Boys Will Be...

...forever a mystery to me.

(Note: This post was written several months ago, but I just found it unpublished in my draft folder.  Since it remains very much the story of our daily lives, I'm just going to post it now!)

As I sit at my dining room table, I have a view through three windows overlooking my front yard.  It's a great perch from which to watch the activity of my neighborhood.  As the twilight sets in, I've counted a dozen couples strolling by, walking dogs, pushing strollers.  A typical occurrence most evenings around here.

Another typical sight (just a little less idyllic) is happening even as I type these words.  The background noise is a symphony of semi-automatic air soft weapons being unloaded and the sight of ninja-like long-legged boys belly-crawling through my azaleas.

Nestled in a three-house triangle, we are the neighbors responsible for 7 boys ranging in ages from 8 to 15 years old.  It is loud, smelly, dangerous and delightfully entertaining around here.  As parents, we all agree that we are grateful these young men are far more interested in outdoor games than gaming systems, but there IS a trade-off when you unleash this herd on our suburban streets.

For instance, I question my personal safety more often when I'm, say, going out to check the mail.  I usually call out some sort of "CEASE FIRE" warning when I leaved the covered safety of my front porch overhang.  The rustling of the hedges indicates that I've been heard and am safe to retrieve my mail.  Lately, Miss M has apparently been questioning her personal safety and has taken matters into her own hands.

Safety Goggles?  Check!

I also have learned to stop questioning the logic behind their decisions.  After all, just because I don't think it would be fun to be chased down the sidewalk by a motorized dirt bike doesn't mean these guys don't think it's a THRILL!

Outta the way, Miss M!  Those safety glasses won't save you now!

My role to keep my son safe from himself is diminishing as my husband's role of pushing him to the limits of his fears and reservations increases.  I can certainly suggest that he shouldn't ride his bike down the street "with no arms and no legs, Mom!", but it's way more fun for him to watch YouTube videos with Dad about what amazing things you can do on your bike when your arms and legs are free from the burdens of steering and pedaling.

The day after they watched one of these videos, I received the following text from my husband:

"So I got run off the trail.  
Now know what it feels like 
to flip over handlebars!  
I'm ok though - a little sore."

Yes, boys will be forever a mystery to me.

The Boy Tree

The tree stands modestly in our front yard.  It's not very tall.  Not terribly wide.  It doesn't produce flowers in the spring or lose leaves in the winter.  It always appears exactly the way I see it right now as I peer at it through my front windows.

But it is a marvelous and magical tree, this modest-ish, short-ish, thinnish green thing.

Surrounded by a low hedge of azaleas and draped like an umbrella by it's own bowing branches, this tree is a fortress of solitude for a boy who needs some space to breathe.

It's a proving ground of courage for a boy who needs to face some fears, to climb higher up or jump farther down from it's curving, gnarled branches.

This tree is a resting place for stuck things; various rubber balls and soccer balls and lacrosse sticks and frisbees are all held tightly by hungry, thick coverings of leaves. All waiting for a boy who needs the victory of being the rescuer of stuck things for a change.

Sometimes the boy just needs for life to not be quite so serious.  Where the only thing that's hard is the grip he has on that low-dipping branch.  Where that firm grip serves to shake the branches so hard that the laughter comes showering down along with the toys.

And there's levity.  Literally there is levity when that low-dipping branch yanks that child's small body up hard and he just dangles 2 feet off the ground feeling weightless for much longer than you'd ever imagine he could manage.

The callouses on his hands and the scrapes on his shins might worry a mama if she didn't know better.

If she hadn't learned that sometimes the twisted ankles, the blisters, callouses, scrapes and bruises really aren't signs of injury in an eight year old boy.

The "boy tree" will tell you that they're much more likely marks of healing.

The Boy Tree

Creator God

This particular summer has lent me the opportunity to wonder at the exquisite creativity of God in His creation.  And "from the mountains to the valleys to the oceans white with foam", I have seen with my own eyes how God has truly bestowed a bounty of natural blessings upon our country.

At the beginning of June, I was able to travel for the first time to see the desert beauty of Arizona.  Though we were there for business, my friends and I snuck away just long enough to travel the scenic stretch of land that leads the big city of Phoenix through winding mountain roads toward the Grand Canyon.

Before we arrived at the Canyon, I found a devotional written by John Piper about God the Creator.  I was (and still am) so deeply grateful for reading it before I viewed the splendor of that natural wonder.

Several weeks later, I found myself nestled into a hammock while the salty breezes of the Gulf of Mexico curled around my little spot of paradise.  The beach is by far my favorite place on earth.  Only moments need pass before the white powder sand buffs away the stress and chaos I allow into my head.  I live just minutes away from this experience, so I often wonder aloud why I am not always wandering a shoreline.

The beach reminds me of my Creator God, too.  And this past weekend of swim and sun reminded me again of that devotional.  Because I haven't posted in a while and therefore probably need a little more time to build back my writing muscles, I just want to use this platform to share pictures of what has been precious to me these last few weeks alongside the eloquent and challenging words of Mr. Piper.

from "God's Pleasure in Creation" by John Piper

"God rejoices in the works of creation because they point us beyond themselves to God himself.

God means for us to be stunned and awed by his work of creation.  But not for its own sake. He means for us to look at his creation and say:  If the mere work of his fingers (just his fingers! Psalm 8:3) is so full of wisdom and power and grandeur and majesty and beauty, what must this God be like in himself!

