Better by the dozen

Just a few months ago, we arrived at a total of twelve grand-twigs on our family tree.   This may be it for us, concerning this newest generation.  Or not.  As far as the end goes, the "fat lady" has not sung yet, although I did have a certain hymn stuck in my head this morning which I avoided humming out loud for fear it would never leave, but I digress ....  

Our even dozen grandkids, who all came from spectacular parents, are on a new level of spectacular and if you don't want to hear about them, you're excused to go check Facebook.  I'm ranking them by age and thus, will start with .....

#1 is a gentle young man who lives in a small, yet secure sphere.  He does not speak because of a mystery called autism and I cannot wait to someday learn about the myriad of secrets locked inside of him.  I have no doubt they'll be profound.  

#2 has no secrets locked inside as she is quite willing to express every thought whether asked for or not.  We've stockpiled years of laughter over her many uninhibited verbal-isms.  She too has autism and she finds noise, and sometimes people in general, very off-putting, but at the same time, can enjoy being the center of attention.  If grandmas are allowed to have favorites, she'd be in my top tier.  

#3 just got his driver's license this year and I'd trust him to drive me anywhere.  (I'm not sure I could have said that about my own kids at that age.)  He somehow evolved from a square-peg-in-a-round-hole kid to someone who is smart, mature, pleasant, helpful, and he leaves a wake of impressed people behind him.  I know this because they tell me. 

#4 has not stopped smiling since he was born.  Nor has he stopped collecting things, and I'm always lagging behind on what the current collection consists of .... from anything related to dinosaurs, to rocks, to coins, to ......  He is a true entrepreneur and would be thrilled if, instead of receiving a typical kid toy for his birthday, he received stock market shares.  I'm not kidding.  And after a visit to our house, if anyone accidentally leaves something behind, it'll be him.  

#5 is getting precariously close to teenage-hood and her delightful personality is showing more since she actually started talking to me.  It took a weeklong trip of hiking in Utah canyons together.  She's becoming her mother's worst fear, which is .... pretty ..... since *pretty* is often more challenging to raise than is *average*.  Especially through the teen years.  She also inherited her mom's artistic talent and anyone who sees her drawings does a double-take.  

#6 is our freckled tomboy and I unabashedly take full credit for it, since that used to be me.  She is determined to never be outdone by her older brothers and I've yet to see her admit to being afraid of anything.    If a chore can be ignored or put off till tomorrow, she will take full advantage and then giggle her way out of it.  

#7 can pull off the most woe-is-me face when describing, in full detail, all the injustices in her little world .... which are usually brought on by a younger sibling.  She cannot tell a story without dancing, prancing, and twirling for added emphasis.  She loves anything and everything girl-related and even though she has yet to start first grade, reads amazingly well.  If you are deserving, she will grace you with a genuine hand-colored picture for your forever enjoyment.

#8 ...... if you recall the cartoon characters, "Pinky and the Brain" .... she is the Brain, in pigtails.  Just know that behind that beguiling little face lurks deep thoughts, some of which may seem quite curious at best, or a bit morbid at worst.  Like her older sister, she has mastered the twirling and dancing and will also color a picture of flowers or unicorns (always in pink) to give as her highest token of esteem.  

#9 is the quintessential "snips and snails and puppy dog tails" who careens through his day with the typical forethought of any three-year-old boy.  Fortunately, in addition to his dutiful parents, he has his two older sisters who are not only very quick to jump in and speak for him, but to both mother him and complain about him almost simultaneously.  He is the first one to get a bump or scrape and will then bellow at full volume if you even suggest taking a look at it.  But his dimpled cheeks and enormous blue eyes win over any situation.

#10 just turned one about a month ago, so we are all still making our introductions.  He has luscious dark brown hair, deep sparkly-blue eyes, and would have the most kissy-poochy mouth if it wasn't always wet with drool.  The next time we see him, he'll probably be walking and thank goodness for that, because he's about as heavy as a sack full of lead.   But be warned ..... do not take him more than a few steps away from his mama, or he will let you hear about it.

#11 and #12 came as a packaged deal and we have even more to learn about them.  One of each gender and I don't remember which one emerged a minute or two before the other.  They must have ridden a lot of roller coasters in heaven before they were born because their new little lives have been full of ups and downs.  And thankfully, the ups are winning the race.  They're still learning that nighttime is for sleeping, and better yet, to be done in sync with each other, so as to give their tired parents relief.  But they've already melted far more hearts than this tiny pair would seem capable.  

