Dear Jogger Guy:
I need to start by apologizing. My sincerest apologies for looking like a terrified deer-in-headlights when you jogged towards me the other night. I don't believe that an apology that blames the other person is a true apology, but in this case, I'm going to totally blame you and hope that it still counts as an apology of sorts.
Here's the deal: I'm not a total scaredy-cat. Really I'm not. But I do have an overactive imagination fueled by horrible novel selections by high school English teachers (who really should have known better) and poorly chosen television viewing habits in my university days. I am not a conspiracy theorist, but I do sort of expect that there could very well be danger lurking under every bush.
And you weren't under a bush: you were running straight down the sidewalk towards me: menacingly, with an air of malevolence and guilt. Or potential guilt. Maybe you hadn't committed a crime yet, but you sure could have.
You see, if clothes make the man, your clothes made you a bank robber. No word of a lie. You ought to consider things like that when you get dressed for a run. In May. On a warm night.
Why were you wearing a black skull cap covering all your hair? Why were you wearing a black shirt and black shorts and black socks? Why were you wearing a black balaclava?
Well, okay: that was my first mistake. Or maybe not my first, but certainly my biggest. It wasn't a balaclava, but it sure looked like one from a distance. Turns out that what I thought was a black, menacing ski mask was actually,...
*ahem*
...an inordinate amount of facial hair.
Seriously. Dude. What's with the pitch black, thick rimmed glasses, and bushy black eyebrows, and FULL.BLACK.BEARD that covers, essentially, everything but your nose and eyelids? From a distance, all I could see was the whites of your eyes, the tip of your nose and a sliver of your mouth: which wasn't smiling, and that would have helped, just so you know.
So as I walked off the sidewalk and onto the bike path to get out of the way of impeding mugging, please forgive me. I should have expected better of you. And as I, likely audibly, sighed with relief as you passed me, please forgive my prejudice.
But really, give a girl a helping hand and at least wear a t-shirt with a big, yellow smiley face. Or leave the black hat at home. Or trim your beard. Or carry a sign that says, "I am not a crook". Any of those small changes would be considered an act of community-mindedness, and would likely decrease the chances of you experiencing a false arrest sometime in your life.
On a positive note, you have a great stride. And if you had committed a crime, I bet you could have outrun your pursuers. Nicely done.
Showing posts with label running?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label running?. Show all posts
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Uphill Both Ways
As Christians, we aren’t supposed to like what has come to be called “the Valley experience”. Am I right? We are supposed to be striving for the mountain-top moments where we shine like a light for Christ, joyful, productive, happy, and showing the world how great our lives are. Right?
Well I agree. There is certainly nothing wrong with loving those parts of life. Certainly nothing wrong with celebrating the Lord’s goodness and providence in those moments where, even if everything is NOT right with the world, we are at least resting, trusting, and glorifying God with our lives, actions and attitudes.
But here is the thing: I think the valley is easier.
“What? No, it isn’t,” you say. “The valley hurts, the valley is dark and sad, and lonely, and sometimes it is the valley of the shadow of death. I don’t want that. I want to say, like Psalm 40, ‘He brought me up out of the pit of destruction, out of the miry clay; And He set my feet upon a rock making my footsteps firm.’ That’s what I want: not the valley”.
Please read the rest of my latest article for Heart of the Matter Online.
Well I agree. There is certainly nothing wrong with loving those parts of life. Certainly nothing wrong with celebrating the Lord’s goodness and providence in those moments where, even if everything is NOT right with the world, we are at least resting, trusting, and glorifying God with our lives, actions and attitudes.
But here is the thing: I think the valley is easier.
“What? No, it isn’t,” you say. “The valley hurts, the valley is dark and sad, and lonely, and sometimes it is the valley of the shadow of death. I don’t want that. I want to say, like Psalm 40, ‘He brought me up out of the pit of destruction, out of the miry clay; And He set my feet upon a rock making my footsteps firm.’ That’s what I want: not the valley”.
Please read the rest of my latest article for Heart of the Matter Online.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Clean Floors
How often do you wash your kitchen floor? I mean, really clean them. Not just run-the-Swiffer-over-them clean, or kind-of-sweep-them clean, but on-your-hands-and-knees-hot-and-soapy-water clean?