These are but the backside of his glory, as it were, darkly seen through a glass.  What will it be to see the Creator himself!  Not his works! A billion galaxies will not satisfy the human soul.  God and God alone is the soul's end.  Jonathan Edwards expressed it like this:

The enjoyment of God is the only happiness 

with which our souls can be satisfied.  

To go to heaven, fully to enjoy God, 

is infinitely better than the most pleasant accomodations here.  

These are but shadows; but God is the substance.  

These are but scattered beams; but God is the sun.  

These are but streams; but God is the ocean.

This is why Psalm 104 (vs. 31-34) comes to a close like this, with a focus on God himself.  In the end it will not be the seas or the mountains or the canyons or the water spiders or the clouds or the great galaxies that fill our hearts to breaking with wonder and fill our mouths with eternal praise.  It will be God."

10 minutes on the timer...

Insanity is being held at bay right now by the power of the microwave timer.

I use the microwave timer to tick off the minutes of time-outs whenever we need them.  Whoever needs them.  And when we got home from a full and fun day out in the hot sun just now, it took me only a few moments and 3 separate meltdowns (yes, I had one of them) to surmise that we all were in need of a time out.

No one is in trouble (try convincing the tender-hearted, dramatic, sobbing three year old of that).  It's just sometimes a good idea for everyone to have personal space.

My kids apparently don't believe in personal space AT ALL.  I am the quintessential mother of young children, which means no quiet time.  If I take a bath, I'd better have a bathing suit on for privacy's sake.  If I need to use the restroom, I only close the door these days because I probably should stay in the habit for when I'm out in public.  Because it takes my children 0.3 seconds to figure out I've left the room, and they find me.  They ALWAYS FIND ME.

(sigh)

So... The clock ticks down these precious remaining moments, and I've already sent Drew back to his room twice.  "Until the timer goes off, bud.  Don't come out until the timer goes off."  This last time, he slammed the door behind him hard enough for the walls to shudder.  I'll go remedy that response in about 4 1/2 more minutes.  But I WILL enjoy the waning moments of my quiet time.

(And by "quiet", I now mean TWO tender-hearted, dramatic, sobbing children in their bedrooms thinking they're in trouble).

**NOTE:  It should be made known that the 10 minutes set on that microwave timer allowed me barely enough time to write the above post.  It took another two weeks to hit "publish".  Please keep reminding me that someday I will cherish these days... Last night the microwave timer was set for 60 minutes - ha!

Good Medicine

A cheerful heart is good medicine.  It's Biblical AND practical advice.  And, apparently, it works.

Ever since I ran the Disney race, I have been sick, sick, sick.  First it was the flu - seven days of fevers, lethargy and coughing up everything except my internal organs.  I think I still may have those.

I briefly recovered for about 3 days before my son brought home a snotty, cough-y, fever-y virus from school and we both crashed again.  The lack of general wellness in our house has been ridiculous and I am over it.  I grew very impatient toward the end of last week, as I was preparing to leave town for a very fun business trip opportunity with some friends in New York City.  I prayed and prayed and prayed for God to heal me completely before I got on that big-city-bound plane.  I wanted so badly to be better.  I felt pretty good on Friday when we set out on our trip, but the cough lingered and the congestion hung heavy in my head as our trip began.

For the next few days, though, I spent every waking (and sleeping) moment with two amazing ladies.  We worked really hard.  We ate good food.  We shared funny stories.  We saw amazing sights.  We laughed.  And laughed.  And laughed some more.  We cried (a trip to the 9/11 memorial is a sure fire bet for tears if you're looking for one).  And we laughed.  We survived hairy, scary cab rides.  We saw performances from the best (Broadway show) and worst (the aftermath of a Times Square crowd of people who had done a little too much partying at the St. Patrick's Day Parade) that New York City has to offer.  And did I mention that we laughed?

So I sit here this Monday morning with almost zero congestion, no more cough, and an energy level that I haven't experienced in nearly a month.  I feel like "ME" again, and I'm grateful that God saw fit to take a very special and funny pair of friends to cheer my heart.  It was such good medicine all around.

(And, should all that contagious coughing I did get either of them sick, might I prescribe a "business trip" to the beach!?)

(For photos, click on the thumbnail pictures shown on the right hand side of my blog under "daily life")

Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking?

"Are you thinking about what I'm thinking about?" my little one asks me, her voice sincere and hopeful.

"I don't know, Miss M" I respond.  "What are you thinking about?"

Without a moment's hesitation her answer comes.  "Princesses and Unicorns!" she responds, dreamily.

I'm caught a little off-guard.  Let's be honest, the real world of laundry and homework and dishes and bills and bathroom toilets that need scrubbing don't send me to a place of fantasy and imagination very often.  I am currently not thinking about princesses and unicorns.

But I lie.  Because it feels right to in the moment.  "Me, too Miss M.  Me, too..."

Over the course of the next few days, she asks me the same question over and over.  And because this little one of mine is a package of routine and consistency and order, I know now how to respond.  "Unicorns and Princesses!"  I say, much to her delight.

This morning, we are driving to preschool and she announces that when she grows up, she is going to be a mermaid.  "How beautiful..." I say.   Not all announcements are as easy for me to go along with.  For instance, she has recently declared that she wanted her 4th birthday party to be at a "fancy hotel".

Um...  

At three years old, she is completely enveloped in a world of beautiful daydreams.  I can only guess that she has a starring role in these imaginations, and I would love just a momentary glimpse into her little mind.

When she says something, it's more like a proclamation to her loyal subjects.  I have nearly come to expect trumpet fanfares before she speaks.  Whether she's officially changing her favorite color, "My new favorite color is now (drum roll.....) PURPLE!" or renaming all her dolls and animals (for a time, everything was named Casey.  Recently, the order has gone out proclaiming all boy dolls to be Joey and all girl dolls to be Kara) she presents her thoughts with confidence and gusto!

