sea, like traveling through a canyon. But running in these conditions is a lot harder than it looks. Running in snow replicates trying to gain traction on loose deep sand. At other times, layers of ice hiding underneath produce a lethal combination. When I was a little girl back a hundred years ago, people installed chains on their car tires to help them maneuver through the wintry mess. I now attach to the bottom of my running shoes, a type of tire chains. They don’t guarantee a slip-free run, but they really help me “get a grip” when the way is icy and treacherous.

On a sunny day when life is wonderful, reading my Bible and praying keep me glued together. When the way gets a bit harder, I reach out and shout “help” to a few trusted women who don’t ask for details or try to fix my problem, but pray for me. Also, as I run, I quote Scriptures that I have memorized to plug me into the power of God’s Word.

And indeed, in the same week Chicago was hit by a blizzard, I was hit by another blizzard of sorts, a difficult situation with strong emotional winds. I struggled with how to navigate the turmoil. It was not the first time I have had to face an enormous task that made me want to hide in the closet until the tempest passes. This was yet another time when the only way that I could face the enormity of the crisis was to trust God through it. That is the only way to “get a grip.” Put pride aside and strap on the trust. As God reminded me this week, “Can you trust Me in this?” I know I can. The path may not be obvious to me, but God will guide me through it and keep me from falling. “Trust Me.” Those words are the “tire-chains” that keep you going when the way is treacherous and not what you had in mind. And you may find, as I did last Sunday morning running through three inches of new powder and snowflakes dancing around me, that trusting God brings you to a beautiful place you never knew before.

You gave a wide place for my steps under me,

and my feet did not slip.

Psalm 18.36

The Gospel According to Jimmy Choo

2011-02-08T21:43:00.001-06:00

On this morning’s TODAY show on NBC, hidden somewhere between the exciting news of wind chill in Chicago and the traffic update, was a small feature entitled “Why We Are Obsessed with Shoes.” A group of four experts came to the conclusion, and I quote: “Shoes have the ability to transform your life.” Whoa, I almost fell off the treadmill.

As a shoe-challenged kind of woman who 99.8 percent of the time wears either running shoes, Chaco sandals or Birkenstock clogs (yes, in that order), it is probably illegal for me to even type the words “Jimmy Choo” in a blog. The panel of experts included Stacy London who weekly scours the United States for women like me who don’t have a fashion clue, a fashion editor for Glamour magazine who said that a poor economy actually stimulates the sale of shoes, and another woman who had on a pair of boots that probably cost more than my car is worth.

How many pairs of shoes are enough? One more pair, I am sure these women would conclude. It is an elusive pursuit. There is something in us that wants something more, something dramatically different, something new. We KNOW there is more to this life. That is why advertising is so successful: it promises you the world for the price of a new pair of shoes. It will make things right. It will save your life. While a pair of shoes can have many positive qualities, salvation is not one of them. Why do we seek these things with such displaced desperation? Because there is a longing in our hearts…a longing that only God can satisfy, no matter how many shoes you can stuff in your closet. That longing is there, because God put it there, to lead us to a relationship with Him.

The right pair of shoes, yea, they can make an outfit work. But transforming your life? Sorry, Stacy, it has nothing at all to do with what you strap on your feet…and everything to do with what God’s love can do in your heart.

…and you shall be called by a new name,

which the mouth of the LORD will give.

You shall be a crown of beauty in the hand of the LORD,

and a royal diadem in the hand of your God.

You shall no more be termed Forsaken,

and your land shall no more be termed Desolate,

but you shall be called My delight is in her…

and as the bridegroom rejoices over the bride,

so shall your God rejoice over you.

Isaiah 62. 2-5

Rebound

2011-01-24T08:41:00.001-06:00

Bill and I watched the University of Wisconsin basketball team yesterday soundly defeat the Northwestern Wildcats (make that the Scaredy-cats). Were the Wisconsin players that much better? Obviously they made more baskets, but the victory was in the HOW they did it. Wisconsin missed the basket a lot. So did Northwestern. The difference came in the rebounds. Wisconsin caught the rebounds nearly EVERY time, whether their team’s botched shot or their opponent’s. It appeared that Northwestern was shooting, missing and then drawing back, (“Oh well, missed again”), and just politely handing the ball to Wisconsin. At one point, Wisconsin shot and missed THREE times in a row, each time recovering the rebound, snatching it out of thin air from their opponents, and then finally sinking it in.

We all miss baskets in life, all of us. The significant difference is what we do with the rebounds.

I have been reading about Joseph in Genesis. He was handed hardship after hardship, injustices building up one after another. And he rebounded each time. Not on his own strength, he would tell you to your face, but on God’s, even in the face of constant adversity. It was not Joseph’s situation that made him great, but his RESPONSE, his vertical perspective, letting God use him and giving Him the glory. (“It is not in me, but God…” Genesis 41.16)

The ball doesn’t always go in the net as we desire. As with Joseph, God has bigger plans. Rebound with excellence in everything you do. And let God give the victory.

But the LORD was with Joseph

and showed him steadfast love,

and gave him favor in the sight

of the keeper of the prison.

…the LORD was with him,

and whatever he did,

the LORD made it prosper.

Genesis 39. 21,23

Kick-off Sunday 2 p.m.

2011-01-22T09:58:00.001-06:00

Chicago Bear fans – who comprise just about the entire Chicago metropolitan area – are surging with excitement about this Sunday’s NFC Championship playoff game against the Green Bay Packers. Indeed, news broadcasts all week have been focused on this momentous event, discussing everything from scalping tickets to boycotting cheese in support of a Bears victory. One news feature about the Bears players themselves was entitled “How to Best Prepare for the Big Game.” Four days before the game? Ummmm, if you aren’t prepared yet, it is a bit too late!

There are some “big games” in life that we see coming on the horizon, things that we know that we SHOULD prepare for. But there are also those vital and immediate “play-off games,” when so much hangs in the balance and are quite suddenly standing at your front door. How to best prepare for the crises? I know no better way than training for it, not just the week of the “big game,” or the night before when panic sets in, but daily training in good times and bad -- spring training, so to speak, to prepare for that possible or even improbable Super Bowl of life. The best way I know is: Every day, read God’s Word and pray, developing your relationship with the God who loves you, so that when times are great, you acknowledge His hand… and when the hard times come, you are not just crying out for Him but you KNOW He is there. You are always in training.

And as the theme song goes, “Bear down, Chicago Bears, make every play clear the way to victory.”

“You girded me with strength for the battle.”

Psalm 14.39

Be the Mom

2011-01-20T20:48:00.002-06:00

In case you haven’t been reading the news in the past couple of weeks, the war of parenting styles has taken the media in full force. On January 8, 2011, the Wall Street Journal published an article about the superiority of Chinese mothers, excerpted from the book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua. The article hit a virtual jugular vein among mothers, indeed generating 6871 emotionally-charged comments, the largest number of responses in the history of the Journal’s website.

Amy Chua spoke about her style of extreme (or excessive) parenting to achieve “successful” children. Her methods, which she says are prevalent in Chinese households, include harshness, strict rules, and intimidation all of which result in children who rise to the top when it comes to academia and future careers. She describes her own childhood (in which her father once called her “garbage”) and basically concludes that this parenting style motivated her… and now works in the raising of her own daughters. In the barrage of media hype after the article was published, Chua replied, “Jokes about A+s and gold medals aside…, I don’t believe that grades or achievement is ultimately what Chinese parenting (or at least how I practice it) is really about. I think it’s about helping your children be the best they can be – which is usually better than they think!” I cringed, though, when I read about the yelling, the threats, and manipulation. Not my idea of a happy family.

Chua is right in one regard, whether you are a Tiger Mom or a permissive one or one who is simply intentional in how she raises her kids, you want the best for your children. Having strong standards and high expectations is not wrong in itself, but a child’s life does not have to be harsh and hurtful for them to grow deep and strong. Think of your home as a center of love and discipling. To paraphrase First Corinthians 13 verse 1: If I have perfectly obedient children, and have not love, I am only a tyrant.

Be the Mom. Love those little ones with gentleness and grace. That’s why God gave them to you.

Lo,

children are a gift from the LORD.

Psalm 127.3

Make sure your kids know you see them that way.

Snow, ice and 21 tiny little degrees

2011-01-15T17:50:00.002-06:00

I was encouraged in my running this week by seeing my cousin Valerie who lives in New York. She is the person who was instrumental in putting me on this course of running ten years ago. Valerie is my hero. A decade ago, she called to tell me that she had lost one hundred pounds through running and as she puts it, '”hard-core Weight Watchers.” And after all this time, she still gets up to run before anyone of us would consider morning, when most of us are turning over for one last snooze before the alarm goes off, and when we all are buried alive by a thousand reasons not to get up. She runs in the cold and dark before she heads off for her job as a second-grade teacher, a job which would put most of us in the loony farm after one day. She has taught for 30 years. And last June, she shaved her head to support a little boy in her class who has leukemia. She is THAT kind of person.

Well, this week, she signed up for her first half-marathon, yes, the same week that New York was blanketed by another 20 inches of snow. Way to go. Not many excuses stand up to that kind of tenacity.

And it was enough to get me out there today….even in snow, ice and 21 tiny little degrees.

Wouldacouldashoulda

2011-01-07T18:55:00.001-06:00

We are just one measly week into the New Year and, it has been reported, one-third of adults who made resolutions have already dropped them. Another third will abandon them by the end of January. The remaining third? Well, my guess is that they didn’t even bother making a list.

We are a strange lot. When it comes down to it, we will bore through concrete block to do what we REALLY want to do. NOTHING can stand in our way, even the loftiest of goals. New Year resolutions are admirable, but, more often than not, they are inconveniences that are soon stored away in the attic with the Christmas decorations to pull out again next year.