So there you have it.  We're fairly sure that somehow, we won the tree lottery.  We love each one of these twigs which will someday become leafy branches with twigs of their own.  And if you're cringing at how *sappy* that sounds ..... that makes two of us.  

Winnie the Poop (dedicated to anyone who loves a dog)

I grew up around dachshunds but never owned one.  After we officially entered the "empty nester" stage, my thoughts ventured to a puppy ..... which defies ALL good sense and logic... possibly bordering on insanity.    

I tried "rescuing" a beagle-dachshund mix which, after a few months, didn't work out.  A year later, I tried a chihuahua-dachshund mix (also a rescue) which didn't work out either.  (Seeing a theme here?)  I won't go into the reasons for my failures but they were legit and different with each, and I did my best to find good homes for them.  I then swore off dogs forever.

Several years later and after moving into our current home, in spite of my fear of a third failure, I began to feel it again .....   

This time I wanted an actual full-on dachshund.   (Any dachshund owner who might be reading this, gets it.)  I had tried the rescue route.  I mean, I really tried.  Finding a non-mixed version of this breed at a rescue shelter is very unlikely and with my fence-less yard, I wouldn't qualify anyway.

I eventually found what appeared to be a reputable (and affordable) breeder up near Seattle.  After several email exchanges and waiting till the proper age of eight weeks when it's safe to separate puppy from mother, we drove north to get this ...........  

See??  Prepare to be dragged against your will into dachshund-obsession with me.

Meet Winnie.

She weighed all of four pounds and spent much of the six-hour drive home burrowed between my neck and the headrest.  (Dachshunds are burrowers.  Even now, if you lean forward on the sofa at our house, you will soon find a small dog wedged behind your back.)

Admit it, this is CUTE.

All too aware of my apprehensions, Dear Supportive Husband assured me that Winnie is OUR dog, and that he would help.  And he did.  In fact, today they are BFFs.  HE is the one who wants to bring her along wherever we go.  But as it usually goes, I make sure she's fed, vaccinated, bathed, bedding washed, nails trimmed, walked, and all poop cleaned up.  He plays with her.  Therefore, he's her favorite.  And I'm okay with that.

On the motorcycle.  (Her seat is the backpack, shown below.)

... and on the kayak, in her life jacket with the handy grab handle.  We've never needed it, since she avoids water anyway. 

One evening recently, when Husband was out of town for a few days, Winnie heard a noise outside.  (She ALWAYS thinks she hears noises, which 99.9% of the time, is only me clearing my throat .... or something equally benign.)  Noises send her careening out her doggie-door to confront any intruders.  This time though, she thought it might be HIM and so she went to wait by the door in the laundry room where he always emerges.  That night though, he didn't.

Naturally I texted him this picture.  

Squirrel alert, in the camper.

Nowadays, when we go out in public, she attracts the same baby-talk-goobers that I used to be.  (Still am.)  Winnie adores the attention and would happily go home with any of them and not look back.  She quickly learned that Home Depot employees are potential dog-biscuit-carriers and greets them all with great expectation.  If they don't deliver, she can lay on the guilt like nobody's business.  (See laundry room picture above.)  And you should see her at the Dairy Queen window after experiencing her first "pup cup".  (It's a thing.  I didn't make it up.)  Now she thinks ice cream will magically appear at every drive-through, including banks and toll booths.

I have become one of those people who must resist the urge to foist my pet on others and feel I owe apologies to all those dog owners who had to endure my own goobering over their pet in years past.  All the same, I cannot help but love when people love my dog, and wonder about the heartlessness of those who don't.

Winnie lays claim to any blanket she finds.  She also LOVES wiffle balls, especially the one out of reach under the sofa .... and will whine pathetically till somebody gives in and retrieves it.  (In the video below, the string tied to the ball makes it much easier to get it out from under furniture.)

Dachshunds are smart.  It amazes us how much and how quickly she learns, even unintentionally.  Example: We are in and out of the house all the time, but she KNOWS when we are actually planning to go somewhere when she sees me pick up my purse.  At that point, she hovers and frets so that, if we are THAT heartless to leave her home alone, we WILL feel the guilt.  

(Had to toss this one in.)  Toenail clipping.  She's not a fan.

Her first trip to the beach.  

~~ Warning-- cliches and sappy ending ahead ~~

She's a nuisance (aren't we all sometimes?) and a joy.  In a few weeks, it'll be two years since she burrowed into our hearts.  The third time did indeed prove to be the charm.

