And still counting ... (16,097-16,156)

a running shoe repurposed for Erin's foot, that the injury wasn't worse, four years with Ruth, old posts that remind me not only of God's faithfulness but who I am in Christ

great waves, a soft blanket, a stunning sunrise through the woods, the way the chickens all gather around to chat and get my attention, fresh eggs scrambled

salted butter on my toast, a warm jacket, Goodrs, the kind words from Pattie, also--laughing about a run-in at Target with a Patty

memories of her dog Griffy, socks for my feet, the fallen weight of (old) toxic relationships, freedom, and friends who march for freedom

doctors who speak out for freedom and truth, momentary hope, an upcoming race, a really good book (Ego is the Enemy by Ryan Holiday--really loving this), lasagna

the weight circuit workout, my gym membership, good goals, health, the detox spray that is changing her

all the memories tucked away here, old posts that give life to the past, memories of Linda, nut bars, Michi

the energy of the writers on 66 Books this year, a new reading plan I really love (cover-to-cover, which we haven't done one like that since the 2009), contentment, peace, perspective

ice on my eyelashes during the morning run, the chickens, a ginormous egg, leftovers, soup for lunch

calm in the conflict, that teak-or-tonka candle (smells so comforting), seven miles, five-mile base runs, the athletic towels Nora told me about

Jon W's heart, a runners' club, almond scones, card games at the table at her request, a curling iron

catching up for two hours with Kristine, warmer temps in the forecast (temporarily), insulated running tights, vet tape, laundry washed and folded and put away 

cream in my coffee

The family yearbook

When Lanie was a baby, I decided to try my hand at scrapbooking. I wasn't all that good at it, but it served the purpose of documenting parts of her life--until she was 5. (Erin's scrapbook goes up to 6 months.)

It wasn't until some time later that I looked to digital book making. I started making family yearbooks instead of scrapbooking. I was pretty good at getting it together at year's end, taking advantage of holiday sales. We all really enjoy looking through them. 

Then 2020 hit. The Great Pause. And at year's end, I started the scrapbook and just didn't finish it. Thankfully, it stayed in my projects folder. I didn't have anything to add to it, and more truly, I didn't have the emotional desire to try to--2020 was hard; I felt the strain of pressures. I think there are several empty pages in the book. I ordered it that way anyway.

I was able to put together 2021, and I had so many images of memories to include (a fruitful year, lots of milestones, and chickens!), I was squeezing in as many photographs as I could. Note to self, use your real camera more often rather than your phone (sometimes the resolution comes out inferior on the phone).

I got notice this morning that the books are shipping out. There's a certain satisfaction and closure that comes from looking back--or at least in closing the book.

If I knew ...

Would I reach for an alternative comfort so quickly, fashion an idol of my own, reach for the next almond scone fully aware it would set me back yet again? 

Writing over at 66 Books today, thinking long on "If I knew ..." what God had in store for me to do, would I still make choices lacking in self-restraint, immaturity, impatience? 

Also, the excuses I make are just as lame as Aaron's.

And still counting ... (16,036-16,096)

 rich hot chocolate, the writers in 2021, the writers in 2022, candy canes, strength

that man of mine, Marshall's Mom, Sharon, Heather, Amy T

wreaths on the door, ornaments to wrap up, the Van Gogh exhibit, trail running shoes, road running shoes

cinnamon rolls, a good weight workout, the upcoming meet-and-greet, new races, a "snow" day

five-mile runs in the twenties, an awesome boxing session, strength, green smoothies, Bay Side Devotionals

my girls at home, Bayo's health, a friend who mentioned me on social media, a first week on 66 Books, a real snow day

a 7-mile run, a morning spent shoveling snow, a carton of eggs by our chickens, quiche, the gym

the smell of the teak-or-tonka candle, family game night (Apples to Apples and Uno), ice cream by the fire, friends around the table, how their gutter was spilling over with icicles that glistened in the morning sunshine

dogs snoozing by the fire, the soft and warm peek-a-moose leggings, two different coffee dates with two different friends, the leg press machine, a 9-mile run before the snow

cozy scents, a hot shower, early mornings at the gym, weekends together, race dates on the calendar

those Lone Peaks, another great team on 66 Books, books on hold at the library, warm clothes on cold runs, moleskin

popcorn snacks, an afternoon nap, a refreshed look, when Sir Charles welcomed me back (and noticed my absence), moments of hope

four years with Ruth

Sharon's run with the gaiter

clearing the driveway

refreshed hair

praise God

That fitness age, though!

coffee with Marshall's Mom

Lone Peaks

Day story

 January 2022

Outside my window, a snowy wonderland. I shoveled the driveway by hand because Shane won't be home until tonight to start up the tractor, and it's been my experience that the snow melts down and becomes ice where it hits the road. I shoveled the last time it snowed, and the snow was light and fluffy. But today, it was already slush, and my shoulder feels it all. I listened to music while I worked. I noticed bunny tracks throughout the yard. I am always thankful to live here. And I am thankful for the physical ability to shovel a long stretch.