(I am chuckling to myself that I am EVEN writing a blog about resolutions. Actually, my husband will be doing the most chuckling of all, he who was setting goals and the steps to achieve them while he was still in diapers.)

But we can all take heart in this: In the dictionary, the very first definition of “resolution” is not an act of determination, but “the act of reducing something to a simpler form, such as a chemical compound.” So, when I make a resolution, instead of building up a seemingly impossible wall to scale, I really should be breaking down the problem into tiny bites instead of annual ones – what can I do today? What can I do this afternoon? What can I do in the next 15 minutes before the baby gets up? What can I do RIGHT now? Those are the resolutions that stick. When I set about to run the marathon, 26.2 miles didn’t just happen. I followed a plan that reduced the enormity of the task into one run at a time.

So whether your goal is the proverbial quest to lose weight THIS year, not lose your temper, call your mom weekly, or in my case, write something every day (already broken!), think about the advertisement that I have stuffed in the front of my journal: “There are those who do. And those who wouldacouldashoulda.”

This year, make it happen. One teeny bite, word, or step at a time.

“…make Your way straight before me.”

Psalm 5.8

Top Ten Books of 2010

2011-01-05T23:11:00.001-06:00

In 2010, I kept track of the books I read, not only by title and author, but also by a quote or two from the book, a nugget of truth, so to speak, as a helpful way of remembering. So out of the 40 books that I read this year, here are my “top ten,” not necessarily in any kind of order.

1. A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller. (Miller discusses the elements of what comprises a story, and more specifically, asks what story are you telling with YOUR life? p. 115-6 “There is a force in the world that doesn’t want us to live good stories. It doesn’t want us to face our issues, to face our fear and bring something beautiful into the world. I guess what I am saying is, I believe God wants us to create beautiful stories, and whatever it is that isn’t God wants us to create meaningless stories, teaching the people around us that life just isn’t worth living.” Get out there and DO SOMETHING.)

2. Ruth, A Portrait by Patricia Cornwell. (This very candid biography of Ruth Graham was written decades ago by Cornwell, known for her Kay Scarpetta novels. It is a good read about a fascinating woman in good times and despair who made the most of the adventure God laid before her.)

3. Gilead by Marilynne Robinson (On my list last year as well, Gilead and its companion novel Home may appear every year. They are that good. Robinson is an artist with words.)

4. Absence of Mind by Marilynne Robinson (I felt like I had an absence of mind reading this VERY dense piece of non-fiction. Whoa. Robinson examines the conflict of reality and the assumptions of science. p.124 “…the strangeness of reality consistently exceeds the expectations of science…”)

5. So Brave, Young, and Handsome by Leif Enger (This novel is absolutely one of my year’s favorites, despite having the worst title ever for a work of fiction. It is a good story, with humor, adventure and apt descriptions such as “the cavernous pants of a declining man.” Good stories like this are rare. p.236 “It’s peculiar, to reach your destination,” he told me. “You think you’ll arrive and perform the thing you came for and depart in contentment. Instead you get there and find distance still to go.” )

6. Tinkers by Paul Harding (This complex short novel weaves together the stories of three generations. It is one of the best written books that I have read in a long time. p. 48 “…the curtains and murals and pastel angels are a mercy, a dim reflection of things fit for the fragility of human beings.”

7. The Tenth Man by Graham Greene (This intriguing book, largely unknown by a major novelist, was recommended highly by Chuck Colson. The story focuses on a man who attempts to control his own destiny by literally trading his wealth for a chance to live…at least that is how it appears.)

8. Amazing Love by Corrie ten Boom (This is a teeny short book published in 1953, but every year I need to read something by this precious woman. p. 34 “Where there is such prevailing prayer, something is bound to happen.”)

9. Silence by Shusaku Endo (Translated from Japanese in 1969, this novel chronicles early Catholic missionaries to Japan in the 1500-1600s. In his journey, the priest is transformed from being depicted as a savior into one who is saved. The book is steeped in spiritual truth. p. 38 “But Christ did not die for the good and beautiful. It is easy enough to die for the good and beautiful; the hard thing is to die for the miserable and corrupt …”)

10. Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry (This novel portrays an ordinary man and his relationships in a small town in Kentucky. This was my first exposure to Berry. His wording in places is like poetry.)

Real or Fake

2010-12-22T07:28:00.005-06:00

When I was a little girl, our Christmas tree was my mom’s pride and joy. She wasn’t big on interior decorating, but oh, when it came to Christmas, she loved our tree. Now keep this in mind that in the 1950s and 1960s, EVERYBODY had real trees, you know, the kind that you cut down on a farm or carefully chose from the selection of pre-cut trees offered by the Boy Scouts in the A & P parking lot. Picture the happy families singing Jingle Bells as they merrily drove home with the tree tied to the top of the station wagon, laughing all the way. And at the end of the season, our neighborhood had an enormous bonfire when all the neighbors gathered and burned the trees. Our family was not able to participate in any of these festive traditions.

You see, our tree was fake – or as my mom would proudly say, “artificial.” It wasn’t even “life-like.” It was a silver aluminum tree on a stand that revolved. Mom, in spite of the fact that the two of us were the only girls in our family of six, decorated the tree with pink balls, all identical. No hand-made ornaments profaned it. The tree was not illuminated with strands of lights, but with two enormous pink spotlights on each side of the tree. The tree was strategically placed in front of the living room window so that all the world would see it. It looked like the window at Macy’s. There were no brightly wrapped presents under the tree. First, because my mother was TERRIFIED of someone breaking into the house and stealing them, and secondly, because until the day before Christmas, there were no presents yet. I can remember my parents going out before church on Christmas Eve to what eventually evolved into Toys R Us and frantically purchasing whatever might keep four children occupied on Christmas morning that did not have to be assembled. Santa did not wrap in our house. And one Christmas, I remember my brothers and I receiving plastic skis with roller skates on the bottom of them, which were probably the only toys left in the store that late.

I always wanted a REAL tree. There was something Christmas-y about the tree being real.

There is also something REALLY Christmas-y about what IS real about Christmas. When we talk about the Christmas Story with our children, it is vital that we distinguish for them that the story of Jesus is REAL. I have a basket of Christmas-themed books, some of which are beloved tales, but the story about baby Jesus is TRUE. A good friend of mine talks often with her boys about what is TRUE and what is PRETEND, so that they learn to distinguish the two. Young children are not readily able to do that – that is why little children like cartoons— talking animals are real to them. The story of Jesus is truth – not made-up, or make-believe, or even life-like. HE IS LIFE. HE IS TRUE. And that makes all the difference. He really lived, He really came, because God loved us that much.

Please make sure that your kids KNOW that.

For unto us a child is born,
unto us a son is given,
and the government shall be upon His shoulder,
and His name will be called
Wonderful Counselor,
Mighty God,
Everlasting Father,
Prince of Peace.
Isaiah 9.6

18 Degrees and Other Such Fears

2010-12-19T17:06:00.002-06:00

The first bitterly cold run of the winter arrives each year on tiny frosty feet. I know that it is coming. I try to ease into it, adding yet another fuzzier layer as the temperature dips, the gloves, the hat, all fashion sense discarded. Oh, it would be a lot more comfortable running inside on the treadmill, wearing just shorts and a tank top, watching the meteorologist guess at the forecast and broadcast pictures of bad weather wherever it may be. (Have you ever met an optimistic weatherman?) But then again, running on a treadmill is exactly that – running on a treadmill, heading nowhere, the little digital numbers increasing oh, so slowly (surely I have gone longer than THAT!?!)

I dread that first COLD run. It is a fear of mine. I don’t like to be cold. And well, I live in Chicago, so be it, time to figuratively “put on your big girl panties” and get out there, except in these temps, it is more like “big girl long underwear.” :)

It was 10 lonely degrees this morning. I waited until it “warmed up” to 18 degrees, bundled up in fleece and a soft shell jacket, and headed out. The air was crisp, the sun created enormous shadows through the lacework of tree branches, and well….it wasn’t too bad at all. I actually had a very nice run. By the time I returned home, the temperature had dipped to 15 degrees. As it usually plays out, my fear was just so much bigger than reality. “I was afraid of THAT?”

We all have fears that hold us back. What a shame. In so many things we encounter, we search for the avenue of convenience and comfort…….and oh, how much we miss of the life God wants us to experience --that which runs out in the snow and laughs out loud for sheer joy.

Do not fear, O Zion,

let not your hands grow weak.

The LORD, your God, is in your midst,

a warrior who gives victory.

He will rejoice over you with gladness,

He will renew you in His love,

He will exult over you with loud singing

as on a day of festival.

Zephaniah 3. 16-17

Those Crazy Christmas Lights

2010-12-18T21:43:00.002-06:00

I woke early this morning and as usual, it was still dark. The room was cold. My legs were reluctant. My brain creaked slowly into action, reaching for my slippers and sweatshirt at the side of the bed before running (again) into the bedpost. Shuffling my way down the stairs to brew my morning boost of caffeine, I hesitated on the bottom step. Whoa, what is that? There was a strange GLOW coming through the front windows of the house. I had scurried outside before bed last night to unplug the Christmas lights on the right side of the front porch, the one-year-old timer no longer working, but the left side was on a different timer, scheduled to turn off sometime after 11 p.m. Well, here it was 6 a.m., and they were still blazing like an all-night diner.

Why can’t a timer work the way it is supposed to? As it began to dawn outside, I realized that a timer is only designed to replicate what God has already created.

…to Him who made the great lights,

for His steadfast love endures for ever;

the sun to rule over the day,

for His steadfast love endures for ever;

the moon and stars to rule over the night,

for His steadfast love endures for ever.