She already has a more natural inclination toward mothering than I do, reading stories to her baby dolls and tucking them snugly into bed for naps.  And perhaps that's what all this imaginative play is for anyway.

She's living the life of her daydreams right now.  And I pray that translates into the life of her dreams as she gets older.  One where she grows up to be a woman who knows her royal status as a daughter of the King of Kings.  One where she relishes all the beautiful colors and moods and moments of her life. One where she is able to pour her creative energy into the lives of her own little "Joey" or "Kara" someday.

And as I watch her grow, I'll be thanking God for the privilege of raising a daughter who has opened my eyes to the world of unicorns and princesses.  It's certainly more fun than the world of scrubbing toilets.

Once Upon a Run

There is a small portion of cartilage in my left ear that is throbbing in pain.  I wish I could say that was the worse of my maladies.  It's not.

On Sunday morning, I made it across the finish line of the Disney Princess Half Marathon.  Sure, the moment was filled with elation and pride and tear-filled eyes, but it was also filled with pain.  Lots and lots of pain.

At that time, it was only my feet, ankles, knees and hips that were screaming in agony, but two days later, I have spent the day wondering why my EAR cartilage needed to join in on the pain party??  I'm also sporting a fever, so in addition to the throbs of overdone muscles, I'm experiencing the shuddering depth of bone pain that sickness brings.  Good times.

I'm keeping myself busy today by lying in bed and thinking about the truly amazing time I had for the most part this weekend in Orlando.  You know, before all the pain.

I arrived to my destination around 2pm on Saturday, and my friends had already scoped out the best of what Disney had to offer us runners.  We jumped on a bus and made our way to the expo hall where I picked up my racing bib, my t-shirt, and a cool hydration belt for race day.  I hadn't even considered wearing a belt with water bottles for the simple fact that I figured even a few ounces of extra weight on my body would be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea.  Instead?  Best. Purchase. Ever.   (More on that later).

We left the expo hall and headed back to the hotel for an early dinner of pasta, then turned in early for the night.  With a 2:15 a.m. alarm set and a thousand thoughts running through my head, I was concerned I wouldn't get ANY sleep that night, but God is good and my sleep was sound.

I crawled out of bed into the thick blackness of the middle of a Florida night.  The forecast called for 100% humidity and heat advisories for the race.  My buddies and I said a few quick prayers to hold off the rain and began to suit up.

Here's my outfit for the run:

I would say that 95% of the racers wore costumes.  How fun!!

We boarded a bus packed with sleepy beauties, while the smells of bananas and peanut butter wafted through the aisles.  By 4:00 am, we had made our way to the starting corrals.  One of my biggest concerns was what to do for the 2 hour wait (our particular corral didn't "go off" until 6:24 am!).  I mean, there's only so much stretching one can do:

My awesome princess running buddies, Princess "Green" and Princess "Purple"

s....t....r....e...t...c...h...

It was one of the most pleasantly surprising parts of the day, though - how quickly the time went by.  We met and chatted with lots of new friends, exchanging pictures and email addresses and tips for how to survive the next several hours.  We were inspired by princesses who were running for the first time, those running for the fifth time, and those who had completed the Tinkerbell Half Marathon in California just one month ago!  (Those ladies received special medals for what Disney calls the "Coast to Coast" challenge.)

Before I knew it, our group had made it's way to the starting line, where we were sent off with a fireworks display.  Because, as the "Green Princess" said it, "That's how Disney rolls".

I won't bore you with the tedious details of what the next 13.1 miles held for fear that you'd feel like you'd run your own half marathon just reading this post.

But I will say that the first 8 miles were like a dream.  The first EIGHT miles!!  There was so much to look at, so much excitement in the air!  We ran past a dozen Disney characters who were available for photo ops along the way (we didn't stop for pictures, though.  We were all business).  My favorite part of the entire race was running up Main Street at the Magic Kingdom.  Hundreds of spectators were cheering us on as we snaked a path through Tomorrow Land and curved back around through Cinderella's Castle before we made our way out of the park through Frontier Land (Is that what it's called?).  

A little bottleneck at the castle made it impossible to run, which was a bummer, but the experience was still pretty darn cool, even if I was sauntering through like a regular tourist.

By miles 9-10 I was starting to feel like I anticipated I should feel at that point in the race.  The scenery became a little less exciting, the miles seeming to spread out a little farther in distance.  And while Disney was so good about providing water stations, I was so so glad to have a hydration belt on.  One of my biggest problems during my training runs was that I never carried water on me.  Therefore, when I passed by a water fountain, I had no choice but to gulp down huge amounts of cold water.  It's a miserable feeling to run with water sloshing around in your belly, so "wearing" my red Powerade gave me the opportunity to slowly hydrate throughout the race and not depend on gulping down drinks at someone else's set intervals.  

Miles 11-13 were hard.  It was a truly mental game by that point in the race.  Every body part began hollering that I should really STOP and find a bed or something.  As we walked, one set of muscles hurt, then as we ran, another set screamed out.   The last mile of the race was both humorous and kind of evil all at once.  Bystanders and employees tried to encourage us by shouting "You're almost there!  Less than a mile to go!"   Hahahahaha....  at every single turn I hoped and prayed for the finish line.  That's the point where the course became one of those scenes from a bad dream where you never gain any ground even though you're running and running.  It took every ounce of determination and grit and prayer I could muster to not give up.