Christmas confessions

In my own personal, when-I-was-a-kid world, Christmas was glorious.  I remember our mis-shaped, gangly Christmas trees that Dad would put up a week or so before the holiday (normal timing in those days).  It's curious why trees looked different in the 50s and 60s ..... more natural and less pruned to look like giant gum drops.  Plus all the silvery foil icicles with which we'd smother every branch and twig.  Does anyone use those icicles anymore? ...... (I tried them once, years later, but the mess got them banned along with Easter grass.)

I remember music from Handel's Messiah playing on the stereo ..... a tradition that planted the love for that masterpiece deeply into my soul.  I remember my two older brothers tromping down from their upstairs bedroom announcing how torturous it had been waiting for morning.  I remember the awe when I realized the biggest present in the room, that had appeared mysteriously during the night, had my name on it.  There was a fire in the fireplace.  Dad distributed the gifts.  I don't recall if a big dinner was the norm, but there was always good food.  (Potato chips, nuts, and ribbon candy come to mind.)  Anyway, it was everything Christmas should be.

Being the youngest and last to leave the nest, my teen years were sometimes rocky and my relationship with my stepmom was strained.  I remember one Christmas morning, when I was about 17, opening presents alone.  I have no complaints ..... I mean, I had gifts!  A lot of people don't.  But to this day, I empathize with all youngest family members.  The older kids get to have all or most of their sibs there for their whole childhood.  The youngest often doesn't.

Then came the best Christmases of all.  There is nothing as good as being the Santa and the fun of watching one's own kids on those magical mornings.  I loved everything Christmas-related when our kids were growing up.  (I tried to enhance the true 'reason for the season' and extending the family tradition of playing The Messiah music .... although .... one of my favorite parts that says, "All we, like sheep ..... all we, like sheep ..... have gone astraaaaaaay .....", our kids would sing along: "Oh WE like sheep .... Oh WE like sheep!")

We always stayed home on Christmas eve and it was my labor of love to make everything as homey and memorable as a Hallmark card.  There'd always be a fire in the wood stove, music playing, classic Christmas movies to watch, home-baked cookies, re-enactments of the nativity and other traditions .... and sitting together in the living room sharing memories of favorite Christmases past.

The one that stands out was the year when, after all the presents were opened, we pointed out one more gift tucked up high in the tree branches.  It was a metal coil .... part of something the kids had to find.  They began to search, unsure of what they were looking for ..... then the screams erupted when they discovered a new trampoline in the backyard.  We worked hard to give our kids happy memories but no doubt, their dad and I had the most fun of all.

Fast forward to now.  I don't know why, but Christmas has become difficult for me.  And try as I may, I cannot seem to remedy it.  The expectations seem unattainable.  Helpful, listening friends have suggested I simplify and I've almost simplified it right off the calendar ... leaving a pile of guilt in the wake.  I've stopped sending cards.  I hardly bake because I am like an alcoholic in a liquor store when sweets are around.  Decorating is a chore that has to be all undone in a few weeks.   Choosing gifts is stressful and whereas I used to start in September with a carefully detailed list .... I now procrastinate as long as possible.   Hence I've cut it to the bare bones.   On the list of the "Five Love Languages", gift-giving is somewhere around negative fifteen for me.

I cannot explain it.  There's no reason for it.  Especially when my life is near perfect.  Our happily married kids are having their own best Christmases as they are, or are on the threshold of, experiencing it as young parents.   My cup is full.   I have absolutely nothing to complain about.  And yet ..... there it is.  I don't like being a Scrooge ..... but the relief I feel when it's over, the last box is stored away, and there are eleven whole months till I have to face it again, is very real.

So instead of a gift or a card or a plate of cookies, may I offer one of my love languages instead?  "Words of affirmation"....  Here goes .....

I love my siblings ...... who, many years ago, all did that leaving-the-nest thing before I was ready; but are not allowed to leave the nest of mortality without me.  I've informed them of this.  It's not happening.

I love my kids.  If there was a selection process before we were all born, I was at the head of the line.  Somehow, undeserving, I won the lottery.  Their joy is my joy ..... literally.  And I love their kids.   Watching my kids become parents is akin to heaven.  I wish I was more like a story-book grandma, with sleepovers, tea parties, and full cookie jars;  nevertheless, I love them in my own awkward way.  And I love my kids' spouses.  Again .... lottery winnings.  My kids married angels.

And I love my best friend/husband/forever-partner who would move heaven and earth if possible, for me.  I could happily spend every day, Christmas or otherwise, forevermore with him.

Thank you all, dear friends and family.  You know who you are.  We love and appreciate every one of you.  The posts in this blog are my Christmas letter.  And in spite of my weirdness this time o' year ......

Have a Wonderful Christmas.