Psalm 136. 7-9

We depend on God’s design that the sun will appear each day and the moon and stars at night. We take it for granted. God’s design is so precise that the very minute of sunrise and sunset anywhere in the world can be calculated to the second, never early and never late, thousands of years in the past and thousands of years in the future. For even to those who do not believe in God, sunrise and sunset are expected and depended on every day like clockwork. It is just one of the ways that God reveals Himself. And through that faithfulness, He reveals hope. Hope in a Biblical sense is not wishful thinking, but that on which you can stake your life.

Tonight there will be sunset, tomorrow the sunrise. No surprises there. And no surprise either “that His steadfast love endures for ever.”

The Last Six Miles -- Again

2010-12-12T21:47:00.001-06:00

After eighteen weeks of training and 26.2 grueling miles of the race last Saturday, the marathon was over. The next morning worshiping at Fellowship Memphis church, I could feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. There were missed calls from two of my brothers. Not even twenty-four hours after the race, I found myself in yet another marathon, faced with a situation beyond my strength. My vulnerable 89-year-old father in Florida was in a crisis situation. “Get down here now,” one of my brothers said with desperation in his voice. I was on a plane the next morning. “Please pray,” I texted several friends. “I am headed into a storm.” I did not know how to handle the emergency, nor did I want to. There was a confrontation coming closer by the minute, my strength had made a fast exit, and I was sorely lacking in wisdom. “Help me,” I prayed out loud.

Down in Florida on my brother’s pullout couch, I lay awake all night, tossing and turning, going over and over in my mind what had happened, what I was going to say, and what I needed to do, as if I was writing the dialog of a screenplay on steroids. Finally just before 4 am, I turned on the light and read my Bible, grasping in both hands the verses that God revealed to me. Now almost dawn and needing to get up in just over an hour, I turned off the light, prepared to remain awake and meditate on what I had just read. Immediately, I sunk into sleep – equipped, assured and covered.

“It is I who answer and look after you. I am like an evergreen cypress, from Me comes your fruit.” Hosea 14.8

The next few days were tough, no question about it. I was scared to death. God led me right up to the edge and back again. But it seemed strangely familiar. And I recognized that I was running the last six miles again when my strength was not my own, so far beyond what I could do on my own steam. That was right where God wanted me to be, so that I would rely on Him. It was exactly what I faced in the race, and I was thankful that reliance was still so fresh in my heart. I had no idea what God would do. I just needed to follow Him into it.

Looks like the training wasn’t just about the race after all.

Day 126 - Runners, Take Your Mark

2010-12-05T21:17:00.006-06:00

Yesterday, I ran. I ran until I had nothing left. And then I ran another eight miles. My calves tightened up. My feet cramped. The course turned the corner into the final passage down North Parkway. The wind blew strong against the weary. I could feel every rise in the pavement. I was aware of every crack and every pothole. The road arched down to the curb. Stay in the middle, I repeated to myself like a mantra, once or twice outloud. The only sound I could hear was the rhythmic shuffling of the man behind me so tired that his shoes were dragging on the pavement. Occasional spectators shouted out, "You can do it. You're almost there." I could hear them. I no longer saw their faces. An old woman stood on the edge of the curb absurdly holding out a box of kleenix. And suddenly in this bizarre arena appeared my beloved husband who then ran with me the last five miles, anchoring me to reality. His presence alone was a strength to me. No words were necessary. This was no longer a run, no longer a race, there was a desperation in my breathing. A band was playing at mile 22. "They're pretty good," Bill said. I didn't even hear them. We ran past people stumbling along like refugees. Volunteers held out paper cups of water at the 25 mile mark, I knocked two cups out of their hands before I was able to grasp one, the liquid sloshing down my shirt as I tried to swallow a few drops. We stumbled up the ramp from Danny Thomas onto Union Avenue. And then in the last two-tenths of the 26.2 mile race, Bill whispered to me with urgency in his voice, "You need to go, and you need to go now." We both knew how close it was going to be. Go, go, go. I entered the arena, a roar of sound. I willed my feet to go faster. I could feel the crunch of the gravel. Go, go, go. After four hours and fifteen minutes of running nonstop, I crossed the finish line, almost falling into one of the volunteers who embraced me with a mylar sheet to warm me up. I glanced down at my watch. I requalified for the Boston Marathon with a mere 23 SECONDS to spare. As one of the verses I read that morning said, "Have mercy upon us, O LORD, have mercy." Indeed, He did.
I always learn a lot spiritually in training for a marathon. But the actual marathon itself presses me to the point of realizing and recognizing the strength and mercy of God. I wonder why it takes coming to the end of ourselves before we realize what is a reality every day. It is not a matter of conquering but of His deliverance. It is KNOWING that there is nothing more that I can do. It is not what I am or have or can do, but comprehending what I am not, and who He is.
And realizing that "my utmost for His highest" is not what I can do for God but my weakness -- that which I cannot do on my own.
Run toward Him, run with Him, run in Him.
He is preparing you for the course set before you.
"...and let us run with preseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus..." Hebrews 12. 1-2

Day 124 It’s all over but the shoutin’

2010-12-02T10:11:00.001-06:00

Tomorrow morning, I leave for Memphis. I am packing now, carefully selecting what I take, considering that most of my suitcase will be filled up with running clothes. What to take, what not to take? Well, there is the obvious, all of which is well worn in. (I made the HUGE mistake in my first marathon to wear a pair of NEW socks. Bad move. Within the first six miles, I knew that I was in trouble. I could feel one of my toes rubbing against the seam of the sock. By the end of the marathon, whoa, not something I would want to repeat.) So, I will put in well-worn socks, shoes that have gone on several long runs, a trusty tank top, a long sleeve dry weave shirt, a favorite running bra, and my trademark running knickers which are good in warm and cool weather. I am also throwing in a hat, gloves, a heavier running shirt, and a jacket, just in case. Ready to go?

Well, there are a few more necessary things besides a couple of snickers in my pocket. I need a few extra verses in my heart. I need to bank on God’s Word.

“I lift up my eyes to the hills.

From whence does my help come?

My help comes from the LORD,

Who made heaven and earth.”

Psalm 121.1-2

I need to leave fear and anxiety behind. No room for those. No need to carry the unneeded weight.

And as my son-in-law reminds our granddaughter Maggie, “Do you have a happy heart?” I can trudge through this race. Or I can let it have a deeper purpose. It is not a matter of attitude or positive thoughts, but viewing this experience from a different worldview. As I wondered this morning what I have gotten myself into, God impressed on me, “Would you do it for Me?”

Of course. And suddenly the long lonely miles took on a different light. He has used this marathon for things I cannot fathom. And He will use it even more. As it said in the devotional My Utmost for His Highest, two days ago on November 30:

“There is only one relationship that matters, and that is your personal relationship to a personal Redeemer and Lord. God will fulfill His purpose through your life.”

And so, I claim this Saturday morning, “my utmost for His highest.” Every step, every mile.

Day 123 Three Days to Go!

2010-11-30T15:06:00.001-06:00

I tied on my running shoes this morning and ran a short circuit through the cold, windy, gray morning. First of all, I am thankful that the marathon is in Memphis, because anything HAS to be warmer than it was in Chicago today. Secondly, it was the last time that I will run before the marathon. All that is left now of training is eating and sleeping and getting to the starting line. Sounds like an easy few days, but the physical game is yet to come. The next few days are an exercise in “what not to wear.” While I have learned from painful experience NEVER to wear anything new in a marathon, I have also learned in life not to carry along those things which drag you down. Do not carry anxiety. Do not let fear grip your heart. Do not “freak out,” as my good friend Beth says. This is nothing new. The Bible is FULL of “fear not.” And indeed, when she was five, one of our daughters recited the Ten Commandments and added: “Do not… be afraid.”

I confess that last night, I was a bit anxious. My phone rang in the middle of the evening. It was my daughter Kat who is also running the race (albeit WAY faster than me). “Mom,” she said, “you are going to have SO much fun.” I needed to hear that. And I remembered in my first two marathons at mile 16 when I was dragging my feet and losing heart rapidly, my daughter Beth came alongside to cheer me on, something I will always cherish. And my husband Bill who has supported me every step through this craziness. Snickers, anyone? In rain and shine, literally.

This is kind of like three days before taking the SAT’s. There is not anything you can do at this point. But trust.

Our help is in the name of the LORD,

Who made heaven and earth.

Psalm 124.8

Day 117 The Race is Not Always to the Swift

2010-11-25T19:48:00.001-06:00

I woke this morning to 37 degrees and and a light drizzle outside. But a mile away from our house, a crowd of about 250 runners was drawing together for the annual Turkey Predicto Race in my town. Just about every race I know costs money, supports a cause, and rewards the fastest runners. This race costs absolutely nothing. It is just an opportunity to get together and run. The twist is that the winners are not necessarily those who are first across the line. Before this race begins, runners sign in their names and their predicted finish time, down to the second. The two runners who most accurately predict their finish times win a turkey and a pumpkin pie. No watches are allowed. We gathered in the local boat house on this shivery morning. A park employee directed us outside, and before most people had even reached the street, she calmly said, “go.” Five miles of people chatting, kids riding bikes, and even two runners decked out in aprons and chef hats. Laughter prevailed as the group made its way through the streets of Glen Ellyn. At the finish line, I heard one girl shrieking that she missed her time by two seconds, and a gentleman boasting that he was only six seconds off his.

This morning proved that running does not have to be so serious or so competitive. Just fun. Sometimes we forget that.

Nine days until the marathon, down to the single digits and counting.