But then we turned a corner and I saw a sign that said 13 miles.  And right after that, I finally saw it - the FINISH LINE!  The Purple and Green Princesses and I grabbed hands and ran across the finish line in just a little over 3 hours.  And while I know that most good runners could probably do a full marathon in that amount of time, we were on-top-of-the-Disney-World with our accomplishment.

I actually teared up as the race volunteer placed my medal around my neck.

Too bad I wasn't very excited, huh?

The next hour or so was a blur of sitting and stretching and riding buses and showering and applying or taking various medications.  After recovering for a little while, we made our way to the hotel's cafeteria for a bite of food and a recap of the morning.  Probably a little too tired to even take it all in, my friends and I at least could begin to process that we had just experienced one of those amazing life moments.  Oh, and did I mention?  It never did rain one drop!  Just a perfectly misty morning.  While some of our Michigan and Ohio friends were lamenting the heat, we Floridians couldn't have dreamed up better running weather.

Two days later, my ankles and knees and hips are still reminding me of the pavement I pounded on Sunday morning.  The ear pain thing?  I guess it's just reminding me that an aging body can be pretty quirky and annoying.

And the fever?  Well, I guess it's just a pesky bully that didn't get the memo that I am NOT to be MESSED WITH.  

After all, I just ran a HALF MARATHON!   

Runnin' Runnin' and Runnin' Runnin'

It's been an eternity since I've put fingers to keyboard for anything besides emails.  Well, I take that back.  I have also logged a few hours of browsing Pinterest for nearly-divine inspiration.

Mostly, I've just been working and playing and planning and organizing and cleaning and cooking and driving... and driving....

And then there's the running.  Somewhere in between the new job and the new school years and the New Year's Resolutions and the new days that come and go so quickly, I decided to add a new "New" to my list.  I have been training to run in a half marathon at the end of February.

Two weeks from today, a lifelong friend, a new(er) friend, and I will don sparkly running skirts, sassy t-shirts, wands and wings and compete in the Disney Princess Half Marathon in Orlando.

My pink sparkly skirt!

Since October we've been following a training schedule, making adjustments to our eating, sleeping, exercises habits, and pounding the pavement several days each week.  I'm not quite sure what my greatest motivator is for accomplishing this goal.  I came close to finding it on Pinterest recently.  A poster that states,

"Someday I will not be able to do this.  
Today is not that day."

I'll be 37 years old in a few months.  And that feels awfully close to 40.  If you had asked me 20 years ago what my mid-life crisis was going to look like, I would have described some sort of sports car, I am sure.

Instead, I'm sweating what's left of my thirties out on the various trails of my fair city, trying to prevent chaffing and blistering across various parts of my body.  It's super duper fun.

A couple of weeks ago, I ran 11 miles.  Eleven.  MILES.  A half marathon is 13.1 miles, so I am just 2 miles shy of conquering this baby.  Sometime this week, you know.. when I can find a few hours to spare, I will run my final "long run" before the race.

At this point I am excited and anxious and quite intimidated.  I've discovered that the mental battle of being with yourself for 2 1/2 hours is just as daunting as the physical part.  I've done a lot of praying, a lot of listening to sermon podcasts, and just in case you think I'm getting super-spiritual, I've also listened to a lot of the Black-Eyed Peas, too.

 Let's get it started. In. Here.

Perhaps when this princess run is over and done, I'll get back to blogging.  For now, though, my goal is to fix the code on the "instagram" gadget on my sidebar.  Just so that at least I'll have new photos flash up now and then to convince my family and friends that we're still alive...

And just runnin', runnin'....

Sandy Shoes, Sore Shoulders, & "Pretty Feet"!

Well, I survived it.
I came.
I ran.
I walked.
I prayed.
I conquered the Beach Beast this past Saturday.

Yeah, that's me with my beastly medal.

It was actually a lot of fun.  Well, except for the part where I had to run through powder soft sand.  Which comprised at least 3 miles of the 3.2 mile course.  I tell you what.  Our white, soft sandy beaches may be a draw for tourists, but after about 5 strides into running through the stuff, you need to keep me far far away from the St. Petersburg Chamber of Commerce marketing department.  Because you don't want to know what I think about our soft, fine, you'll-be-finding-it-on-your-person-for-days kind of sand.  Have you ever had one of those nightmares where you're running and running but your feet aren't getting any traction on the ground?  You're fighting to move forward and you just can't get there?  Anyway... Moving on.

So, I ran through sand.

And then through the surf.  Three steps into the water, a wave charged us and the next thing I knew, my left shoe had a layer of sand sitting under my toes.  I carried that little "pocket" of mud throughout the course.  My husband suffered the same thing, however, at the pace we were moving, he was actually able to hop alongside me on one foot, remove his shoe, dump the sand, stop to put his shoe back on, then catch up with me.  I'm not joking.

The obstacles were all at the end of the course.  About fifteen of them.  Running up ramps, jumping over walls, crawling under cargo nets and through darkened sand tunnels.  My husband had strategized beforehand whether he'd go before or after me on each obstacle.  It was a genius plan.  I don't know what I would have done without him, truly.  He ran up ramps ahead of me, and would sit at the top with his arm outstretched for me to grab onto.  He waited below as I flung my body over walls and provided "boosts" when I needed them.  I always needed them.  He talked to and encouraged me the whole way through the race and was seriously a rock star husband.  (Despite what I may or may not have said to him while I was running/trying not to throw up along the course.)

We had some wonderful friends show up to cheer us on.  Their daughter currently holds a title in the Miss Florida pageant circuit, and she was showing me post-race, how to pose for a nice picture.

