Running the Race

Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.

Hebrews 12:1

After 4 months and nearly 200 miles of training, Nate and I ran our very first half marathon in Irving, TX. All the carefully patterned sleeping and eating routines, the gallons of water faithfully consumed, the worn shoes and sweat and injuries consummated in this one goal: to finish, and to do it in under two hours.

I am not one of those enviable runners who adore running and live to pound the pavement. Before this spring I'd only run an occasional three miles because I had to. I view running as a necessary discipline that must be endured to improve overall health, fitness and mental endurance. My secret weapon is books on tape which distract me from the misery I'm putting my body through. Multiple times during that race - specifically on miles 7, 9 and 11 - I asked myself again why on earth I was doing this. But I finished. I ran every step of the way, spurred on by Agatha Christie and cheering spectators with cowbells, and I placed second in my age group.

Nate and I held hands as we crossed the finish line, and celebrated in a steaming jacuzzi as our screaming knees and hip flexors called us every name known to man. We hobbled around Irving for the rest of the weekend, enjoying wonderful food and movies and museums and sunning ourselves in parks while trying not to look too much like 80-year-olds with arthritis.

We love Jefferson Street Bed & Breakfast!

Farm-to-table restaurant with incredible food

Venison chili and wildflower honey cornbread (elk tacos for an appetizer)

Yeah, I married him.

Fluffy hair and pale skin just needs to come back in style.

An original Norman Rockwell exhibit at the Boy Scout Museum. So good!

Love this man.

Then we came home and did the unthinkable. We registered for the Disney Marathon on January 12, 2014. Yes, we are out of our minds. Yes, in a moment of extravagant confidence I forgot every painful step of that 13.1 miles and convinced myself that I could do it twice. I hit the "register" button, and then dissolved into a puddle of quaking disbelief.

But today I laced up my running shoes and pounded it out again. We have 8 months, after all. And who knows? Maybe in that 8 months I'll learn to love running. Maybe my body will cross a threshold where I can crank out mile after mile without my joints dying a miserable death. And maybe we will have the time of our lives, flying through all 26.2 miles of those glorious Disney parks. In any case, whether we set a new record or have to stop every 20 minutes and take pictures with Mickey, it feels good to set a goal - a challenging, impossible goal - and make steady progress towards attaining it.

If there's one thing running regularly has taught me, it's a deeper appreciation for all of the Apostle Paul's exercise analogies:

"Run in such a way as to get the prize. Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever." - 1 Cor. 9:24-25

"Train yourself for godliness, for while bodily training is of some value, godliness is of value in every way." - 1 Tim. 4:7-8

"Run with endurance." - Hebrews 12:1

Comparing physical training with training in godliness has shown me that becoming like Christ doesn't just happen. Just as I could never set off one day to run a marathon on a whim, I can't hope to have Christlike words, thoughts and actions without applying myself to His Word and example. This race, reaping imperishable rewards, is so worth my entire life's devotion. May I run here, and wherever God places me, with endurance and with joy.

Freely Give

Freely you have received. Freely give. 

- Matthew 10:8

When we first moved to Texas, I was overwhelmed by the materialistic lifestyle. Store after store, restaurants and malls and theaters line both sides of the intricate web of highways that is Houston. Literally anything I could ever need is mere minutes from our apartment. As I've gotten accustomed to hopping in my car and driving 5 miles for my errands, I've noticed a strange phenomenon. Nearly every intersection has been claimed by one or more people - tattered, weather-beaten, holding signs advertising their hunger, their five kids, their desperation. Some come right up to the window and demand acknowledgement, or else determined ignorance. Others, defeated, stand with head hung low and have given up making eye contact.

Panhandlers have always made me uncomfortable, and the shocking prevalence of them in Houston makes me positively squirm with awkwardness. They accomplish their purpose very well. It's impossible to sit at the stoplights without a tummy full from dinner out turning slightly sour, or those shopping bags in the backseat losing a bit of their intrigue. My awkwardness makes me angry. "Why aren't they applying for jobs instead of standing out here?" "What kind of parent would make their child stand on the street all day as a sob story?" "Why give them money when they'll just use it to feed whatever addiction they probably have?"

A few months ago my pastor preached a sermon that turned my world upside down. The topic was compassion, the text Luke 6:34:36. "If you lend to those from whom you expect to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, to get back the same amount. But love your enemies, and do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return, and your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High, for he is kind to the ungrateful and the evil. Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful."

The people standing on the street corners aren't my enemies. They're not necessarily "ungrateful" or "evil." And even though some have been picked up as proven scammers, there is much legitimate need in this city. So why is it so very hard to give? Usually, it's because my logic gets in the way. Giving cash is dumb. It feeds the habit and may not be used for good choices. My pastor nailed that excuse too. We don't have the power to control what people do with our generosity, he explained. Having mercy requires obeying God and trusting that His justice will prevail.