Day 114 Glorious Taper

2010-11-22T20:17:00.001-06:00

You would think that the last few weeks of marathon training would be the hardest, the longest, and the most grueling. But as you move your way through the training schedule and get closer to the race, the mileage and workouts actually taper off for the final three weeks. Indeed, the last week before the marathon, one is barely breaking a sweat. This phase of training is great -- “the taper” as it is called in the running world. The whole idea is to build up one’s strength by giving the body the time to rest, repair and rejuvenate itself. It is a good idea for all of us. (God called it the Sabbath). Hardcore obsessive runners have a hard time with this idea, often pushing the mileage even when they are not supposed to. Me? Well, I am enjoying every last non-running minute.

Today, I ran in a pair of shorts and a tank top. Yes, in Chicago on November 22. And I didn’t get frostbite. It was 60 degrees. Above zero. Even the pessimistic natives around here were astonished by the unusually mild air this fall, but ALWAYS seemed to follow up with “the cold weather is coming.” And indeed, the rest of the week is supposed to have a high in the 30s. But I delighted in every warm day while it lasted.

God in Every Detail

2010-11-15T13:12:00.002-06:00

Just read this excerpt this morning from one of my favorite books My Utmost for His Highest. It is a book of great spiritual wisdom, compiled by the widow of Oswald Chambers who transcribed his lessons and talks into a daily devotional. Hope that it is an encouragement to you., a reminder of what Biblical worldview is all about.

From yesterday's entry (November 14):

We can all see God in exceptional things,
but it requires the culture of spiritual discipline to see God in every detail.
Never allow that the haphazard is anything less than God's appointed order,
and be ready to discover the Divine designs everywhere.

Day 107 What’s in YOUR forecast?

2010-11-15T10:17:00.001-06:00

Over the weekend, I fulfilled my last LONG training run. I awoke to cloudy skies and checked the hourly forecast. At the time, there was a 55 percent chance of rain, but not a drop to be seen. I waited until the chance of rain had dropped to 35 percent (still no rain) with the chance of precipitation dropping sharply in the next hour to only 10 percent. It was 52 degrees, and for most of my run, the forecast was 60 degrees, partly sunny with only a 10 percent chance of rain. I started my run wearing a tank top and long-sleeve dry-weave shirt, a little overkill for the temperature, but I could always take off the outer layer, if necessary.

Within the first mile, there were a few raindrops here and there, but nothing threatening. By the time I reached the main part of the trail where there were stretches of marshland on both sides, I was far enough away from home that I was committed to putting this long run to rest. About that time, the zero hour when rain was virtually out of the forecast, it began to rain. Bill was with me, patiently riding his bike alongside, providing me with water, snickers, and laughter about the forecast. Bless his heart. I may be crazy to run in the rain, but it is a faithful man who rides along and encourages me.

Needless to say, those few raindrops turned into a steady rain for the duration of my three and a half hour run. The weatherman missed this one for sure. The temperature plummeted into the 40s, winds increased to 20 miles per hour, and puddles formed on the trail.

There are times in life like that when we are quite simply caught in the rain, nothing in the forecast, and certainly not in our plans for sure. But we can be assured that even in the rainy times God is working in ways that we cannot see and sometimes, I think, especially in ways we cannot see. We can always be assured of His love, mercy and righteousness. No matter the forecast, no matter the “weather” around us.

For I know the plans I have for you, says the LORD,

plans for welfare and not for evil,

to give you a future and a hope.

Jeremiah 29.11

Day 100 What does that look like?

2010-11-08T17:45:00.001-06:00

When the girls were in early elementary school, their classrooms often had “day 100” celebrations. The girls would have to bring in “one hundred” of something to school, just to give them a visual picture of what a hundred was. And they would make creative pieces of artwork (to bring home) that usually displayed one hundred Cheerios glued to a piece of construction paper, usually rumpled, a few Cheerios short of a hundred, by the time they got off the bus. But it would be proudly exhibited on the door of the fridge for days, until the magnets would slip and the artwork was in reach of our dog to grab a quick snack. (“You’re throwing it away?!?” the girls would cry out).

Needless to say, one hundred is a lot of anything – except for maybe Facebook “friends” who don’t really count. How many pieces of your children’s Halloween candy did you eat? How many socks without mates are in your collective drawers? How many chores are waiting to be noticed? One hundred can be overwhelming.

But one hundred can also be a good thing. You don’t start at a hundred. You count up one day at a time, each day building on the day before. And suddenly, Day 100. You can’t do something for 100 days and it not make a difference in your life…and in the lives of those around you.

So teach us to number our days

that we may get a heart of wisdom.

Psalm 90.12

Day 99 How far did you turn back the clock?

2010-11-07T12:44:00.001-06:00

The “time change” is never a welcome event in our household, because suddenly it is DARK way too early. It always takes me by surprise, like my afternoon ran out of daylight.

But this morning as I awoke, realizing that the time on my watch was not the “real” time, I thought about turning back the clock. How far back do you want to turn it? Back to high school? College? Five years ago? Even ten years ago, I would never have even thought about running a marathon. “I could never do that,” I remember telling people. Indeed, at the time, I could barely make it to the end of my block without having to walk. Sometimes we are surprised by looking back.

And sometimes it fills us with regret for how we would have done things differently. But this I do know, we cannot dwell there. We can’t turn back the clock in life, but we can live the days ahead with a different heart.

…but one thing I do,

forgetting what lies behind

and straining forward to what lies ahead.

I press on toward the goal for the prize

of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.

Philippians 3. 13-14

Day 98 Four Weeks From Today

2010-11-06T21:09:00.001-05:00

Four weeks from today is the St. Jude’s Memphis marathon. I ran through brisk air this morning, knowing this journey is almost over. The trees today stood stark against the deep blue sky. When I started training for this marathon, it was summer. I ran under the sweaty summer sun, and then falling golden leaves, and training in Chicago, it is likely that I will see snow before I stand at the starting line in Memphis. Four weeks. And I wonder, even now, what is on the other side of the finish line.

Day 97 Deflated Fear

2010-11-05T08:55:00.001-05:00

I have been amused this week in the aftermath of Halloween. On my daily trek, I am running past the rather tattered and pathetic remains of Halloween decorations, polyester spider webs still clinging to bushes and an occasional plastic skeleton half-buried in the lawn. One of our neighbors down the street last week displayed a rather large inflatable ghost menacing in their front yard which moved spookily in the breeze. Be afraid, it seemed to whisper. But this week, it remains slumped and deflated on the ground, a thin piece of material gathering leaves, frightening no one at all.

Oh, those gigantic fears we harbor that loom so frightfully when the light is dim and we are easily spooked.

And then to see them in the daylight, we realize them for what they are, deflated and ridiculous.

I sought the LORD, and He answered me,

and delivered me from all my fears.

Psalm 34.4

(both real and imagined)

Day 96 Just being done is not the point

2010-11-04T22:03:00.001-05:00

When you are working toward something, as I am pursuing this marathon, as a good friend is struggling through cancer, as many friends with their children, as some are in their work or their schooling or looking for a job, just being done is not the main point. We live in a society that wants to finish, check it off, and have it neatly wrapped up in sixty minutes or less. But I find that I need to keep my eyes on more than the finish line. I need not strive for the end so fast. Because I know that there is a lot more at stake here. I don’t want to miss the story that gets me there, the people I will meet on the way, the grace that I will learn, and that which may hold the most significance.

I read a newsletter today from friends of ours who are missionaries in Bogota, Colombia. On many days, God puts people on their path that they didn’t expect. The other day, it happened again. “It wasn’t what we had planned for the afternoon, but it was what God had planned for us,” they wrote.

Every morning, it is not a matter of laying our days before the LORD to see how He can fit in. But being sensitive to God laying His day before us to follow Him into it.

I am ready to finish this marathon. But I don’t want to miss what God has in store on the way there. It might not even be about the race. Actually, it probably isn’t.

For My thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways My ways, says the LORD.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth,

so are My ways higher than your ways

and My thoughts than your thoughts.

Isaiah 55. 8-9

Day 93 Yea, I’m still running

2010-11-01T20:29:00.001-05:00

So much for a daily blog on running the marathon. I am still training, but I have not been faithful in blogging. And quite frankly, there have been many days when I have wondered about my sanity. And thinking about what my daughter Laura recommends, “Time for a new hobby.” I thought a lot about that last weekend when I had to run 20 miles by myself and all but one water fountain on the path had been turned off for the season. “Keep going,” I told myself at several points. “You can finish this.” It made me think about so many times in life when God has stretched me beyond what I thought I was capable. When the girls were so little, there were so many cries in the night when I didn’t think that I had the energy to get out of bed one more time. But I did. Somehow God provides the strength to get through. We’ve ALL been there.

And I realize that the hard part about the marathon is not the marathon itself, but the long and lonely miles of training when you are by yourself and the road seems endless. You will make it. And so will I.

The miles may be long and hard, but there is blue sky and golden arches of trees and a hot shower waiting for me at the end. God is good. May I never forget that.

But this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:

The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases,

His mercies never come to an end;

they are new every morning;

great is Your faithfulness.

Lamentations 3. 21-23

Day 86 A Balmy 36 Degrees

2010-10-25T08:49:00.001-05:00

We have been enjoying quite a bit of unseasonably warm weather here in Chicago for September and October -- what we used to call “Indian summer” when I was a little girl. So one morning last week when it was 36 degrees as I headed out to run, it took me by surprise. I tried to wiggle my schedule around to avoid running in the cold morning air, but it was a packed day. I dreaded going out. I donned two shirts, my capri running pants, pulled my cuffs over my hands, and ….ooohhh, it wasn’t so bad. The sun was shining, the sky was blue as the sea, I saw a little girl with fuzzy tights walking with her mom, the sidewalks covered in gold leaves… what exactly was I dreading? It was a glorious morning. And I almost missed it.