Apparently, one of the secrets to looking great in a photo is to have "pretty feet".  I think that really only has to do with how you're standing, but I couldn't help thinking that I might as well be a lost cause at this point.

After the race was over, my feet were swollen and sandy.  My shoes each carried approximately 5 lbs of sand and salt water.  I don't remember swallowing any of the water, but my ankles looked like I was retaining quite a lot of it, so who knows.

Today, my feet and ankles are still a bit puffy.  My arms and shoulders ache.  I keep asking my husband if he's tired or sore from the race.  He's doing his best to give me the answer he thinks I want to hear.  "Um... oh yes, the race.  Oh yeah.. sore.  Yes, very sore.  And tired.  Yes, I'm also super tired from that 5k run more than 24 hours ago."

A friend of mine and I are taking on an even greater running challenge in the next few months.  You'll have to stay tuned for more details.  Let's just say I'm already thinking of the perfect running "outfit" and may just borrow one of Miss Florida's tiara's to complete my look!

And I've got until February to work on my "pretty feet" pose for those post-race pics!!

Study Tips

Over the course of my life, I've picked up a few good tips here and there on studying the Bible.

I've learned about the important of reading Scripture, becoming familiar with the details of Biblical stories, and how vital it is to then APPLY truths learned to one's life.

With a wonderful preschool program at our church, I'm thrilled that the Bible stories are being taught in creative and age-appropriate ways to my young children, too.

It seems as if Miss M is already picking up on the tips related to knowing and applying Scriptural lessons.  For instance, I asked her Sunday afternoon to tell me what she learned at church that morning.  She recounted the following, in a perfect 3-point summary:

Summary:                "We talked about Moses."
Details:                     "Moses ate a lion."
Life Application:      "Don't eat lions."

I can't fault her on her application.  Eating lions is definitely frowned upon around here.  I was too amused to immediately correct her first two points.  But her big brother had that under control tonight.  He walked out of his room, shaking his head in dismay as Daddy and I were once again laughing over our new favorite advice, "Don't eat lions."

Drew asked my husband to help him find the story of Daniel and the Lion's Den in his Bible.  He then carried the Good Book, finger firmly placed, back to Miss M's room and began to set her straight.  I helped out and finished reading the story to both the kids.  Megan's eyes lit up, and she actually responded with an, "Oohhhhhh....", as if things were straightening out in her little head.

Unfortunately, the preschoolers Bible we were reading from includes only very short (one page) stories and big colorful pictures that move quickly from one event to the next. I'm pretty sure she now believes Daniel was rescued from a den of hungry lions only to find himself in the belly of a whale the next day.

So, while I appreciate her ability to grasp the "application" aspect of Bible study, I think we'd better focus our attention on the "details" for a bit longer.

Looks like I'll be starting tomorrow with the book of Jonah.

the "BEAST"

We're running, my husband and I.  He's pushing the girl in a big stroller and I'm watching the boy ride his bike up ahead.  The pace is slow and steady, and I'm trying to keep my breathing slow and steady, too.  We've rounded just one corner on our block and already my breath is coming harder.  I'm in terrible shape.

It feels like cobwebs and rusty gears and a thousand other things besides capable, strong muscular legs. I'm praying, yes literally praying, that this will get easier.  Or at least that my family won't notice that it's already getting hard.

There's a conversation going on between the kids and their dad.  I wish I could join in, but I've got my own dialogue to deal with.  I'm talking myself into each step right now and convincing myself that I can't ask if we can walk for a few minutes.  At least not yet.

I've never been a runner.  This running thing is stupid.  And it hurts.  I think I'm too old to take up a new hobby, and I am certainly too busy.  But I signed us up for a race this weekend (The Beach Beast, it's called), and I have no more time to pretend like it'll all work out just fine.  In a few short days I'll be running through sand and surf and over obstacles for 3.2 miles alongside my athletic husband.  I MUST conquer it here on this quiet neighborhood terrain first.

This is the quiet dialogue I'm participating in when my husband breaks through.  "Great job, honey!  If you can make it to the next cross street,  you'll have run a mile."

Wow.  I'm thinking that's pretty good!  And yes, as a matter of fact, I believe I CAN make it to the next cross street.  I wish I could say all these things out loud, but I manage a tight smile and a thumbs up instead.  I don't want to waste my energy.

I meet the first mile marker and slow up to a brisk walk.  My right knee screams for attention.  I feel like I'm sixty years old.  I'm regretting the fact that I missed my dose of "anti-inflammatory" meds this morning.  Geesh... Make that more like eighty years old.

My husband seems genuinely surprised and impressed.  "Great first mile!  You're doing great!  We'll walk for a few minutes and then pick it up again, ok?"  I nod and manage to say something affirmative, although I'm not sure he can hear me above the sound of blood churning through my ears.  I certainly can't.

I do manage to look over at him at some point while the pace is slower and notice that he hasn't yet broken a sweat.  Must be nice.

Over the course of the next 2.2 miles, David directs us into short intervals of running and walking.  "Just make it to that stop sign."   "We'll start running again at the light pole."  A few times he lies.  Do all good fitness instructors feel the need to lie?  What do you mean, keep going!?  You told me to run to that yellow mailbox!!  My head screams.  I wonder if profanity is more easily forgiven when you're in a state of extreme physical duress.

At one yellow mailbox, I feel the urge to puke.  I say so much out loud.  I catch a glimmer of (could it be?) pride in my mate's eyes.  Ah yes, all the good workouts make you want to throw up, don't they?  It's a false alarm, and I have to pick up my pace to catch up with the stroller and the bike and the man who is STILL NOT EVEN SWEATING.