Rarely, if I'm being honest. But I would like to tell you about how it came about that I washed my floors like that on Christmas Eve morning.
Faithful readers here may recall that months ago I promised a series of blog posts, one inspirational and one funny. The inspirational one has been posted: today's is the funny one. (That was your prompt and licence to laugh at me with great vigor!).
Imagine with me, if you will, what a typical Christmas Eve morning is like. As I see it, there are two options. It can be an idyllic, quiet, contemplative time around the tree, with hot apple cider in one hand, Bible in the other, and good snacks (post-delicious brunch, of course) always in easy reach. The children are contentedly playing, loving on one another with the compassion of Mother Theresa, the housework and gift-making are caught up, and the Roast Beast is simmering in a red wine flavoured broth preparing for a magical, culinary experience. We are patiently, yet breathlessly awaiting the candle-light service at the church. The children all say, "Santa who?" and instead prepare cards and gifts for the birth of Christ the King. All is right with the world.
That is option one. That was not our reality this year.
Christmas Eve was a Thursday in 2009, as you may recall. That is only significant in that my daughter's flyer route needs to be worked on Thursdays. Only. Period. Wednesday or Friday delivery of flyers constitutes grounds for immediate dismissal. Thursday morning it is.
Plus, this was the year that I jumped back into the world of "Church Drama" and was preparing for the second night of Christmas Plays. Let's just sum that up by saying my brain is not as sharp as it was 7 children and 11 years ago! Hello, Memory? Anyone home? Right. Didn't think so.
Plus, this was the year our church jumped back into the world of "Choir", which is such a highlight for me that I may need to do an entire post on choir someday. This required me to go through an intense period of humbling as I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, hairbrush in hand (to my mouth, of course), repeatedly asking myself if I have any clue how to sing!
Plus, this was the year that I decided to be a mock-athelete and began running for the first time since the boys in the playground were throwing rocks at me.
Plus, this was the year that I thought I should really try to sew some lovely bags for some people I love as gifts. Like my Grandma. Who I would be seeing tomorrow. Whose bag I hadn't started yet. Oops.
And so it was, that I was in a very happy place that Christmas Eve morning doing a lot of things I loved and enjoyed, but found my mind a wee distracted...
The whole gang of us piled in to the van first thing in the morning, and delivered my eldest's 95 flyers, in record time, glad for the nice weather. Then we came home to realize the basement was about to be declared a national emergency site due to the unusually large amount of toys strewn around. So here I am in the kitchen, beginning lunch, barking orders for the basement to be cleaned, kissing my husband who just came home from his morning at the office, putting the baby down for his nap, and thinking the breakfast dishes should be washed, and then thinking I should go and check on the cleaning efforts in the basement.
As I go down to check on the basement overhaul, I realize that my physical presence there with them may be the thing to speed their endeavor, and so I sit and check email. It is in the email that my fate was sealed, I believe. My lovely friend, Kristina who I love, sent me a link to a stunning video of Celtic Woman singing "O Holy Night". Stunning. I sat spell-bound for the 5 minutes of vocal bliss. My bliss was radically, sharply, disasterously ended by my 8 year old's cherubic voice, innocently asking me, "Mommy, what is that water?"
Water? What water? And so I look in to the (praise the Lord) unfinished part of our basement to see water, no sheets of water, falling, pouring, gushing out of my duct work. Did I say gushing? I meant flooding. Rapidly. And spreading fast. Now there is a leak over our freezer. Now it is coming out over the laundry area.
My dear husband is wondering if a pipe froze and burst. "Where is this water coming from?" he cries? "Go make sure everything is off while I shut of the main!"
And my dear oldest daughter says, "Mom! I saw you turn on the kitchen sink!" She flies up the stairs to turn off the kitchen sink, but before she can reach the faucet she falls squarely on her heiny. The water has flooded the counter, and spilled, hot and soapy, all over the kitchen floor. Should I remind the gentle reader here that we have porcelain tiles in our kitchen? Mental note to self: porcelain tiles + hot, soapy water = ice rink.