And it made me wonder how many other things I miss because it MIGHT be uncomfortable or inconvenient or something I have never done before.

Day 74 Into The Miry Bog

2010-10-14T19:46:00.004-05:00

Bill and I were hiking yesterday on a trail that basically led nowhere, at least that is how it appeared on the map. As we hiked, I realized that the path was fairly free of rocks and roots, and so, we began to run the trail. Now, many of you may recall that last time I ran on a trail, I nearly fell off the side of a mountain. (Different story for a different time). But this trail was fairly flat...and kind of boring actually, so a run was in order. Soon we came to a place where we had to skirt around some mud. Then a hundred yards further, a larger accumulation of mud. And then, a half dozen streams and more mud. "It is," I cried out, "the MIRY BOG!"
We had three choices: stop and turn around, stand on the edge of the mud and complain, or run through it.
We all have miry bogs in our lives. All of us. We have all been there, we will all be there again.
Run through it, my friend. It will get you to the other side a lot faster. And leave it behind. Run before it can suck you into a chorus of "woe is me." Bogs are known to do that.
And even if the trail appears to lead nowhere as ours did, remember that your experience is "not for nought," as my grandmother would say. Sometimes it is just part of His training program. And you can never really know how He will use it in your life ... or for someone else.
I waited patiently for the LORD;
He inclined to me and heard my cry.
He drew me up from the desolate pit,
out of the miry bog,
and set my feet upon a rock,
making my steps secure.
He put a new song in my mouth,
a song of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear,
and put their trust in the LORD.
Psalm 40. 1-3

Day 73 Fringe Benefits

2010-10-12T22:34:00.004-05:00

Last night I thought that the marathon for me was over. My beloved husband of thirty years and I went out to dinner to celebrate our anniversary. It was a small restaurant, off the beaten path. We hadn't been there before and didn't know what to expect. There were just a few tables scattered around a fireplace. The room was quiet and warm. Our server, Pete, also labored part-time as a woodworker apprentice, making furniture. The menu only had a few selections, based on regional southern dishes. Bill ordered a salad that boasted fried green tomatoes and bacon vinagrette. Mine had chunks of sharp cheddar and smoky morsels of thick sliced bacon. We both ordered trout, dusted, grilled and laid on a bed of shrimp and coursely ground grits that had been simmered and bathed in butter and cream. At one point, I turned to Bill and asked him if it would be impolite to lick the plate. The flavors were at addiction level. For dessert, Bill had a new spin on southern bread pudding, one made of rich chocolate cake and pecan bread, accompanied by coffee ice cream drizzled with a bitter chocolate sauce. I had a bowl of honey-based ice cream mixed with sunflower seeds, Marcona almonds, and dried cranberries, decorated on top with freshly candied pecans. When the meal came to a reluctant end, I first questioned how in the world I could ever run again as stuffed as I was. And then I questioned how I was going to even walk to the parking lot. Wheelchair, anyone?
In high school, our daughter Kate used to say, "Run seven miles a day and eat whatever you want."
Well, yesterday I did.

Day 10957 The Best Run Ever

2010-10-11T07:11:00.001-05:00

Today I celebrate the best run ever with my best friend, my beloved, my husband. We have been married for 10,957 days, and today commemorate our 30th anniversary. God led us together and continues to lead us on the wild adventures of life. Nobody I would rather be running through life with.

Day 67 Wonders

2010-10-06T22:03:00.001-05:00

There was a tree today when I was running on College Avenue that blazed so brilliantly it looked like it was on fire. Set against a crystal blue sky, I felt like I was breathing in beauty beyond words. And the trees have only just begun to change. I am thankful that not only did God create beauty, He also gave us the ability to appreciate it. Man is the only creature who stands amazed at natural beauty. Not once did I ever catch our dog Jack gazing at the beauty of a sunset.

I was a bit amused this week with the news that scientists are celebrating their discovery of 200 new species in a remote mountainous region in Papua New Guinea, things that they didn’t know existed. If science indeed alone has the answers, there is an awful lot that they don’t know. And it is important to note that these are “discoveries,” a deeper revealing of the Creation, not the invention of human hands or produced by the philosophies of man. I celebrate too, because nature is one of the ways that God has revealed Himself and His handiwork, constantly unveiling evidence that He is real. Is there any wonder why we stand in awe of what only He can do?

So, with every handpainted tree, wonder away, stand amazed at the beauty of creation, and praise God from Whom all blessings flow.

Out of the perfection of beauty,

God shines forth. Psalm 50.1

The heavens are telling the glory of God,

and the firmament proclaims His handiwork.

Psalm 19.1

Day 65 Heading back home

2010-10-04T16:37:00.001-05:00

Saturday was a momentous day. It marked the halfway point on the marathon training schedule. Sixty-three days done, sixty-three days to go. Or in bigger bites, nine weeks down, nine to go. Ok, your reaction probably indicates whether you are a half-full or a half-empty kind of person. “ONLY half done??!? Seems like it has already been forever.” I tend to view it from a runner’s pair of shoes. In an out-and-back course, halfway means that you have turned around and are heading back home. Yay!

There are a lot of things in life where we have no idea how far we are from the finish line. But we can all know that in the long run of life, we are always headed back Home. It just takes some of us longer to get there. So run strong, my friends, in what ever you do with all excellence, living in grace, truth, and the joy of the LORD.

…but one thing I do, forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. Philippians 3.13

Day 62 Perfect Timing

2010-10-01T15:27:00.001-05:00

I had a hard time getting out of the house for my run this morning. You know how it goes. One more email to read. Put away the laundry (so I can find my favorite running shirt). I really should finish the dishes before I head out. I forgot my key and then had to come back inside. And when I did, the phone rang and it was Hannah who was on her way to class. Finally, I locked the door, set my watch, walked to the end of the driveway, and decided on my route. There were points when I had to wait for cars to pass when crossing the road. And of course, there was a long freight train where I needed to cross the tracks. I went on to the next intersection to scoot across. I planned to take a big loop around and stop at Beth’s for a drink and a Maggie hug on my way back. As I approached a major road crossing, I missed the light by about two seconds. I looked down to stop my watch, and when I looked up, there was Beth driving by. We both had looks of surprise on our faces. We could not have planned it with such precision.

The timing was beyond our own. And that is how I want to live my life, not by my watch but by His.

My times are in Your hands. Psalm 31.15

Day 61 Endless

2010-09-30T17:40:00.003-05:00

I ran long yesterday, too long to think too much about it before I began, measuring it out not in terms of miles but in landmarks, in sections, by snickers, and by where to get water. Sometimes you just have to tie your shoes, start your watch, and plunge forward. The road seemed endless, but it wove through the wonders of God’s handiwork. I stand awestruck, continually amazed by the beauty, even on a foggy morning, even in the perfectly symmetrical spider webs clinging to the barbed wire fences glistening with dew in the early morning light. Beams of sunlight like spotlights penetrated the canopy of trees and reminded me that even in the darkest, densest turmoil of your life, God’s light will search you out. There is nothing too deep.

I was breathing heavy up one of the steepest slopes on the road, gravity unrelenting, my energy flagging, my doubts about this running quest were rising, when I glanced into the dense brush surrounding me, and there quietly, silently gazing at me was a deer, just watching with its enormous eyes, as if he had been there all along, his invisible presence surprising me and prompting me to keep going. The deer reminded me that God is here. He has been here all along, silently waiting for me to look up from my drudgery and recognize Him. I just wasn’t looking. How much have I missed? How often do I think that I am all alone in this? His Presence makes all the difference. His Presence changes everything.

I finished with tired legs and a deep thirst. It was not just a run. It is hardly ever just a run.

(written in my journal September 5)

Day 60 Back Off!

2010-09-29T22:32:00.002-05:00

Last Saturday, I tucked two baby snickers in my pocket and headed out on a long, long run. My beloved husband was going to follow along later on his bike for conversation and passing me an occasional water bottle. As I headed down our street, barely two blocks from home, I first felt a twinge in my knee and then a block or two more, a sharper pain. At this point, I knew that I was toast. I pushed it for a couple more blocks and then realized there was no way I was even going to reach the next intersection. Game over. I began walking back, thinking that my running career was over. I stopped and stretched a couple of times, and before I could reach home, my knee loosened up. I turned around and began running again. Just a fluke, I thought.

It is amazing how God has designed the human body. When something is wrong, a warning system kicks into gear. That warning system is called “pain.” And the prescription for most athletes is to “back off.” That evening and the next day, my knee hurt, and my hamstring was tight and tender. I began Vitamin I therapy (Ibruprophen), iced my leg, added a couple of rest days, and then just jogged a short distance the past couple of days. I didn’t have to quit completely, I just needed to back off a bit.

And sometimes I just need to be aware that I am not running in life on my own energy either. I need to back off and acknowledge Who keeps me going.

Blessed be the LORD

Who daily bears us up.

Psalm 68.19

Day 53 Cross the tracks now!

2010-09-22T11:13:00.001-05:00

One of the best places to run around here is the Prairie Path, the very first rails-to-trails network in the nation, established in the mid-1960s, way before its time. The path runs alongside the tracks of a commuter and freight train line out from the city to the west. I have learned in our short while here, that when you have the opportunity to cross the tracks to get to the side you want to end up on, cross the tracks now. The commuter trains are not so bad, but the freight trains last longer than a day at a swim meet (forever!). And when encountering two freight trains going in opposite directions, one after another, you could finish reading (or writing) a short novel, waiting for them to clear the tracks.