And I quote, "Carlos had embraced his power to stand up and speak his truth at the risk of being excluded and criticized. He had chosen not to be a victim. And he had taken a moral stand. He had acted in alignment with a higher purpose: to combat racism, to protect human dignity. In defending his own humanity, he protected everyone's. He paved a way for all of us to live in keeping with our moral truth and ideals. Doing what is right is rarely the same thing as doing what is safe." The Choice by Edith Eden Eger.

Giving thanks for transformation. I've only been going to the gym since December, and already I notice a huge difference from weight training. Climbing the steps feels completely different. My running feels stronger. And on a snowy day, I had the endurance to shovel. The driveway is 1/4 mile round trip. It took me three hours. I am thankful to be able to do the work. Thankful to be a runner. Thankful to make my health a priority.

In the school room, just light work. It would have been a co-op day today, but we got canceled because of the weather. 

From the kitchen, Erin's request to have homemade cinnamon rolls for a snowy morning. I tossed the ingredients in the bread machine on the dough cycle. I rolled out, topped with filling, and sliced the rolls, baking them off around 7 a.m. The house smelled so good. I made a really good frosting for it too: 1 stick unsalted butter, 4 ounces cream cheese, a happy splash of vanilla and a sunny squeeze of lemon juice to brighten it. Delicious. And the recipe for the cinnamon rolls was from a tried-and-true gluten-free cookbook. I can't even tell they're gluten free. So good.

I am thinking about running. I ran nine miles yesterday, and I can tell you, I worked really hard for that. I would have kept going if it wasn't nine degrees outside, or at the very least, I could still feel my legs from the cold. The half marathon feels attainable, close. I told someone recently how not many people care about the things (ok, running) that matter to me. It was like I just realized what has always been. When I first started running, I was just the fat old lady no one really expected would stick with it. But when I was still putting in the distance one-two-three-four years later, when I got on the team, when I started signing up for races, instead of a cheering section, I got silence. Silence from people who had once cheered. Silence from people who've run races (or just run). When the girls used to end a dance lesson, the instructor would say, "Clap for yourselves!" It was really cute. But there is a lesson in it. Sometimes you have to be the one who claps for yourself in the silence. I think it's part of endurance.

I don't want to forget past winters wandering the woods with Erin. She's an outdoor girl. She's an  adventurer. Even today, I noticed her footprints in the snow from early this morning. I remember the quiet hush of winter, of studying animal tracks in the yard. Thank you, God, for the best years. I am so grateful for my family.

I am reading How Successful People Think by John C. Maxwell. Up next: Healing Back Pain by John Sarno; The Divided Mind by John Sarno; 26 Marathons by Meb Keflezighi; Born to Run by Christopher McDougall; and The End of the World Running Club by Adrian Walker. 

Around the house, it's cold. I need to start a fire and fold some laundry. The floors are kinda dirty from dogs and people in the snow. It never really seems like I fully catch up.

On the letterboard: Make it count.

I value excellence. I value it when I see others showing it. I value it when other people don't or won't. A friend once said that no (employee/volunteer) will put their heart into a business like an owner. I've seen it in teams I've managed--the excuses, lateness, forgetfulness, minimum effort. I've seen it in co-ops. I've seen it in business. I thought about it today when I was shoveling the driveway. No one is going to cut a path in the snow for a runner if they aren't a runner (and especially if they don't own excellence). Live like an owner.

At the table, we've been having a lot of family game nights recently and it's been belly-aching-laughing fun. I'm so thankful for Joel and Cindy's table. What a treasure.

Ready player one

I read a book by this title recently. I think it was written at some point in the early-ish 2000s with lots of lovely 80s references to music, technology and games. It was a fun read that had vibrant life in my mind, and just to say, the movie doesn't do it justice. In fact, in some ways, as it often is between books and their movie counterparts, it's not even the same story. (Erin, disappointed, discovered this in The Maze Runner series.)

Not related to the story line, but still a parallel, when it comes down to the actual performance, it hardly matters what anyone else brings to the table. While you may be competing against other people, the only thing that really matters is your own training.

I follow a ton of running people. One guy runs half marathons every week in Belgium, sometimes a couple of times a week. I'm not there yet. But I am far ahead of the people who only run 12 miles a week over the course of a couple days. I run every day (when possible), and unless I'm sweating through hell on the treadmill, I have secured 5 miles as my daily base, pushing up on multiple 7s and reaching for a 9-mile long run. That's just this month (and probably next month). I hope to be at the level of my Belgian friend at some point this year. 

He inspires me. Maybe I inspire someone else. I'll never know. But being inspired by him won't get me the mileage unless I put in the actual effort and do it myself. And if I only train a broken up 12 miles a week, I will never reach the level of running half marathons on a weekly basis. I'm only responsible for my efforts.

A friend texted recently because she was discouraged. She is David protecting her flock. She is David fighting Goliath. And sometimes when you feel like it's you against the world, you feel tired and discouraged. I can pray for her, but it's up to her to get her head back in the game and keep her focus. No matter what her online community is doing. No matter what her job is putting her through. No matter how long it takes. 