Before I know it, another surprise announcement is being made.  "OK, we're almost at the last turn.  We're hitting 3 miles right now."  I'm doing it!  I'm really doing it!  I'm running!  I've actually committed to this running thing for more than forty minutes now and I am still moving!  It's a great feeling and a terrible feeling all at the same time.  I experience nothing even close the elusive "Runners High" that I've heard about.  My legs feel like sandbags.  My right knee is cooperating finally but it's making snarky threats under it's breath.

I arrive in our driveway behind the boy on the bike, but ahead of my husband (only because he's now let the girl out of the stroller and she's jogging "just like mommy").  He finds me a few minutes later walking circles in the driveway.  "You ok?" he asks.  "Uh-huh."  I take it as a good sign that I can put two coherent syllables together and communicate a thought.  I am busily contemplating two ideas.

1.  Keep moving or else every single muscle in both legs will freeze or cramp up
2.  Fall down into the grass on the front yard.

My front yard grass looks like a big soft blanket to me, and I'd give anything to collapse face first into the lush green carpeting.  The fear of never getting up again keeps me on my feet for now, though.  I pace up and down the driveway, cooling off and stretching.

We eventually make our way back into the house.  My clothes are drenched.  My face is red, but I'm surprised by how healthy the "flushed" look appears as I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror.  I turn the ceiling fan on and stand directly under it.  My husband asks again, this time with legitimate concern if I'm going to be alright.  I assure him that I think I will.

He tells me again that he's proud.  I point out again that he's not even sweaty.  He shows me a small, slightly damp spot on his shirt to prove me wrong.  He asks when we can do it again.

Um.... at the race on Saturday? I ask.
What... you say I need some more practice before that?

Yeah, no problem.  I'll just need to pick up a few prescriptions tonight.

The Key

It was a little over one year ago, to the best of my recollection. I'd begun praying and thinking about re-entering the workforce, but like many full time moms, I didn't know what exactly to do or how to maintain some semblance of worklife/homelife balance once I started to do "it".

 My heart's initial desire was to write for a living. I get incredible joy from the craft of writing. I love words. I love the art of creating a good sentence. I am challenged constantly by the desire to make a good (or bad) experience into a great story. It stood to reason at the time that I should pursue a writing career. But as I prayed about that decision and that direction, a funny thing kept occurring. A different idea kept popping up in my head. Piano lessons.

Hmmm....
I don't feel qualified.
I'm not a "teacher".
I wouldn't know where to start.
I wouldn't know how to start.

 But the idea persisted. It seemed somewhat far-fetched and crazy in my head. But I felt compelled to begin sharing the idea out loud. The first person I told was my mom. "Mom," I said over the phone one day, "I think I might start teaching piano lessons." Being the encourager she is, my mom responded just the way I'd hoped. She told me that it was a great idea. She did, however, point out one minor detail that might impede my success. "You know, you don't own a piano, Jenny."

Details.

It was true. In thirteen years of marriage, David and I never could seem to justify the purchase of this rather large, rather expensive piece of furniture. It was always a "want", but never a "need" when it came right down to dollars and (common) sense!

I remembered my response very clearly, though, because it's not often that I feel the courage that some rightly-placed faith will give you. I heard myself say, "Yeah... good point. But I figure that if God wants me to teach piano lessons, it won't be too hard for Him to get me a piano."

 About a week passed after that phone call, and we were dinner guests at the home of some wonderful new friends. I don't remember how or why the topic was mentioned, but our friends happened to bring up the fact that they knew of a family who was looking to give away a piano. They asked if we happened to know anyone who might be interested.

 Perhaps.

 The faithful responses were absence that night, though. I heard myself answering that I'd actually love to own a piano, HOWEVER.... Pianos are heavy and hard to move. There was really no way we could arrange to pick one up and have it delivered to our home in the timeframe needed by the current owners. My flimsy excuse was met with a solution. Our friends just happened to have the right trailer and equipment to move the piano.

 Of course they did.

 Twenty-four hours later, that precious upright was nestled against the wall in it's new home.
 My home.

 Each day I passed by that room, I was reminded of God's faithful provision. But I also felt strangely peaceful that I wasn't to start teaching on it right away. So it sat. And I played it and my children played it. And I prayed. I prayed for God to show me His timing. His purpose. His plan for that piano. That was more than a year ago.

 Today, I opened my piano studio, named "The Key". It's been months in the planning. (Well, I guess it's been a lot longer than that...). My children are in school now. We are entering a new phase of life. The shift is almost palpable. I look at both my children. The level of independence they've suddenly attained. The free time that has been created when my son decided to take a hiatus from baseball this season. The relative calm in my husband's travel schedule. The recent (as of today recent) accomplishment of a diaper-free home (HALLELUJAH!). 

Wait... that deserves one more Hallelujah. HALLELUJAH!

 And I marvel at God's time. His perfect timing. I believe this new venture is not only a way to bring in some additional income to our household. While the income is good and helpful and much-needed, this piano studio is so much more to me than that. This is about trust. Trusting God to do something new in me that I'm not qualified to do in my own strength. This is about looking back at His direction in my life and how He has prepared me for this role. This is about teaching children to love music. And teaching them why their hearts are designed to appreciate music. This is a ministry.

 This ministry is not just for the students. It's truly a ministry to my own heart. I played the piano competitively most of my early life. I didn't just love the performance aspect, I loved the theory behind it as well. But mostly, I loved the avenue it gave me for worship. I am not a singer. But I can use the keys of the piano to "sing" a song of praise, and it's where I have felt most connected to God. The idea that one child out there might also connect that way gives me the motivation to pass my knowledge along.