So as 7 children are screaming "GET MORE TOWELS!!" and "EMPTY THE GARBAGE PAILS TO CATCH THE WATER!!!" I am trying to remember when exactly I turned the sink on. Clearly, somewhere in the "I thought I should wash the breakfast dishes" moment, I actually plugged the sink, squirted in the soap, and turned the tap on full hot.
And now I am sitting on the floor, sopping up water from the inside of my cabinets, and the drawers and the entire kitchen counter, trying really hard not to say out loud any of the names I'm calling myself in my head because there are 14 little eyes and ears watching and listeing to see how mom reacts in a crisis.
At one point, my 8 year old who is notorious for saying the funniest things without trying to be funny, is in a full out fit worrying about how this is going to play out, says with great fervor, "And Mom, this better not become a Facebook Status, because this is *NOT* funny!"
Soon, the basement is dried up, the kitchen is dried up, my husband is reassuring the 8 year old that the house is fine, and sound, and no damage done. I am hiding in the garage, giving full vent to all the pent up rage and self-disgust I previously held inside. I hear my husband's loving voice ask one of the girls, "Where's your mom?" and I get the courage to come in and dry my eyes on his shirt collar. He is half laughing at me, half consoling me. I need both to get through this.
I figured I had ruined Christmas Eve. What happened instead was my kids saw that even "the best mom in the world" makes stupid mistakes, which gives them the freedom to try and fail too. And my kitchen floor got "on-your-hands-and-knees-hot-and-soapy-water clean".
All in all, it was the perfect Christmas Eve morning.
Rarely, if I'm being honest. But I would like to tell you about how it came about that I washed my floors like that on Christmas Eve morning.
Faithful readers here may recall that months ago I promised a series of blog posts, one inspirational and one funny. The inspirational one has been posted: today's is the funny one. (That was your prompt and licence to laugh at me with great vigor!).
Imagine with me, if you will, what a typical Christmas Eve morning is like. As I see it, there are two options. It can be an idyllic, quiet, contemplative time around the tree, with hot apple cider in one hand, Bible in the other, and good snacks (post-delicious brunch, of course) always in easy reach. The children are contentedly playing, loving on one another with the compassion of Mother Theresa, the housework and gift-making are caught up, and the Roast Beast is simmering in a red wine flavoured broth preparing for a magical, culinary experience. We are patiently, yet breathlessly awaiting the candle-light service at the church. The children all say, "Santa who?" and instead prepare cards and gifts for the birth of Christ the King. All is right with the world.
That is option one. That was not our reality this year.
Christmas Eve was a Thursday in 2009, as you may recall. That is only significant in that my daughter's flyer route needs to be worked on Thursdays. Only. Period. Wednesday or Friday delivery of flyers constitutes grounds for immediate dismissal. Thursday morning it is.
Plus, this was the year that I jumped back into the world of "Church Drama" and was preparing for the second night of Christmas Plays. Let's just sum that up by saying my brain is not as sharp as it was 7 children and 11 years ago! Hello, Memory? Anyone home? Right. Didn't think so.
Plus, this was the year our church jumped back into the world of "Choir", which is such a highlight for me that I may need to do an entire post on choir someday. This required me to go through an intense period of humbling as I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, hairbrush in hand (to my mouth, of course), repeatedly asking myself if I have any clue how to sing!
Plus, this was the year that I decided to be a mock-athelete and began running for the first time since the boys in the playground were throwing rocks at me.
Plus, this was the year that I thought I should really try to sew some lovely bags for some people I love as gifts. Like my Grandma. Who I would be seeing tomorrow. Whose bag I hadn't started yet. Oops.
And so it was, that I was in a very happy place that Christmas Eve morning doing a lot of things I loved and enjoyed, but found my mind a wee distracted...
The whole gang of us piled in to the van first thing in the morning, and delivered my eldest's 95 flyers, in record time, glad for the nice weather. Then we came home to realize the basement was about to be declared a national emergency site due to the unusually large amount of toys strewn around. So here I am in the kitchen, beginning lunch, barking orders for the basement to be cleaned, kissing my husband who just came home from his morning at the office, putting the baby down for his nap, and thinking the breakfast dishes should be washed, and then thinking I should go and check on the cleaning efforts in the basement.