This morning, the tracks were clear and I almost went on to the next intersection, but I crossed the tracks anyway. Just as I passed over, the bells began to ring and the gates came down. I was so glad I crossed when I did. There was a freight train, long and slow.

It made me think of the countless times when I have put things off…oh, I can do that in a minute (or tomorrow). And in that blink of time, the opportunity passes. And I am stuck literally on the wrong side of the tracks. I used to tell the girls, “There are many times that I have regretted not doing something ahead of time, but I’ve never regretted going ahead and doing it.”

Pray for guidance. Let God lay His day before you. And follow Him into it.

He will surely be gracious to you at the sound of your cry, when He hears it, He will answer you…And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, “This is the way, walk in it,” when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left. Isaiah 30. 19, 21

Day 52 Last First Day

2010-09-22T11:10:00.001-05:00

Twenty-three years ago this month, our first daughter began kindergarten. Today, Tuesday, September 21, commences the last quarter of college for our youngest. In keeping with family tradition, Hannah surprised me with a picture text this morning “Last first day of school.” Whoa. There may be additional schooling down the road, indeed, Laura begins graduate school this Friday, but the kindergarten to college marathon for our family is almost history.

It was the best marathon ever. There were long stretches of hard pavement, hills, unpredicted turns, blisters and a few rest stops on the way. There were a lot of brown bag school lunches, late homework nights, getting up ridiculously early (what school administrator thought up calculus at 7.15 in the morning?), and just missing the bus. And throw in eight major moves, including three while the girls were in high school. But it also meant cross country spaghetti dinners, Young Life in the basement, last minute sleepovers, prom hair headquarters in the master bathroom, camping with the family, and all the happy craziness of raising four daughters. Yes, and as in marathon training there were many times that I asked, “What in the world am I doing?” But I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

Today was the last first day.

Day 51 Didn’t see it comin’

2010-09-20T12:51:00.001-05:00

On Saturday, I was scheduled to run 16 miles, which was my longest yet. The training program is designed to push you just a little bit further each week. I marked out the distance on the computer, noting that there were several drinking fountains on the way. I shoved two baby snickers into the teeny tiny pocket of my running shorts, kissed my husband as he left for his office, and headed out. It was a down and out course, meaning that I ran eight miles out and then turned around. There were not as many runners on the path as I would have expected since the Chicago Marathon is coming up in just a few weeks.

And then when I reached the turnaround point, I realized why there were so few people enjoying the morning. I felt a few raindrops, and then I looked up into the sky. There was a thick black line moving towards me, and I was headed right into it. Just maybe they are only heavy clouds, I tried to delude myself. The wind picked up. It started raining harder. I gulped down my last snickers and jammed my ipod into that teeny tiny pocket with the hope that it wouldn’t fry by getting wet. And the deluge began. I had no choice. I was seven and a half miles from home, and it was pouring. I ran. And yes, I thought, what in the world was I thinking when I signed up for this? It rained hard for six miles. I was soaked. And now, two days later, my shoes are still damp. But I ran. And maybe next week, it won’t be so hard.

Throughout Scripture, God reveals His deliverance. But He also reveals His strength. Sometimes He will deliver you by pulling you right out of a situation, often just in the nick of time. But sometimes it is in His plan for us to learn of His strength. It is when we are in the deepest places that we realize the difference that God makes in our lives. It is His strength that brings me through, not mine. And as Stephen Curtis Chapman says in his song, “He is God, and I am not.” Fear blinds us to the reality of God. And where my dependence on God ends, the beginning of my fear begins. He is there, even in midst of the storm.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea. Psalm 46. 1-2

Day 45 I Can Do Today

2010-09-14T23:03:00.001-05:00

One day last week I was totally overwhelmed by the ENORMITY of training for this marathon. Yes, I know that I can run it, because I have run it before. But I also know what has yet to come and what must be done before it comes. It is going to get worse before it gets better. I am right on the edge of some really steep increases in mileage. I can feel anxiety breathing down my neck and whispering fear into my ears. But God reminds me of His words repeated over and over and over again in Scripture, “Do not be afraid.” Just do what I need to do today. Look at the schedule and don’t fret about what comes tomorrow or at the end of the week. Do what you need to do today.

I can do that. Sometimes I have to reach down deep to find the courage to even step outside the door or talk myself into going “one more block” until I get the long run done. But I can do today. Sometimes even tomorrow is too heavy to think about. It will have to wait. And instead, I focus on my daily bread. That is what is on my plate today. God gives the strength to do it even when, whoa, that road is a long one. And I realize once again that the marathon is not about the race, but what leads up to it.

Take courage, sweet friends, because I know that some of you are going through things in life that would make a marathon look like a walk in the park.

But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. Lamentations 3. 21-23

Cast in a Different Light

2010-09-02T15:41:00.001-05:00

When God is the Light by which we see,

how do we view the world differently?

Interruption?

Disruption?

Annoyance?

Or divine appointment?

95 days to go and counting

2010-08-31T19:33:00.002-05:00

I ran my furthest yet last Saturday for my long run. I charted out the distance on mapmyrun.com. I ate breakfast, stretched, and took off while it was still early and I was still too drowsy to think about what was ahead. The first half went well. And about when I reached the halfway point, my throat parched and my legs beginning to drag, my beloved husband showed up on his bicycle with water and Snickers. Just in the nick of time. And while the water and Snickers revived my body, his presence and encouragement fueled my heart.

On the same run, on the way back, I passed through a park, the trail was lined with stately trees, providing welcoming shade and making me feel like I was running through a painting by Monet. The sky shouted blue, and the trees seemed to shout for joy. As I passed through this segment, now for the second time, I realized that someone a very long time ago planted these trees in this park, leaving behind a legacy that he or she would never see. I could enjoy this beauty because someone was intentional about what they would leave to the generations to come.

Some days when you run, you think. Some days you just go the distance.

Day 26 Just 99 days left!

2010-08-26T16:05:00.001-05:00

On my training schedule, today is listed as a “rest day.”

Actually, my “rest days” would be more appropriately called “catch up days,” because I end up packing in everything, an effort that I should call “no task left behind.” By the end of a “rest day,” I am ready to go back to marathon training. It is a lot easier.

Today I am “comforted” that there are ONLY 99 days of training left until the marathon. It is kind of like the Christmas decorations that I began to see in the stores this August. In some ways, it makes me think, “oh, you have plenty of time to train.” And in another urgent way, “oh, I have a lot of miles yet to cover.” The paths near our house right now are stampeded each weekend with runners training for the Chicago marathon, now just about 6 weeks away. They are in the midst of their hardest part of training. I saw TRUE LOVE spelled out in capital letters last weekend when I met on the path a man named Mario who was running SIXTEEN miles that day with his wife Paula who was training for Chicago, her very first marathon. I am sure that there were a lot of things that Mario would rather be doing, but there he was at his wife’s side, running at a pace that was not his own, and sweating it out for his beloved. It still makes me smile.

Doesn’t matter? Think Again

2010-08-26T15:39:00.001-05:00

I received yesterday what I call “a whoppin’ from the LORD.” I was about to send a friend an encouragement by email and let her know that I am praying for her. And I hesitated. One part of me said, “Send.” But another part (where did it come from?) said, “Don’t be annoying.” And I hesitated. I really absolutely don’t want to be an annoyance in someone’s life. And so I hesitated again. But after a few minutes of tug-of-war, I sent the email anyway.

Later in the day, I received an email from that very friend. She thanked me because as it turned out, she was right in the midst of a precarious and delicate situation. No details, just pray, please. And she had even forwarded my verse of encouragement to others who were involved.

I am so ashamed to have thought that it didn’t matter. Think again.

When Bill’s grandmother passed away suddenly quite a few years ago, we helped Bill’s folks clear out her apartment. In the process, I found a dresser drawer FULL of cards, some Hallmark greetings for literally decades of birthdays, Easter, Thanksgiving, and a hand-drawn Valentine that the month before she died our almost-two year old daughter had made for her. As I cleared out the drawer, I was reminded how many times I didn’t think it mattered whether we sent a card or not. But it did. She had kept every one of them.

So if the Spirit prompts you…KNOW that it matters. It matters a lot.

Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to do it. Proverbs 3.27

Day 19 Breathless

2010-08-19T14:36:00.001-05:00

I seek things of comfort and order

no change to disrupt what I want,

and God reminds me,

Where is the story in that?

It is He who girds and guides.

I cannot be silent

for the amazement He brings

about,

things that make me hold my breath,

things I would never even think to do

and yet live to tell about it.

On the running front, it is my midweek day of rest, time to enjoy the still waters and green pastures, and go hard after the weeds in the flowerbeds.

Day 18 She Went Fast

2010-08-19T14:26:00.001-05:00

Today while getting in line at the library, I came in on a conversation already in progress between a gentleman and the librarian at the circulation desk. “She went really fast,” the man said.

I’ve been reading about speedwork in the Marathon book, and so, my first thought was running. And then he said, “I hope that I go that way too.” Oops.

I need to get out more.

Today I ran a slow warmup, then a fast spurt on a shaded trail, and followed it up with a slow cooldown on the way home.

I liked the last segment the best of all.

Day 17 The need for speed

2010-08-17T21:36:00.001-05:00

There was never in my life the need for speed. Because growing up, sports were not offered for young ladies. The state of Illinois prohibited in those days any intramural sports for girls. And if a girl wanted to participate in sports, well, there was water ballet. The Dark Ages? Just remember that the women’s Olympic marathon did not even exist until the summer our second daughter was born in 1984.