Not just another day

How do I describe one of the most tender, sweet, joyful moments of my 61 years in this mortal experience?  One that rocketed my heart into space, bouncing it off the moon and soaring through the galaxy.

I have four fabulous children who have each taught me that God is real, because in them, I see His workmanship.  Three have been married for various lengths of time to their heaven-sent spouses.  But God's choice for Tyler, our youngest, had remained unknown and unfound for what felt like a long time.   T'wasn't that long really ..... it just seemed so to us.   Every parent wants their child to have it all and we want them to have it now.  And by "all" ... I mean happiness.

And happiness ..... finally arrived.  Her name is Allyson.

The world outside thought it was just another day.  Cars sped by on the freeway carrying people living their lives.  Businesses, stores, restaurants nearby, all doing their thing.  But inside that magnificent building called the temple, whose spires rise above the trees and point to heaven .....  two families gathered in a quiet room to witness the creation of a new family.  We watched the joining of two precious souls as they made eternal, sacred, marital covenants to each other and to God.  We rejoiced and we cried.  We felt the nearness of family passed on, rejoicing with us.  Angels sang.  Heavenly Parents smiled.  I cannot adequately express my feelings as I watched my beloved fourth and last child follow the steps of his two older brothers and his sister, receiving the happiness for which we had prayed for years ...... there are no words.

Only that ... my joy is complete.   I have seen heaven.

Photo by Lindsay

Where love is ...

I am on Day Five, recovering from a bilateral mastectomy.  (See previous post.)  Any sense of glamour or physical appeal I may have mustered up in the past, is gone.  And along with the oddly-shaped alien who has replaced what I used to see in the mirror, for the first week or two, I have to wear some very unattractive appendages to allow for post-surgery drainage, that must be attended to each day.  The total ensuing package is not pretty, to say the least.

Physically, I could manage the post-op maintenance by myself.  I'm not completely incapacitated.  It'd be hard, but doable.  But I don't have to, thankfully.

I am learning yet again that I chose well, over 40 years ago and just shy of turning 21 years old, when I married the dearest man alive.    Wherever the wisdom came from that motivated such a decision in someone so young, I'll never know.   We walked into marriage about as naively as a couple of babies. And if I could go back and do it again, I wouldn't change anything ...... (Well maybe I'd rethink a few of my clothing and hair-style choices in some of the photos ..... but it was the 70s.  The whole decade was tacky.)

I am definitely not the cute young chick he married so long ago.  All the typical sagging, wrinkling, drooping, expanding, receding, and graying have taken their toll.  And now this.

Yet, I have never felt more loved.  This is the real thing.  It's not the "for better" that makes a marriage.  It's hanging in there through the "worse".  It's the trust to put oneself entirely in the hands of another who is there because they want to be.  It's feeling safe and protected while feeling vulnerable and needy.    Love is not flowers and candy, dinner dates and long walks on the beach.  It's taking care of each other by tenderly and willingly doing what needs to be done, and not being grossed out when most people would be.  It's being a team.  It's the long haul.  It's commitment in every sense of the word.  

So one of the many silver linings in this seemingly dark little cloud, is that love is real, powerful, and lasting .... and it's here in our little home-on-wheels.

Dear Mom .....

Did you know, when you chose to marry my dad all those years before I was born ..... that he would someday play "Alley Cat" on the piano, while I sang the "Meow" parts at the top of my five-year-old lungs?

Did you know he would someday let me sprinkle flour on his hands as he kneaded bread dough?

Did you know he would someday take me for long walks looking for ungeheuers and tell me stories of his childhood?   

Did you know he would read to me often ... introducing me to classics like Alice in Wonderland and Black Beauty?

Did you know he'd wash my hair every week in the kitchen sink and then try using Brylcreem in an attempt to calm my frizzy curls?

Did you know he would cook waffles for us on Saturday mornings, with coins baked inside?

Did you know that someday, he'd wake us up on weekends playing John Philip Sousa marching songs on the stereo?  Or holler my nickname across the grocery store to roust me out of the comic book section when it was time to leave?

Did you know that someday, the kids on our block would say I had the best dad because he'd take us to the park and treat us to black licorice?

Did you know he'd bake cakes with blue food coloring and scare my brother who thought it was mold?

Did you know he would someday get up early to drive me and my teenage friends to a before-school scripture study class and embarrass me by being so cheerful and asking everyone in the car what they had for breakfast?

Did you know that someday, he'd teach me to ski and later to drive a car, and that he'd travel 12 hours to take me to college, and 800 miles to be there when I got married?