As I go down to check on the basement overhaul, I realize that my physical presence there with them may be the thing to speed their endeavor, and so I sit and check email. It is in the email that my fate was sealed, I believe. My lovely friend, Kristina who I love, sent me a link to a stunning video of Celtic Woman singing "O Holy Night". Stunning. I sat spell-bound for the 5 minutes of vocal bliss. My bliss was radically, sharply, disasterously ended by my 8 year old's cherubic voice, innocently asking me, "Mommy, what is that water?"
Water? What water? And so I look in to the (praise the Lord) unfinished part of our basement to see water, no sheets of water, falling, pouring, gushing out of my duct work. Did I say gushing? I meant flooding. Rapidly. And spreading fast. Now there is a leak over our freezer. Now it is coming out over the laundry area.
My dear husband is wondering if a pipe froze and burst. "Where is this water coming from?" he cries? "Go make sure everything is off while I shut of the main!"
And my dear oldest daughter says, "Mom! I saw you turn on the kitchen sink!" She flies up the stairs to turn off the kitchen sink, but before she can reach the faucet she falls squarely on her heiny. The water has flooded the counter, and spilled, hot and soapy, all over the kitchen floor. Should I remind the gentle reader here that we have porcelain tiles in our kitchen? Mental note to self: porcelain tiles + hot, soapy water = ice rink.
So as 7 children are screaming "GET MORE TOWELS!!" and "EMPTY THE GARBAGE PAILS TO CATCH THE WATER!!!" I am trying to remember when exactly I turned the sink on. Clearly, somewhere in the "I thought I should wash the breakfast dishes" moment, I actually plugged the sink, squirted in the soap, and turned the tap on full hot.
And now I am sitting on the floor, sopping up water from the inside of my cabinets, and the drawers and the entire kitchen counter, trying really hard not to say out loud any of the names I'm calling myself in my head because there are 14 little eyes and ears watching and listeing to see how mom reacts in a crisis.
At one point, my 8 year old who is notorious for saying the funniest things without trying to be funny, is in a full out fit worrying about how this is going to play out, says with great fervor, "And Mom, this better not become a Facebook Status, because this is *NOT* funny!"
Soon, the basement is dried up, the kitchen is dried up, my husband is reassuring the 8 year old that the house is fine, and sound, and no damage done. I am hiding in the garage, giving full vent to all the pent up rage and self-disgust I previously held inside. I hear my husband's loving voice ask one of the girls, "Where's your mom?" and I get the courage to come in and dry my eyes on his shirt collar. He is half laughing at me, half consoling me. I need both to get through this.
I figured I had ruined Christmas Eve. What happened instead was my kids saw that even "the best mom in the world" makes stupid mistakes, which gives them the freedom to try and fail too. And my kitchen floor got "on-your-hands-and-knees-hot-and-soapy-water clean".
All in all, it was the perfect Christmas Eve morning.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Foodie Friday
This recipe is for my dear friend Laurie, who has been patiently waiting for me to post this somewhere. I made this for her and her fantastic family on her birthday, which was also New Year's Eve and our joint Resolution Run, my first ever 5km. She is such a delight to me. Truly a kindred heart.
This is one of our favourite recipes: Enchilada Casserole.
So first some disclaimers: I will type the recipe as written but you need to know that I always think it is going to be too dry and that there won't be enough sauce to satisfy me, so I add a can of diced tomatoes, or a jar of salsa. (that's what I did with you, Laurie). But sometimes then, it serves up really sloppy, so use your discretion. Or make two and stick one of them in the freezer and compare! My changes will be in italics.
Enchilada Casserole from the London Free Press
3 cups Red Chile Sauce (see below)
12 Corn tortillas (I use 6 large Whole Grain Tortillas)
3 cups cubed, cooked chicken (we also like it with cooked ground beef, or for a vegetarian version, a mix of Black Beans and Kidney Beans)
(We add some frozen corn and diced green or red pepper here too)
1 pound (500 g) Monterey Jack or Mozzarella Cheese (or old cheddar)
1 1/2 cups diced onion (sometimes I omit this as the kids aren't wild onion fans)
2 cups shredded romaine lettuce
1 1/2 cups diced tomato
1 1/2 cups light sour cream
Preheat oven to 350F; lightly grease a 9x13 pan.