On a run this week, I took my eyes off the training and let too many thoughts invade my time. While I was running, my mind was running off with grief and I started to cry. But the crying packed an emotional surge that was literally choking me. As I ran, I felt my throat constricting, and I was audibly wheezing and gasping for air. (Running tip: it's kinda hard to maintain your pace and breathe when you're choking.) I repeated a whisper because it's all I could manage, "You're ok. It's ok. You're ok." Even though I wasn't. Even though it wasn't. Even though the thoughts were valid and strong. I had a run to finish, and I couldn't afford to drop gasping for air in the middle of my workout. Those thoughts had zero to do with me completing that run, and yet they could have prevented me from finishing.

I finished reading The Choice by Hungarian Holocaust survivor Edith Eger. In her year of captivity, she had to guard her thoughts in order to survive. The aftermath of her trauma would take a good portion of her lifetime to work through, but in the crunch of it, she needed to keep her focus (as her mother said in parting, "They can't take what's in your mind."). 

Note to self: be careful of what you put in your mind. Be careful who inspires or influences you. If you take your eyes off course, you've already lost. Run the race marked out for you. As Shane's parents used to say, "Keep your eyes on your own plate."

Hallowed ground

Driving down the stretch of road, I looked hard for signs of the familiar, signs of the past. I didn't recognize much. Was that where I used to turn off to park my car and bike the trail? Nothing looked like I remembered from twenty-five years ago. I continued straight to new territory.

I met a friend for coffee yesterday in a little town I once remembered as being charming from an early morning ride with Shane, bikes loaded upon his car, touring through the area after a bike ride (or maybe we biked it? It was a really long time ago.). A woman I know used to post about her music gigs at a coffee house there, and I wanted to go check it out sometime. This would be the time.

I laughed at my parallel parking. I took a picture and sent it to Shane.

"There aren't any other cars around," he said. This man can parallel park like no one else. He is amazing. 

"Ding! Ding! Ding! That's what makes it so wonderful," I replied.

The coffee house is the former home of a church. Warm light poured through stained glass windows. Soaring ceilings. A cheery color palette. A tall Christmas tree, still. There were tables and benches and couches and arm chairs. There were books stacked and some in frozen mid tumble, haphazard. It was part gift shop too--t-shirts, mugs, key chains. And a bakery case, full. 

We got coffee, and Marshall's Mom mentioned the mugs were warm. I'm not sure it would have registered with me if she hadn't said it, and I felt grateful to tuck this detail away. The mugs were warmed before the coffee was even poured. 

The couch was deep and springy. It felt good to sink into it. Ambient music played. People came and went. We talked. A feast for senses and heart.

Hallowed ground. 

Signs along the road indicated this was Hallowed Ground, a historic stretch of Civil War. But hallowed--a church, a friendship. The warmth of sunlight poured in, the warmth of coffee poured out, the warmth of a building on a very cold day, the warmth of love. I savored it all. 

On the drive home, I noticed the sign again, and thought to myself, yes. Yes, it is.

What are you training for?

There's a preview of the course. The description proclaims: only one hill! I wanted to drive by the course and check out this hill. And it isn't only one hill, because the course is run-bike-run, and I will run the hill, bike the hill 5 times, and run the hill again. So it's really seven hills. 

But I wanted to do the race anyway. So without going by to face the size of the giant, I signed up. I've been saying I'd do this race for at least two months. Was seeing the hill going to change my mind? 

There are several races I plan to do in 2022, and still yet those that are in the margin. Sometimes I think it would be nice to get a preview of what's ahead, but then I wonder: would it stop me from doing it? 

If I knew how a friendship would end, would it stop me from loving in the first place? If I knew the rejection I might face in a situation, would it stop me from hoping? If I knew the injury I might sustain, would it stop me from trying? 

And isn't trying, hoping, loving what I've been training for? 

I had an unexpected knee issue the other day that shifted my year-end running plans to an elliptical workout and weight session at the gym yesterday. Even as I went to bed last night, I could feel the (good) hurting in my back, chest and shoulders from the morning's exertion. 

It's a new day, a new year, and all those muscles are still reminding me of the training I put in yesterday. Training to be steady and prepared for the daily things (like lifting the 50 lb bag of dog food) to the challenging things (like holding my own in an endurance race). 

So I signed up for the race. I'm going to the team meet-and-greet. I'm supporting my friends with encouragement. This is how I want to show up in my life. Not sitting on the bench. Not staying in a bubble. Not living in indifference to someone's joy. 

When I think of the people that I'm glad to count as friends--they were the ones who saw me, stood by me, celebrated with me, loved me. 

When I think about being effective in God's kingdom, it's by stepping out in faith. And for the times I did, wow. I can't imagine writing those memories out of my story. (Even the ones that ended in deep disappointment.)

When I think about how a quarter mile start was the beginning of a half marathon--honestly, it was a thought I never entertained.

That's the kind of life I want to live--vibrant. Intentional. Rich. But I don't get a preview of the course. I don't get to ride it ahead of time to see if the effort is worth it, or if it will mean injury or incompletion. 

God calls his people to patient endurance and faithfulness. This is what I've been training for. 

Happy New Year!