Did you know that you would get sick ...... and die before my tenth birthday, and he would be left to raise me without you?

No, you probably didn't know that when you married him so many years ago.  But God knew.

And so He, and you, gave me a dad .... my dad.

Thank you.

Hippo birdie two ewes ....

Yes, I know, I just put out a new post yesterday, and I'm trying to not wear out my welcome in the Blogosphere.  But tomorrow is Husband's birthday and he doesn't want me to get him anything and we're both in hot competition to not eat (see previous post) so dining out is difficult.  Therefore, I will blog about him.  Won't that be a fun surprise?  Who doesn't want to be paraded across the internet!

A brief history:  Neither of us remembers when we first became aware of each other.  My early memories begin in a Sunday School class somewhere near the age of 12.  He was just another gross, geeky boy.

Fast forward into high school when we both attended an early morning scripture class and were carpooling together.   Our backyards met at one corner so we always seemed to be grouped in the same car for church events.  Good thing.  Being painfully shy, it took a while for the sparks to ignite.

He asked me to a semi-formal dance for our first date.  I was 16, he was 17.  My older sister and brother were home at the time and both were suddenly much too interested in my "love life".  He showed up at the door, corsage in hand, only to learn I wasn't ready because I wasn't actually sure WHEN he was supposed to come and was too shy to ask.  Anyway, awkward start.

Senior prom.  Different dance.  

More fast forwarding - two years later.  He decided to heed the call of the Lord and serve a two-year mission on the other side of the country.  We had been together for two years and seeing him go was hard, to say the least.  I spent those two years dutifully missing him and writing letters twice a week, all the while having the time of my life at college.  Yes I DID miss him, and yes I WAS having fun.  Can't explain it.  It just was.

He came home a week after I graduated and about two months later, we were engaged.  He kind of blew it with the question-popping, which he is the first to admit, but I married him anyway in Logan, Utah, nearly four months later.   Our honeymoon was one of those unfortunate occasions you laugh about years later.  Basically it consisted of limping back to our humble little apartment in Oregon, in a $300 car that was threatening to quit on any random deserted stretch of the highway, and with only a few dollars left to our now-married name.

Even more fast forwarding, 36 years and four grown kids later, I must say, life with this man has been nothing short of delightful.  He may be messy, disorganized, and forgetful, but he knows how to work hard and better yet, how to play even harder.  He's smart, kind, generous, and genuinely cares about others.  He has a heart the size of Wyoming and an optimistic tendency to get carried away when planning fun events.  He loves people and people love him.  Every pet we owned, bonded with him over anyone else.  Not to mention he loves his family, his kids, and best of all he adores me.  For what more could I ask?

I look forward to a bazillion more years with the LOML, after which we'll take stock, reassess, and sign up for a bazillion more. 

Happy Birthday to my BFF.

A Very Brady Christmas

Christmas is over.  Officially.  The trappings are still out, ie. lights, tree, other stuff, and too much left over food.  But all company is gone and the house is quiet.  The floors are quiet.  The walls are quiet.  The AIR is even quiet.  All I can hear is the fridge humming and my fingers on the keyboard.

I don't mind the rain outside because my run is done.  5.25 miles this morning.   And that's all you'll hear about running in this post.  Because I'm going to talk about Christmases past.

We used to live in the semi-country, on a couple of acres, with a long driveway.  In the early years, before our driveway was paved, the gravel used to scatter out onto the street below.  I don't remember ever actually walking down there and sweeping the rocks off the street.  But we talked about doing it.

So one Christmas morning, after our resident Sugar Plum Fairies dutifully waited until the hallowed 7:00 hour when they were FINALLY allowed to make any noise or disturb their parents --- they tripped, stumbled, danced, wrestled their way down the stairs announcing in full volume:  It's time to open presents!

"Not yet." said Dad.  "Gotta sweep the street first."

Oh the wails of agony.  The sheer torture of child abuse.  The demands for justice.

"No!!!!!!!  Dad!!!!!!"

Of course he was teasing, and the rocks on the street were forgotten.  Until the next year.

"Dad, are you going to make us sweep the street first?" asked one small resident fairy.  "I don't want to sweep the street!  Do we HAVE to??"

So for many years thereafter, it became the family Christmas tradition.  Not to actually sweep those rocks off the street.  But just to talk about it.  I'm not sure, but one year there may have been a broom set out by the Christmas tree as a reminder of the all-important chore.

Fast forward to 2011.  Christmas day.   We're all here in fully-grown adult-status, and in addition there are six NEW sugar plum fairies and a son- and daughter-in-law who helped produce them.  Favorite Daughter, and mother of three of the above-mentioned next-generation fairies, presented us all with copies of a drawing, neatly framed.