 As I shared previously, there was a moment early in my prayers where God gave me the eyes to see His provision (free piano). There has been one other specific prayer request I've made over the last few months. I prayed that God would eventually give me 10 students over the course of my first year teaching. Today, my first day of teaching, I have nine students on the schedule and spoke with a mom at church yesterday about signing up her son in the next week or so.

 In case you lost track, that would make ten.

 Isn't He so good? (Kinda makes me wonder if I should have prayed for 30 students and a Baby Grand, you know?)

 I have to tell you, as I type these words and draw this post to it's conclusion, I'm startled by my emotions. As my fingers move, my throat is tight and my eyes sting with the hint of tears. This is not like me.

 But it's so much like Him.

 I am humbled by His leading. And I'm asking for your prayers as I follow.

 If you'd like to follow my new piano blog, I'd love to have you stop by www.thekeypianostudio.blogspot.com

 And I'd love to pray for you as He's leading you, too. Let me know what that looks like in your life right now.

 Love, Jenny

Good Dog, Walker

Several years ago, when the book "Marley and Me" was published, my husband and I were eager to read it. After all, we had a yellow lab puppy who bore a striking resemblance to the rambunctious canine on the cover of the book. But about a quarter of the way into the novel, I found the author's story and life drew a longer parallel to our lives than simply our lookalike pets.

 We brought Walker home when he was barely old enough to leave his litter-mates. And his arrival into our family came on the heels of a miscarriage early in my first pregnancy and early in our marriage. To mend my broken maternal instincts, I cared instead for a little fur ball of white haired energy.

 His paws were enormous, and people who knew much more than we did about projected dog growth began warning us within the first few weeks we had him. "Uh... how big was his father?" "Is he a lab, or is there something else (like Great Dane) in him?" "That dog is going to be HUGE!"

 They were all right. Our Walker-dog ate everything in sight(dog food, underwear, dish towels, rocks), and grew to gigantic proportions, much bigger than a normal yellow Labrador should be. His size and breed got him into a lot of mischief during his first few years of puppyhood. I remember calling my husband in tears after many harrowing "walks" around the block. Thank goodness I had a strong background in water-skiing. My skills kept me upright MOST of the time, as Walker drug us full-speed ahead towards mud puddles, neighbors, other dogs, and the occasional frightened cat.

 After a few of these traumatic experiences, we decided our humongous puppy needed some training. We found a great trainer, and began spending our Saturdays learning how to manage our 120 lb beast. But just like Marley, our boy also failed Dog Training 101. I was mortify and nearly hopeless. My husband, however, was up for the challenge and kept re-enrolling Walker in training class after training class after training class. Over the next few years, that dog grew up a little both physically and mentally, and became the most obedient and even-tempered pet we could have ever asked for.

 He was ours for four years before children entered our family. He was affectionately referred to by my parents and in-laws as their "Grand Dog" long before we gave them "Grand Kids". He was my husband's running partner and loyal companion. He was both my babies' soft, hairy affable jungle gym. He was my "first" kid and my foot warmer.

 And after twelve years of devotion to our family, we said goodbye last week to our beloved dog.

 Towards the end of Marley & Me, the author recounts the last few days of Marley's life. I could barely read the words on the book's pages so many years ago. Hot tears spilled so heavily down my cheeks that the print was just a blur. But I recall the sentiment that Mr. Grogan whispered to that big dog in his last few moments of life.

 "I got down on my knees and ran my fingers through his fur, the way he liked. I ran my hand down his back. I lifted each floppy ear in my hands - those crazy ears that had caused him so many problems over the years and cost us a king's ransom - and felt their weight.... Then I dropped my forehead against his and sat there for a long time, as if I could telegraph a message through our two skulls, from my brain to his. I wanted to make him understand some things. "You know all that stuff we've always said about you?" I whispered. "What a total pain you are? Don't believe it. Don't' believe it for a minute, Marley." He needed to know that, and something more, too. There was something I had never told him, that no one ever had. I wanted him to hear it before he went. "Marley," I said. "You are a great dog."   (From "Marley & Me" by John Grogan)

 That, is perhaps, where our stories diverged most evidently. Although Walker's life started out so strikingly similar to Marley's, somewhere along the way, he became a great, great dog. The days of exasperation have been long gone from our memories. The antics and accidents and property damage a thing of the far distant past. For nearly a decade, Walker was a great dog. And we told him that.   A lot.

But, there, in the vet's office last week, we found ourselves on the familiar path worn by Marley's owners (and countless others, I know...). There we were, kneeling on the cold tile floor, saying our last goodbyes. Stroking a yellow Lab's furry back, rubbing behind his ears, tracing those gigantic paws in our hands, and wishing those last few goodbyes could somehow slow down the inevitable end.

 And all I could think to say were those same words I'd read all those years ago. I told him goodbye. And then I told him, one more time,

"Walker, you were a great dog."

Walker the Great

Mr. & Miss Independent

Is it really a worthy goal of parenting... the goal that you will eventually raise them to become independent adults?

If it's one measure of success, then David and I would like to quite while we're ahead.

After one day of second grade, my son has been keeping a 100-yard head start on me during our walks to and from school.  He begs and pleads to just walk to school by himself and cannot wrap his brain around any good reason that I should be close to him while any of his classmates are within a one-mile vicinity.

Miss M has been asking for weeks if the school bus could pick her up and take her to preschool, instead of her mommy dropping her off in carline.  Last week, we passed an apartment complex that sits close behind her preschool.  She asked us what an apartment was and then informed us that she was moving in.