So to be a fast runner, well, there wasn’t any need. And actually there wasn’t any ability either when it came down to it. Speed was left out when it came to my DNA. I can go forever, but there is no swoosh. It just isn’t there. As I made my way to the Wheaton College track today to run a few laps, I thought about the first time I ever ran a race. Ever. It was 1980. A business colleague of Bill’s had invited us to run a 10k road race and have brunch afterwards with a few friends. Sounds like fun, said my newly married husband. I am not sure that I responded at all. I was, quite frankly, terrified. There were no 5k (3.1 mile) races back then. So we are talking 6.2 miles. I was afraid that I would be going so slow that before I could finish they would have put away the orange cones that mark the course and I would be totally lost and miss the celebratory brunch. Needless to say, I thought I was doing ok for myself until I was passed by both a six year old boy and a man who appeared to be about 80.

And I believe that as they passed, they swooshed.

At the track this morning, two girls were lounging on the in-field. An older man was running up and down the bleachers. A young man wearing a tennis t-shirt ran incredibly fast and didn’t even break a sweat. And there was a youngish woman casually jogging along in front of me….whom I never caught up to.

And no one cared at all that I did not swoosh. Just dancin’ to my own beat. And that’s ok too.

Day 16 Just Because

2010-08-16T22:47:00.001-05:00

Last night, cool breezes pushed back the heat and humidity, and we awoke to a beautiful blue day. I took advantage of a trip again to Evanston and ran along the lake. Last week, there was a day on that trail that the greyness of the sky and lake so blended together that there was no distinction between the two. It appeared that a boat was cutting across the sky. Today, the sky was the bluest of blues, and the lake was iced in silver. “This is the day that the LORD has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118.24) It was THAT good.

Even if I wasn’t training, I would have run today. Just because days like this should NEVER be wasted.

Day 15 Did you win?

2010-08-15T22:28:00.002-05:00

I am currently reading a birthday present from Kate and Justin who sent me an autographed copy of Hal Higdon’s book Marathon. After having run 111 marathons and training a countless number of people to cross the finish line, Higdon has some great advice and amusing anecdotes about running. In one of his stories, he tells about a young dad so excited about finishing his first marathon. The first thing his son wanted to know, “Well, Dad, did you win?” The Dad said something about finishing the race, but his son kept asking if he won. Eventually, the Dad nodded and said, “You know, son, I did.”

This morning, I read these verses:

Do you not know that in a race all the runners compete, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. Every athlete exercises self control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, be we an imperishable. 1 Corinthians 9. 24-25

Run strong, my friends.

Day 14 A sweet gift

2010-08-15T22:14:00.001-05:00

Today, the 14th day of training, was a long run. But it was a fun one this week, because my daughter Laura gave up her Saturday morning to sweat through the miles with me, battle the ambush of mosquitoes on the trail, and share a snickers. It was a sweet gift. And one very appreciated. You know you rock those babies and tie little shoes and pray your way through the years. And this morning was frosting on the cake, just spending time with an amazing daughter.

Day 13 The Soundtrack of Your Life

2010-08-13T22:00:00.001-05:00

Today I ran with friends: Michael, Ken, Chris, and Bebo among others. I hadn’t run with my ipod in a very long time, and it was a treat to bring the music along. I like to shuffle the playlist, so I never know who is around the next corner. Old “friends” or…well, skip that one.

I grew up surrounded by music, thanks to my mother and grandmother. I woke up in the mornings to the sound of my mom practicing or one of her violin students screeching out their exercises. Mom had music playing constantly, mostly classical in the background, but particularly around Christmastime when our church performed Handel’s Messiah. I can remember my baby brother when he was six or seven years old, sitting on the first row of the church balcony with the score of the Messiah in his lap and instructions not to move during the rehearsals.

How powerful is music? All those notes and lyrics are written in indelible Magic Marker in your brain. No joke. I haven’t heard California Dreamin’ in probably 45 years, but I could probably sing every word if it came on the radio. “Be careful little ears what you hear,” because it is there forever. (Ever get a really stupid song stuck in your head?)

So, I listen to a lot of praise music when I run. It focuses my mind on Whose day it is and Who is in charge and on Whose grace I depend. And that in itself is a great soundtrack to start the day. “Sing to Him a new song…” (Psalm 33.3)

Day 12 And on the Seventh Day

2010-08-12T19:41:00.001-05:00

Last week, I was annoyed by the scheduled rest day.

This week, it couldn’t come fast enough.

Day 11 Terms of Endurance

2010-08-12T19:37:00.001-05:00

A couple of days ago, I broke in a pair of new running shoes. I am always surprised at the difference it makes. And always shocked by how dead the old shoes now feel.

I learned the hard way about needing to replace running shoes. A few years ago, I ran all winter and spring in a pair of already old shoes. I didn’t feel the need to buy any new ones. But quite suddenly, my heel began to hurt, tolerable at first, but then consistently, particularly when I got out of bed in the morning, and then more and more throughout the day as the weeks wore on. My stubbornness pushed me into trouble again. I ended up with Plantar Fasciitis – which sounds a bit like the bubonic plague – but is actually more like a bone spur. It was the result of wearing old shoes which had the life pounded out of them. I could not run at all that summer. When it comes down to it, running shoes are only one of two necessary expenses you have in order to run. And while the average American woman has about 25 pairs of shoes (no joke), when she starts running, she digs out a pair of athletic shoes she bought a hundred years ago when her first child was born and now uses for mowing the lawn. So, if you are running at all, invest in a pair of good shoes. It will keep you from becoming roadkill. And it will cost you less than a trip to the doctor for an injury.

The other necessary expense? Well, Target had the little Snickers on sale this week :)

Needless to say, I am ready to run.

That summer I missed running, by the way, I exercised by riding my bike alongside Laura while she ran. We had a nice shady path that we liked near the Chik Fil A restaurant, one of the places of worship in Memphis. The trail ran alongside the Wolf River in a nature preserve. Crossing over a small wooden bridge, we noticed day after day, turtles sunning themselves below on a log in a small pond. One day I got a little bit ahead of Laura and rode my bike down to the edge of the pond to view the turtles from a closer perspective. WHAT??? I shouted. Laura came running. “What’s the matter, Mom?” Those turtles which we had admired ALL summer were fake. And even the log was painted concrete. We still laugh about it. So much for wildlife in Memphis! Laughter too is a term of endurance in long distance runnng. Test after test has proven that laughter either shrinks the miles or makes it seem like you run faster. Guaranteed.

Day 10 Oh, The People You’ll Meet

2010-08-10T22:17:00.002-05:00

I love watching people when I run. The other day at a trailside park, I saw two women, one white and one black, sitting at a little table for two, each with a bottle of Coca Cola and a bagel in front of them. They gave the appearance of two old friends meeting casually for a meal. Until I realized that they looked homeless.

This afternoon, I observed a young mom in a park, feeding her twin babies who were sitting in a double stroller. She gave one child a spoonful of something from a jar, and then when she turned to give the other child a bite, her slobbering bear of a dog licked the face of the first twin. The baby let out a childish shriek of delight, although I don’t think the mom was amused.

I ran today on a familiar stretch of roadway near where Bill and I lived when we were first married and our oldest daughter Beth was born. When we first moved there, we noticed a man running on a regular basis, holding high in the air, a transistor radio with its little antenna sticking up. We saw the man running in the heat, in the rain, in sub-zero temperatures. We were amazed. We were amused. And we began looking for him when we drove down that road. We named him “radio man.” And yes, my children, that was before there was such a thing as an ipod or a cd player or even a cassette walkman. That was twenty-eight years ago, and I wonder if he is still out there, protecting his turf. We never “met” radio man, but we knew him well.

I have had total strangers tell me the most intimate details of their marathon disasters and delights in the same way women I don’t even know tell me about the birthing of their children. I have shouted out encouragements to others just as I have received the same.

So tread carefully as you run with eyes open wide. It is part of the training too, the people that God puts on your path every day.

Day 9 The Pirate’s Code

2010-08-09T23:26:00.001-05:00

Both yesterday and today, I veered off the course of my training plan. Both days called for three mile runs. And both days, well, I couldn’t help myself. Sunday afternoon was hot and muggy, and I felt more like a nap than a run. But since it was a three-miler, I felt like that much I could do. I just didn’t plan on getting caught on the wrong side of the tracks by a stalled freight train. It was a long one, and it wasn’t going anywhere. By the time I found a crossing where the train wasn’t and back home again, well, my run became more like four and a half miles.

Today, I traveled to Evanston to pick up Hannah at her apartment and bring her back home for a family supper and three loads of her laundry. One of my delights of the two-and-a-half hour round-trip is having the opportunity to run in Evanston along Lake Michigan. As the weatherman always says, “it’s cooler by the lake,” in more ways than one. There is always a breeze along the lakeside path, and thereby the temperature is moderated, but it is, quite frankly, a much cooler place to run anyway you look at it. It is a different world to me. This afternoon, the early morning rain had cleared. The sky was blue, boats sailed across the surface of the lake, and the waterfront park looked like a Seurat painting with people relaxing on benches and blankets and playing frisbee. I ran through Northwestern’s campus, past old houses on Sheridan Road, and….well, time ran away with me. Um, and as a result, I stretched my three mile run into five. Oops.

Yes, I am following a Hal Higdon training plan, but as Captain Barbossa explained in Pirates of the Caribbean, the code is more what you'd call "guidelines" than actual rules.

A pirate’s life for me!

Day 8 What is my gospel?

2010-08-08T18:39:00.001-05:00

What do I talk about with people? What am I passionate about? What has changed my life? Not running.

Running is not my gospel. It is only a vehicle which God uses in my life. A vehicle for His highest. And may I never confuse the two.