All who'd grown up in this household instantly got it.  Poor Daughter-in-law didn't have a clue why we were all suddenly laughing and exclaiming our delight.

The driveway was eventually paved and no more rocks spill out onto the street.  And we don't even live there anymore ....

But the memory continues.

Dedicated to my Big Bro

I've often said what got me started in running was my interest desperation to maintain my weight loss three years ago.  And that is mostly true.  But I had other sources of motivation and one came in the form of one of my siblings.

About six or seven months prior to my discovery of Weight Watchers, (or maybe it was longer ....) we went on a Caribbean cruise with a delightful group of friends and family, including my sister, brother, and their spouses.  As I've mentioned several times here, I was a confirmed walker who disdained running, and during this cruise I'd sometimes be on the upper deck, doing laps.  Once or twice I met my brother Larry up there while he ran.

Larry has been running for years.  He ran in the Hood to Coast several times long before it entered my world.  He has joined in various races and biking events through the years and would casually mention it now and then.  Since I hadn't yet started running and was painfully clueless, I never understood how completely AWESOME this was.  He has always been the model of discipline and moderation.  Some people would go all out and attempt marathons, Ironman events, or other examples of emotionally-driven craziness, often overdoing, then dropping off, stopping and starting, revving up and burning out, while Larry just continued on with his regular routine of healthy exercise and active lifestyle, year in and year out.  I can't begin to express how I have always admired all that he does.  And it goes without saying that ALL my siblings stand solidly on pedestals, IMO.

So back on that cruise ship, I ran a few laps with him.  I wasn't even wearing proper running shoes.  But it was fun and I remember being a little surprised at that.  Those few laps with my brother stuck in my head.  THAT seemingly little thing helped to fuel my interest enough to eventually start running.

Larry also, years prior, inspired my husband to start biking, which was life-changing.   See this post.

When I was about 20 lonely miles into my own emotionally-driven marathon last June, I thought about calling my brother, two states away, on my cell phone.   I wanted to hear him tell me that he was proud of me.  Second in value to my husband's opinion of me and what I was doing, my brother's opinion ranked very high.  I didn't make the call, partially because I probably would have started bawling at that point, but I knew he was proud of me and just knowing that was what I needed as I pushed through those last endless miles.

So my humble thanks goes to my big brother for his inspiration, example, support, and love.  I hope to always be worthy of ALL my terrific sibs, and to make them proud of me, as I am of each of them.

Doing hard things

I teach an adult scripture class and the crucifixion is the subject of our next lesson.  Not an easy thing to ponder; however, my point is Peter's vehement claim that he would NEVER deny his Master, much less do it three times.  Within a few short hours, much to his horror, he did just that.  

As a Christian, I believe in a God who knows all.  He knows what we will do before we do it.  Therefore, some may ask, What is the point?  Why are we even here if our fate is already sealed?  Well, God does know our outcome, but the point is - we don't.  We are here to figure it out.  In a sense we are here to get to know ourselves.  We learn of our weaknesses and we learn our strengths.  Peter THOUGHT he knew himself.  He honestly THOUGHT he was stronger than he was.  He learned a bitter yet valuable lesson.  He learned he needed more strength.  He overcame and stepped up to become a powerful prophet of God.  

I, like Peter, thought I knew myself pretty well.  I thought I knew my weaknesses and my strengths.  But I've learned these past couple of years, that there's a lot yet to discover.  And much of it I won't know until I'm tested.  Again, like Peter.  

One of the ways to learn about yourself is to attempt something hard.  Something outside the old Comfort Zone.  You may fail ... but you may not.  And as my favorite YouTube video says, “If you never try, you'll never know”.  

Running has taught me that I CAN do things I never knew I could do.  I have strengths I didn’t know I had.  I can run with people who are much younger and stronger than I am.  I can organized a large athletic event.  I can finish a marathon.  I can run five miles at 3:00 a.m. on three hours sleep.  I can be a team captain.  I can put up and take down a tent by myself.  I can toil and camp in heat, wind, and grit without my shampoo and a shower.  I can climb to the top of a climbing wall AND to the top of a volcano.  I can do a triathlon ... well, okay, with a lot of liberties in the swimming portion since I don't swim.   I can sleep in a spider-infested tent .... after the spiders are gone .... but did we get them ALL?   Most of this has happened since I started running nearly three years ago.  This may not sound like much to some of you, but I’m not measuring myself against anyone but me.  The me I used to be.  And remember, I am not in my 20s or 30s (or even my 40s!) anymore.