Spread one cup of sauce over bottom of pan. Layer 2 Tortillas overlapping as necessary.
Layer chicken, 1/3 of the cheese, and 1/2 the onion, and cover with some sauce. Repeat layers of Tortillas, chicken, cheese, onion (add the diced peppers and corn here too, if using), and sauce. Cover with remaining two tortillas, remaining sauce, and remaining cheese.
Bake 25-30 minutes, or until bubbly and hot through. Serve with lettuce, diced tomato, and sour cream as garnish. (We also like to top with diced avocado and sliced black olives)
Serves 8-10
Red Chile Sauce
3 tbsp vegetable oil
1/2 cup finely diced onion
1 tbsp minced garlic
3-4 tbsp red chile powder
2 tbsp flour
2 1/2 cup water
1 tsp oregano
1 tsp cumin
Heat the oil. Saute onion and garlic 3-4 minutes. Stir in chile powder and flour. Slowly add the water and cook until thickening. Add oregano and cumin. Bring to a quick boil. Simmer 1-2 minutes. Salt to taste. (Add a jar of salsa, or diced tomatoes before simmering if desired)
We LOVE this. Love love love it. To be fancy and pretty sometime, you can also make this in a springform pan. Just for sure don't add the extra jars to the sauce then. You will want it drier for certain. Just stack the tortillas one at a time in your 10 inch springform pan and you have a really impressive Towering Enchilada Pie (or at least, that's what I'd call it!) :-)
Let me know what you think!
This is one of our favourite recipes: Enchilada Casserole.
So first some disclaimers: I will type the recipe as written but you need to know that I always think it is going to be too dry and that there won't be enough sauce to satisfy me, so I add a can of diced tomatoes, or a jar of salsa. (that's what I did with you, Laurie). But sometimes then, it serves up really sloppy, so use your discretion. Or make two and stick one of them in the freezer and compare! My changes will be in italics.
Enchilada Casserole from the London Free Press
3 cups Red Chile Sauce (see below)
12 Corn tortillas (I use 6 large Whole Grain Tortillas)
3 cups cubed, cooked chicken (we also like it with cooked ground beef, or for a vegetarian version, a mix of Black Beans and Kidney Beans)
(We add some frozen corn and diced green or red pepper here too)
1 pound (500 g) Monterey Jack or Mozzarella Cheese (or old cheddar)
1 1/2 cups diced onion (sometimes I omit this as the kids aren't wild onion fans)
2 cups shredded romaine lettuce
1 1/2 cups diced tomato
1 1/2 cups light sour cream
Preheat oven to 350F; lightly grease a 9x13 pan.
Spread one cup of sauce over bottom of pan. Layer 2 Tortillas overlapping as necessary.
Layer chicken, 1/3 of the cheese, and 1/2 the onion, and cover with some sauce. Repeat layers of Tortillas, chicken, cheese, onion (add the diced peppers and corn here too, if using), and sauce. Cover with remaining two tortillas, remaining sauce, and remaining cheese.
Bake 25-30 minutes, or until bubbly and hot through. Serve with lettuce, diced tomato, and sour cream as garnish. (We also like to top with diced avocado and sliced black olives)
Serves 8-10
Red Chile Sauce
3 tbsp vegetable oil
1/2 cup finely diced onion
1 tbsp minced garlic
3-4 tbsp red chile powder
2 tbsp flour
2 1/2 cup water
1 tsp oregano
1 tsp cumin
Heat the oil. Saute onion and garlic 3-4 minutes. Stir in chile powder and flour. Slowly add the water and cook until thickening. Add oregano and cumin. Bring to a quick boil. Simmer 1-2 minutes. Salt to taste. (Add a jar of salsa, or diced tomatoes before simmering if desired)
We LOVE this. Love love love it. To be fancy and pretty sometime, you can also make this in a springform pan. Just for sure don't add the extra jars to the sauce then. You will want it drier for certain. Just stack the tortillas one at a time in your 10 inch springform pan and you have a really impressive Towering Enchilada Pie (or at least, that's what I'd call it!) :-)
Let me know what you think!