I told her it wasn't necessary for a two year old to find her own place and transportation for her first year of preschool (she doesn't seem convinced).

I am eager to volunteer at both of their schools this year, but I'm kind of worried that neither of them will claim that they know me when I walk into their respective classrooms.

As I see it, this leaves me with two choices:

1.  Play it cool. Avoid eye contact with my offspring.  Get a volunteer badge with a fake ID.
2.  Play it like their worst nightmares are coming true.  Gaudy clothing, grand entrance, big hugs and kisses for everyone - especially my offspring.

Considering that we probably DO want them to be well-adjusted, independent adults, I'd better not screw around with their little heads too much these days.

I'll wait until they're in middle school.

Disastrous

It was late Thursday afternoon.  My husband was scheduled to arrive home around dinnertime on Friday after a weeklong business trip out of town.  And after dinner, our small group from church was scheduled to arrive at our house for Bible study.

And for some inexplicable reason, I decided that those 23 hours would allow me plenty of time to completely re-decorate and repurpose my husband's home office.

The office: BEFORE

It was practically dinnertime on Thursday when I mentioned my crazy scheme to the children in the back seat of the car.  They were all for it!  Choosing new paint and accessories seemed like an exciting adventure, so we diverted the car into the Lowe's parking lot and charged into the paint section.  I told the man behind the counter that I knew exactly what I wanted (of course I did, I'd been thinking of this idea for an entire 10 minutes at that point).  I chose 3 color swatches and maneuvered our cart through aisles of shelving, mirrors and hardware while our paint cans churned.

After leaving the home improvement store, we pulled through a barbecue joint for sustenance and arrived home at dinnertime.  After feeding my children, we piled into the smallest room of our house and began moving furniture and opening paint cans.  The first color to go on the wall was called "Man Cave" - a deep, masculine shade of gray that was perfect for the "gym" side of the room.  The paint went on like butter, and in no time, I had one wall completed.  

"Man Cave"

I would later regret what this early stroke of luck did to my ego.

Drew carefully opened the second color of paint while I moved more furniture out of the way.  He called out, "Wow!  This looks like cheese!!"  The comment concerned me, as I was hoping for a soft, lemony yellow.  I peaked around the corner and had to agree that the color seemed a little more "processed cheese spread" than "lemon meringue".  Nevertheless, I plunged ahead, setting aside the paint can lid that was carefully labeled with the following warning: 

"This shade may take 2-3 coats for complete coverage".

I had planned to paint the remaining three walls this color, so I got to work quickly.  The kids were helping, so despite a carefully placed drop cloth, our carpet became home to bright drops of yellow paint.  

And for yet another inexplicable reason, I decided that the best course of action would be to pull up the carpets.  So, while I rolled paint on walls, Drew now moved on to ripping carpet and padding from the floor.

It was close to 9pm at this point, and neither of my children were showered or dressed for bed.  But they were getting tired and fussy, and the only contribution my son was making to the conversation was an intense line of questioning about how much trouble I thought I'd actually get in with Daddy for this mess when he got home.

I sent the kids off to the showers and then plopped them in front of the television.

With the first coat of cheese whiz now drying on the walls, I took a moment to step back and survey the scene.  I was disappointed in how patchy the color was drying on the walls, and I was horrified when I realized that I only had about 1/3 of a can of paint left - there was no way one coat was going to work.  So, I plunged on into the second coat.  

By midnight, I was desperately scraping together every last ounce of what I now considered the most offensive shade of yellow on the planet.  It was barely covering the majority of the room, and on one wall, I still had a six inch border that hadn't even been touched.

It was, in a word, disastrous.  And after six hours of painting, I had absolutely no solution.  So I fell into bed alongside my children.  All of us with patchy of yellow and gray paint in our hair and on our clothes.

The next morning, we were scheduled to meet my sister-in-law at the beach.  A part of me thought I should cancel.  The other part of me needed to escape, so by 9am, we were sitting with our feet in the white sand beaches while I lamented to Sharon about my stupid, spontaneous ideas.

By the time we left the beach, it was 11am, and David would be home in less than 6 hours.  Company would descend on my house in about 8.  And I was driving home from a beach excursion.  So, I did what any logical, independent, 36 year old woman would do.  I called my mommy to tell her about my wreck of a room.  

Within 30 minutes, she showed up on my doorstep with paint clothes, brushes, and new colors in hand.  She mixed and matched and got to work.  I ordered a pizza and found the broom.  

My hero

Two hours later, I felt hope returning.  When my mom left, I began the process of putting furniture, pictures, and accessories into the room.  A few minutes later, my husband called to tell me he was less than 2 hours from home.  Every single remaining second was spent cleaning, organizing, nailing, sweeping, and promising my son that Daddy really would like the surprise.

The clean up begins

The mess had spilled down the hallway

And somehow, inexplicably, at 5pm, the office/home gym actually looked like an office/home gym.  Even the giant rug covering the cold bare cement floor looked like it might have been a well-thought-out detail.

The Office side

The Gym side with mirrors, weights and the TV

The carpet covering the cement floor

There's still a lot to be done, but my husband loved it.  Drew was probably the most relieved of us all.

That night at Bible study, one of my good friends noticed the only clue to my day of disaster... two spots of "Man Cave" gray paint on my knuckles.  "What have you been doing....?" she began.

"You don't want to know." I answered.  "Just do me a favor.  Don't even let me have 23 hours of downtime ever again in my whole life."

The results could be disastrous.