I used to be the spectator or the support vehicle driver.  Never wanting to try or get dirty or wet.  (I still don't!)  Never wanting to fail and look stupid.  (I still don’t!)  Hence I never really knew myself nor what I could do.  I didn't even know what my fears WERE, much less if I could overcome them!  That marathon was SO frightening!  I didn't want to do it.  It took a long time to beef up my courage to register and then face six months of strict training with my Day of Reckoning looming closer and closer.   And not only did I fear the 26 miles .... I feared the 22 miles, the 20 miles, the 18, the 17, the 16, the 14, etc., that  punctuated my winter and spring every couple of weeks.

Doing hard and scary things builds confidence for the next hard and scary thing.  With each success, we are empowered to try a few more "miles".  That empowerment changes who we are.  With each failure we can learn, as Peter did, to fight through the remorse, make whatever changes are needed, and try again.   Peter reached his potential and though I would never compare sports or tent assembly to what HE became, it's still growth from challenges .... from doing what we’re afraid to do, and learning a little more about the process of becoming what God knows we can become.

Love Messages ad nauseam

I've learned that during my LONG runs, (anything more than a half-marathon) my Jeff-Galloway-walking-breaks are vital.  If I neglect them during the first hour, then around miles 14-15 my calves start to cramp up.  When that happens it's like running on painful wooden stumps.  Till now, I've been using a stopwatch to remind me to stop and walk.  I could hear the beep of the watch because I wasn't plugged into my iPod.  And I wasn't plugged in because I was with FRP.

However, FRP and I have mutually decided that, during the marathon, we will not run together.  She is faster than I and doesn't espouse as many walking breaks as I do.  So no doubt she'll leave me behind early on.  And I hope she does.  She has agreed NOT to wait for me, and I have agreed NOT to stop if I find her dying on the side of the road.  "Just keep going!" she says.  I'll get there!!"

But here's the dilemma.  Since running without FRP means I will be plugged into my iPod on the Big Day, how will I hear the beeps?  (No, my music is not THAT loud.  The stopwatch is just really quiet.)  During the LAST half of the run, Sheer Exhaustion is also a helpful reminder, but Galloway stresses that it's in the early miles when the breaks are the most important.  Then Dear Husband came to the rescue with a solution.  Via something called "Garage Band" on our Mac, he recorded his voice telling me to stop and walk .... in an endearing just-between-him-and-me way.  Then I duplicated it a gazillion times and spliced it into my playlist.  How smart is that!?!

So by the end of the marathon, I will either be all the more in love with him for his thoughtful and blessed life-saving reminders to walk, or I'll be sick to DEATH of his voice/message repeating over and over and over and over .....  I'm kind of afraid it will be the latter.

But who cares?  Time heals all and by then the run will be DONE.

Post Easter thoughts

It's Monday morning, the day after Easter.  We basically didn't celebrate Easter this year, so it seems.  No eggs, no candy, no parties, no new clothes as we've done in many years past when the kids were small.  We just went to church as usual.  I did make goat cheese pizza, a yummy favorite of those currently living at the home front.  And I prepared my lesson for next week's Sunday School class.  Pretty humdrum.

Then I read a few entries in Facebook from people who celebrated the holiday by veering off from their normal Sunday routine and attending church ... and that got me to thinking.  Celebrating a holiday by attending church.  Maybe once or twice a year?  Interesting concept.  Any church attendance is better than nothing I suppose.  But if one's chosen church worships Jesus Christ and follows the Bible then IMHO, once or twice a year is not going to cut it.  For that is not what He taught.

So although my Easter celebrations have become a bit lack luster, I did go to church.  As I do every week.  And I attempted to honor the Sabbath, as I do every week.  So in a sense I, and those in my household, celebrate Easter every Sunday.  For to truly celebrate Easter and acknowledge the wondrous fact that HE actually LIVES, is to simply do what He asked us to do.

Happiness

Believe it or not, this was inspired by an Oprah show.  Yes, I do watch it occasionally.  Once, when we were going to be in Chicago for a few days, I tried to get in her show.  But she wouldn't return my calls.  She wouldn't even pick up the phone.  In fact I couldn't even get it to RING.  Oh well.

Anyway, she did a show on the topic of happiness.  They featured a town in California, San Luis Obispo, population 44,000, that somehow is considered the happiest town in the U.S.  The people were not affluent and the town was not particularly large.  So what was the reason?  The town had made some changes such as closing the main street to cars to make it pedestrian-friendly.  They put in bike paths/lanes and even offered valet bike-parking.  They widened their sidewalks and encouraged outside seating at the cafes.  All in all, they provided an environment that encouraged the citizens to get outside and interact with their neighbors.