A week ago on a long run, another runner came alongside. I asked him a few questions like “how far are you going today?” (13 miles) and “what are you training for?’ (the ‘Lakefront’ in October. “Oh, is that a half-marathon?” I asked him. “No, fifty miles.” WHAT?!?!?!) I asked him about the running group listed on his shirt. He mentioned running with them last May in South Africa. South Africa in the springtime? “The Comrades? You ran the Comrades marathon?” The Comrades is a 56 mile race which goes uphill one year, and down the next. Whoa. He told me about his training for that one. I mean, like how do you train hills where there are none? When he said that he had been training 85 miles a week, I asked him if he worked. Yes, he chuckled. “Oh, what do you do?” I asked him boldly. He MUMBLED that he was a pastor. “Oh, what church?” He acted like he didn’t hear me. I repeated it again. Twice. He finally told me. I was literally pulling it out of him, asking him about his church.

It is easy to be critical. I mean, he is a pastor, he should have been PREACHING the gospel to me. And then, humble pie, God reminded me of how many times I have spoken so freely of running and not of Him. These are divine encounters, strategically on the running paths of life. Oh, “that my soul may praise You and not be silent.”(Psalm 30.12)

Day 7 If yesterday was a piece of cake, today was burnt toast

2010-08-07T19:19:00.001-05:00

For all of the energy that I possessed during my long run yesterday, I felt drained this morning. I was literally running on empty this morning. I didn’t run; I slugged. More than that, I felt like a slug. I was moving along so slow, that when I passed a young mom and her three-year-old son sitting on their porch, he asked her, “what is she doing?” I guess he couldn’t tell.

But something reminded me today of what all the training was about. For on the road next to me flowed the peloton, a group of cyclists racing, a blur of bright colors, a swoosh as they passed me at lightning speed. And in that group was my husband Bill. He was racing bikes for the first time in fifteen years. And having a very nice time, thank you.

As I told my friend Aimee last year at the marathon starting line in Memphis, “This is the fun part. The hard part is over.” The hard part is the training, the long lonely miles in rain and heat when you can’t find a water fountain and the Snickers in your pocket has melted into syrup. The hard part is when your feet hurt and your legs ache and you still have twelve miles left in your workout…and another workout scheduled for tomorrow. The hard part is getting out there when it is dark and cold and you rather be in bed asleep. The Memphis Marathon has bands playing and crowds cheering and water and Gatorade every mile and even an occasional Elvis. And little St. Jude’s patients in their wheelchairs shouting and hollering for you as you pass the Target House because you are doing something they wished they could do.

And that kept me going today.

Day 6 Run Forrest Run

2010-08-06T23:38:00.001-05:00

This morning was glorious. It was cool and sunny and very Friday. I was just supposed to do a mid-length segment today in dread of tomorrow’s weekly LONG grueling run, when I usually contemplate “what was I thinking?” But today was different. I had fresh legs from my running sabbath yesterday, the light breeze made it feel like I was running in air conditioning, and it appeared that all of creation – flowers, trees and sky – were competing for beauty. I ran past the retention pond, past the high school, and past the commuters at the train station. I ran. And I enjoyed it. When I reached the spot on the trail alongside the railroad tracks where I was supposed to turn around, I pulled a Forrest Gump and kept on running. I ran past the College Avenue train station, past Wheaton College, through downtown Wheaton, past the Wheaton train station, the apartment buildings, parking garage, and THEN I turned around.

When I got home, I marked down my long run for today. Sometimes you just gotta run.

Day 5 A day of rest

2010-08-06T23:09:00.001-05:00

Today I felt a bit like my ten-month old grandbaby when she really really doesn’t want to take a nap. Today, on my training program, I was scheduled for a day of rest. I feel like I just started training. How can I rest? I didn’t FEEL like resting. It was the first day this week that 1) wasn’t raining, 2) the humidity was actually lower than 87 percent, and 3)I actually wanted to run. But being the compliant child, I rested.

Now I am not under any kind of contract with the free online Hal Higdon training program, and I know that in the course of a week, I can be flexible with the schedule, but today I did not run. And instead I unpacked boxes in the furnace closet in the basement, got nostalgic about the girls growing up so fast, and then wished that I had run instead.

Day 4 Things I learned about running from my Mom who never ran

2010-08-06T23:01:00.001-05:00

First of all let it be known that my mom was a little appalled that I took up running late in life. Actually, she was very appalled that I took up at all. At first, she kind of ignored it, like maybe I would see her wisdom and come around. She was always afraid that women who did things like ride bikes got big leg calves….and then how could you wear cute boots in the winter. Then, when it looked like I was sticking with running, she sent me encouraging articles from the newspaper that told about athletes especially runners who dropped dead in the middle of a race or even in practice.

I ran my first marathon when I turned fifty. I called her afterwards. “Mom, I just ran a marathon.” She responded with something like, “Thank Goodness, you are still alive. I am so glad that you didn’t get hurt.”

If she were to see me today, seven years later, she would shake her head, and then remind me to at least “wear a hat to save your face from the sun.” And she would tell me that if I wanted to get better, every day counts. Mom was a professional violinist, and even as an adult, she practiced every day. Consistency is the key.

Today, day 4, I ran a bit on the Wheaton College track. The only people there were two men, an older gentleman who kept up a pretty good pace, and a middle-aged man who looked like he was going to die any minute. But we were there. And glad that it wasn’t still raining. And it made me think that even when it feels like I am only going in circles, God may be equipping me for something else entirely.

Day 3 Running between the Rain Drops

2010-08-03T21:37:00.001-05:00

I woke this morning to a huge clap of thunder and pounding rain. It was not what I planned for today. But I shifted to “plan B,” put on my running clothes and surged ahead with chores inside. Within the hour, the rain had subsided. And out I went, down the wet sidewalks, and around Lake Ellyn which was, of course, flooded again, the trees and park benches standing in the overflowing water like stubborn children. As in life, every day of training is not going to be sunny and bright. When it is raining, there are several options: 1) claim it as a “rest day,” 2) find a friend with a treadmill, 3) run in the rain, or 4) get ready and wait it out. Quite frankly, with the 97 percent humidity this morning, it might as well have been raining. My clothes were soaked anyway.

We live in a real world and even the best made schedule is not always going to work out. Know your options for when you have sick kids, or it is outrageous weather, or you are called out of town on business. Have your running clothes set out and ready, even in your car, if necessary. (I had a friend who used to run around the field while her kids had soccer practice). Make it work for you. From now on, “flexibility” is your middle name. Be ready to run when the opportunity presents itself.

And sometimes, you just run in the rain. You are not the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz. You will not melt. Running in the rain just makes the good days even better. And sometimes it is even fun.

One year, the weekend before the marathon, I was scheduled for eight miles. It was literally 36 degrees and pouring down rain, my worst fear for marathon day. I was ready to pass on that one, but Bill encouraged me to get out there, “If you can run in this, you won’t be afraid of anything the marathon throws at you.” I went. It wasn’t my favorite run of all time, but he was right. I was no longer afraid that it would rain on marathon day. I knew now I could run anyway.

Day 2 Second Day of School

2010-08-02T09:56:00.001-05:00

The first day of training is like the first day of school-- exciting as if the sky is blue and banners are waving in the breeze.

The second day is like getting hit by your first pop quiz in math class. I woke up to the dawn today and realized that this morning was a hill workout. Did I really already sign up for this race? Or can I still get out of it? Too late. Take out your number 2 pencil.

I scooted out the back door and down the driveway. Within the first 1/4 block, the back of my right knee felt stiff. “Oh, well, I guess I shouldn’t run today” was my first thought. I stopped and stretched, ran slowly down the block, and the tightness was gone. Bummer. My excuse evaporated into the muggy air.

There is a good hill down near Lake Ellyn, a glorified retention pond in town which floods every time it rains. I ran up and down the hill three times, imagining the homeowners laughing behind the windows in their air-conditioned houses. But I did it. Humiliation is not a viable excuse.

I read about a runner once who said that when she first started running, she was so embarrassed for anyone to see her that when cars drove by, she would stop and pretend that she was looking at the flowers at the side of the road. That woman was, by the way, Joan Benoit Samuelson, who eventually won the gold medal at the first women’s Olympic marathon in 1984 in Los Angeles.

“…let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us…” Hebrews 12.1

Day 1, just 125 to go

2010-08-01T14:56:00.001-05:00

This morning in the early morning fog and humidity, the adventure began.

This morning I began 125 days of training for the St. Jude’s Marathon in Memphis on Saturday, December 4. Eighteen weeks of hard pavement, sweat, blisters, and :) snickers.

A couple of years ago while training for my third marathon, in the throes of WHAT WAS I THINKING????, I told my friend Becky, “Don’t ever let me do this again.” I finished that race, and well, sorry, Becky, pray for me ‘cause I signed up again. Needless to say, this will be my fifth.

I am old enough that I don’t run for the glory or bragging rights or medals. I run because of health, pure and simple. Running a marathon pushes my envelope physically and spiritually. I love what I learn spiritually from running a marathon. I love it physically because, well, it makes an ordinary day a piece of cake. Running is not who I am. Running is just something I do.

So join me as I chronicle my training, the things that I am learning, what I’m struggling with, and when I fall (which I always do). If you have no idea what is involved in training for a marathon, please feel free to read my real-life-stinky-shoe non-airbrushed account of what it is like. Or feel free to join me running and share what YOU are learning too. My friends Beth, Aimee and Anna are training in Memphis. My daughter Kat who is a medical resident at Vanderbilt University hospital also is training with a group of other Vanderbilt doctors in Nashville. I will be running in Chicago with… my ipod.

“I could never do that,” I have heard A LOT of people say. Well, it doesn’t start with 26.2 miles. It starts with stepping out the front door, running a few blocks, adding a few more, and building up one mile at a time.

It started at 7.30 this morning.

Stay tuned.