My heart and my response to Jesus' sacrifice for me is what's at stake here. Can I truly give freely and trust God with what happens next?

I decided to take the challenge. I bought supplies and put together little bags with bottled water, a granola bar, McDonald's gift card and New Testament. There was one man in particular on my mind. For weeks I'd driven by him in the opposite direction, my heart breaking for the pain and defeat in his eyes. I prayed that he would be on my side of the street someday. And one morning, he was. I waved him over and, as the light turned green, put a rather large and femininely-wrapped bag in his surprised hands and gushed "Hello-Sir-I've-been-praying-for-you-God-bless-you-take-care-stay-safe." I will never forget that look of confusion, shyness, emotion, gratefulness. Here, at least, I had made a difference. I still drive by him on the opposite side of the street. And I pray that he is reading the New Testament, and that he has found hope.

Right before Easter I gave out another bag. The men look more confused than anything else, but I'm praying that as their immediate needs of hunger and thirst are touched, and a meal is provided, they will open the Bible and their deepest need will be met. How extraordinary to touch the lives of perfect strangers even in this small way.

Springtime at Home

"Home is the nicest word there is."

Laura Ingalls Wilder

It is the first day of spring, which means that Houston has already trampled on the concept of spring and marched directly into midsummer. It is days like these that I especially miss so many things about dear old Maryland…

::green::
So much green everywhere. The greenness of my front yard, sloping downward to meet the sweeping greenery of our gigantic weeping willow. Driving along winding highways framed by carpets of green. Green reaching upwards and outwards, as far as the eye can see.

::Mom’s lattes::
Better than Starbucks. Mild, creamy and faintly sweet. Our long, long talks in the early morning hours before anyone else is awake. 

::kitchen::
Airy, spacious, spring-green walls. Coffee pot and tea kettle. My favorite staples always in the pantry: peanut butter, crackers and dried fruit. Countless parties, people everywhere, late into the humid summer nights.

::neighborhood::
Flowering trees lining both sides of a broad, sleepy street. My neighbor’s award-winning landscaping, a breathtaking array of color as soon as the last frost dies away. Spreading lawns and winding driveways that give off an aura of countryside.

::butterfly bush::
Explosions of purple bloom that overwhelm our back porch, attracting butterflies, bumblebees and hummingbirds.

::swimming pool::
Where it isn’t too hot to lay in the sun and tan away those lazy spring afternoons.

::siblings::
Always a brother or sister nearby to go on spontaneous dates to Starbucks, play lively games of Nertz or Settlers of Catan, cook up delectable concoctions, play catch in the front yard or ride our bikes to 7-Eleven.

::smells:: 

Getting drunk on the scent of spring, so sweet and rich it brings tears to your eyes.

::new life::
Nests of blue, speckled eggs. The tiniest bunnies amid stalks of warm grass. Birds. Singing. Everywhere.

::church:: 

Beautiful songs reminiscent of heaven in the joy, the never wanting to stop. Preaching so powerful it catches your breath. Resounding “amens!” Freedom. Power. God in our midst.

::friends::
Dearest, lifelong besties. The friends you can catch up with and months feel like yesterday. Memories and hugs and so much laughter.

::old stomping grounds::
Parks and highways and stores you grew up in. Everything changes, and yet it is the same. The feeling that you could go blind and be completely at home, for always.

::tennis::
Playing with dad, the brother, the boyfriend-now-husband. Sweating and swinging next to the playgrounds you once toddled in. Places where everything takes you back.

::softball::

Freshly combed dirt and snow-white lines. The satisfying smack of ball into glove. Whistles and cheers, knee pads and catcher's mask. Spring afternoons hitting, running, drilling. The thrill of gameday victories. Medals.

::volleyball::

The recreation of choice at every gathering. Hours in the park with the same group of friends; nets dragged out at birthday parties and family reunions alike. Spike. Set. Dive. The perfect game, the perfect weather.

::Grandma’s house::
The smell of fresh herbs drying. Pumping away on a prehistoric player piano. Grabbing a cold Yoohoo from a first-generation refrigerator. Knitting. Sewing the Civil War costume that won first prize in high school. Baking breads and desserts of all kinds. Feasting on hot beef sandwiches and jumbo shrimp. Exploring the attic and the hayloft. Riding horses, gathering eggs, feeding sheep. Both Grandma’s houses are what storybooks are made of.

With every fiber of my being, I miss Maryland. I crave the beauty, the aliveness everywhere. I long to be home as much as possible. And yet, I bloom where I am planted. I am multi-faceted and educated in a way that only comes from being transplanted into an entirely new culture. God knows what He is doing. And with every visit, home becomes even more the dearest place on earth to me.