According to studies, happiness IS influenced by salary, but only to a point well below a level that would be considered wealthy.  In fact it would not qualify as upper middle-class.  Beyond that, they said you will find more happiness joining a club, than by increasing your income.   So what is it about a club, wide sidewalks, and bicycles?   People.  Interaction.  Mingling.  Socializing.  Belonging.  What this says to me is that anything that establishes friendship, bonding, common interests with which to connect with others, can raise your level of happiness.

Members of my church are also considered to be generally happy, cheerful people.  In addition to the beliefs that we embrace that give us hope and purpose, we do a LOT of socializing.  We worship in a uniform style worldwide, so that we naturally have much in common with other members wherever we find them.  On our recent cruise to the Caribbean, we sought out the local LDS congregation on the island of Antigua, where we docked on a Sunday.  There we found instant friends.  There we immediately felt welcome, loved, and at home.  We talked the same "language" and shared the same outlook on life.  As a member of this church, we are part of something huge and this would definitely count as that "club" so to speak, that can impact our happiness.

Bringing this around to the designated topic of this blog, I have discovered that running has expanded my social circles and has created bonds with others who share my love for this sport.  Participating in a group event, particularly on a team, instills a powerful sense of belonging.  A feeling that I matter to others.  The added happiness that running has brought into my already happy life goes beyond the sense of accomplishment and achieving goals, as important as those things are.  It causes interaction with some awesome people!  It has widened my sidewalks.

I take no credit ...

... for my kids.  I do think that before this life, I asked the Lord to give me His best and He listened.  And since this blog is about running, I want to dedicate this post to my daughter Lindsay who has become my Favorite Running Partner, aka FRP.

One of the sweetest things about this whole running experience is the bond it creates between kindred spirits who share the love of running.  I have bonded with my Hood to Coast teammates, online running friends whom I have yet to meet face-to-face, strangers at starting lines, and several salespeople at a couple of local running shoe stores.  I have also bonded with up-and-coming runners who are just beginning to catch a glimpse of the joy.  But when you can establish yet another bond with your own daughter, and she WANTS to run with you - well, that beats all.

(Our eager 9 year old grandson Garret who, in spite of handicaps, loves to hit the pavement with his mom.)

I can't imagine what I did to deserve to be her mother, but it must have been something really good. 

But more likely, I simply won the lottery.

Gratitude

With the current circulating facebook post about feminist atheists' fascination with "Mormon Mommy" blogs, and in light of former president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Spencer W. Kimball's prophecy ...   


“Much of the major growth that is coming to the Church in the last days will come because many of the good women of the world (in whom there is often such an inner sense of spirituality) will be drawn to the Church in large numbers. This will happen to the degree that the women of the Church reflect righteousness and articulateness in their lives and to the degree that the women of the Church are seen as distinct and different — in happy ways — from the women of the world.”


... I wondered, how can I contribute?  This is a running blog.  Then a thought immediately came to mind.  Gratitude.  


I am a lifetime member of the above-named church and have always had a knowledge of God's existence and relevance in my life.  I attribute everything good in my life to my active participation in the religion that I consider to be His.  And I mean everything.  I am aware of the blessings I have been given and the importance that we use all blessings for good.  So I hope this counts in a small way.  


One of those blessings is health.  I have always been healthy.  My body, though probably past the half-way point of its mortality, continues to do what it always could do -- only with an ever increasing recovery-time.  And now I'm pushing it beyond reasonable limits, with more pushing to come, and so far, the bones, muscles, ligaments, are holding together.  And I am so grateful.  

(I'm in the bright orange vest.)

I have noticed whenever I participate in a group run of any type, during the first few minutes of the run (before wretched Tiredness hits), I am almost overcome with a deep sense of gratitude.  Gratitude that I am able to DO this!  At my age!   It almost brings tears.  During those first few minutes, the world is an exciting place and I am part of it.  I am living it.  I am taking on a challenge and holding up my end.  Maybe THIS is the Runner's High -- and not that happy feeling while in the shower after the run is DONE.  Whatever it is, it is a powerful gush of camaraderie and love for those around me, and gratitude to God for the strength to do this.  I lack in many attributes, but I can run and it brings me joy.

I owe EVERYTHING to my religion, but most of all for the knowledge of Him, the Creator of all, to whom I am grateful. 


P.S.  Thank you Chery, for the photos!