Monday, February 22, 2010
Simple Woman's Daybook
Outside My Window... Still pretty pitch black out there.
I am Thinking... about my good weekend, and hoping to carry that optimism into the coming week.
I am Thankful For... a husband who went for a run with me yesterday (even though I *really* didn't want to) and for his pushing me to run just a little farther than I meant to so that I can now say I have run 6.3km in a row, without stopping, for the first time in my life!
From the Kitchen... coffee, but no cream in the fridge, so a spoonful (or 4!) of hot chocolate mix stirred in to get my brain functioning.
I am Wearing... a groovy, funky, soft and sleak, and fluffy poncho thing that my mom knit for me several years ago that simultaneously makes me feel sophisticated and like curling up for a nap.
I am Creating... some kids with really weird senses of humour!
I am Going... to need to hurry and finish this blog because the kids are all awake!
I am Reading... The Brothers Karamazov and can't put it down. And realizing I totally would have skipped over hundreds of pages of it if I ever had to read it in a school course.
I am Hoping... to finally get lyrics to this song I'm trying to write. Seriously about to throw it out the window! :-)
I am Hearing... a remarkable peace and quiet in a house of this many children.
Around the house... laundry day!
One of my favourite things... seeing my husband and oldest girl enjoy a cup of tea and bible study together on the couch.
A Few Plans for the Rest of the Week... a lovely dinner guest, a trip to the library, and lots of laughter (hopefully!)
A Picture thought I'm Sharing...(wistfully waiting for a spring day like this!)
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The "Part Two" for which you have been waiting...
First off let me say, there is no magic pill for losing weight. There just isn't. You need to eat smart, and move your body. Period. And even still the weight doesn't just fall off. You'd think a gal like me who just added 3 runs a week to her life and a much smarter pattern of eating would be wasting away by now. Not so much. Especially irksome is that there is no way to determine where the weight comes off of first. I mean, don't get me wrong, I *love* that my wedding rings are loose and that my shoes are all too big, but one would assume that the "marmalade jelly" shakin' around my middle might fall off a bit quicker too. (Gold star to whoever can place that quote). Patience, dear Barbara, patience. And of course I'm not *only* running to slim down. No, no....there's all that "self-discipline, goal-setting, being proud of doing something hard" stuff too.
right.
Okay, so back to the point of the post. My last running post mentioned there was a "part two" to the story and here it is. I've been *swamped* with emails from my devoted readers waiting with baited breath for the 'rest of the story'. (*snort*)
The question for me is this: What do I want to be the end result of this ridiculous 5km run I am attempting? I mean, this should be a no-brainer, right? Of course I want to finish and finish well. I want to have the big high-fives from some people that I love and to wear the groovy jacket knowing I earned it. Right?
Well....
What I'm finding is my wacko fears are really out-perfoming this time. Here are the two options I see in my future.
Option One: I can't actually run 5 kilometers with out stopping, regardless of my training, and on the day of I walk three-quarters of the race, showing up at the end like a great big failure, because really, didn't we all know, that Barbara is not an athelete in any stretch of the imagination, and told you so, she failed.
That would stink.
Option Two: I do fabulously. I run the whole thing in 30 minutes or less. I'm surrounded by people who are proud of me and who 'knew I could' and I have this momentary rush of elation that I really did do something that was outside of anything I've done before! And that sounds great, except the problem is that, what if then people (and by "people" I also mean "I") expect me to stay functioning at that level of bravery and hard-work and perseverance, and I can't sustain it? Then my future failure will be greater because I will have seemingly regressed farther than previous.
Does this make sense? A kid who always gets "C's" on his report card isn't going to be shocked by the occassional "D". No one wil be thrilled with a "D", but you know, it isn't too far off what we expect of him. However, if a straight "A" student comes home with a "D", well, "what were you doing? We expect more from you? You can do better than this! Why aren't you living up to your potential?" And the disappointment is that much greater.
Are you following me? I'm so lazy and so fearful of the potential for failure down the road that I hesitate to try to excel in anything.
Remember the story in the Bible of the Ten Talents? The master gave talents (that is coins) to his servants to work with while he was away. One worked well with the five talents he'd been given and ended up doubling it, to return 10 to his master. The servant who was given 2 talents worked them and doubled them to return 4 talents to his master. The third servant was given one talent. And he chickened out, or lazy-ed out and he just buried the talent in the ground to keep it "safe" and returned the same one talent to his master. He said "Well, I didn't want to try to work it and use it in case I lost the one you gave me so instead I just hid it. At least you didn't lose anything, Master."
He was not approved of by the Master, just so you know.
I don't want to be like that. I don't want to not do something for fear of what might happen if maybe down the road somewhere I sort of possibly fall on my face.
So the challenge for me at this point is to not only learn how to run 5 kilometers with out stopping, but also to learn that, as my pastor recently said in a lightning bolt moment for me, "there is such thing as failure with a purpose". Wow. Never thought of it that way. Failure always seemed to just be failure. Just bad. Just disappointing others. Just proving the lies in my head. Not so, slow-learning Barbara, not so. There is a point to trying. And there is a point to sometimes failing. It will be one of those things that the Lord uses to make me more like Him. I may do this race just fine. Or I may be the girl being carried on the stretcher for the last 2 km. Who knows? Either way, I need to give myself the freedom to fail, and the freedom to succeed. Because, presently, both are equally terrifying to me.
And thus, the awkwardly vulnerable and transparent post comes to its end. Thanks for stickin' around :-)
right.
Okay, so back to the point of the post. My last running post mentioned there was a "part two" to the story and here it is. I've been *swamped* with emails from my devoted readers waiting with baited breath for the 'rest of the story'. (*snort*)
The question for me is this: What do I want to be the end result of this ridiculous 5km run I am attempting? I mean, this should be a no-brainer, right? Of course I want to finish and finish well. I want to have the big high-fives from some people that I love and to wear the groovy jacket knowing I earned it. Right?
Well....
What I'm finding is my wacko fears are really out-perfoming this time. Here are the two options I see in my future.
Option One: I can't actually run 5 kilometers with out stopping, regardless of my training, and on the day of I walk three-quarters of the race, showing up at the end like a great big failure, because really, didn't we all know, that Barbara is not an athelete in any stretch of the imagination, and told you so, she failed.
That would stink.
Option Two: I do fabulously. I run the whole thing in 30 minutes or less. I'm surrounded by people who are proud of me and who 'knew I could' and I have this momentary rush of elation that I really did do something that was outside of anything I've done before! And that sounds great, except the problem is that, what if then people (and by "people" I also mean "I") expect me to stay functioning at that level of bravery and hard-work and perseverance, and I can't sustain it? Then my future failure will be greater because I will have seemingly regressed farther than previous.
Does this make sense? A kid who always gets "C's" on his report card isn't going to be shocked by the occassional "D". No one wil be thrilled with a "D", but you know, it isn't too far off what we expect of him. However, if a straight "A" student comes home with a "D", well, "what were you doing? We expect more from you? You can do better than this! Why aren't you living up to your potential?" And the disappointment is that much greater.
Are you following me? I'm so lazy and so fearful of the potential for failure down the road that I hesitate to try to excel in anything.
Remember the story in the Bible of the Ten Talents? The master gave talents (that is coins) to his servants to work with while he was away. One worked well with the five talents he'd been given and ended up doubling it, to return 10 to his master. The servant who was given 2 talents worked them and doubled them to return 4 talents to his master. The third servant was given one talent. And he chickened out, or lazy-ed out and he just buried the talent in the ground to keep it "safe" and returned the same one talent to his master. He said "Well, I didn't want to try to work it and use it in case I lost the one you gave me so instead I just hid it. At least you didn't lose anything, Master."
He was not approved of by the Master, just so you know.
I don't want to be like that. I don't want to not do something for fear of what might happen if maybe down the road somewhere I sort of possibly fall on my face.
So the challenge for me at this point is to not only learn how to run 5 kilometers with out stopping, but also to learn that, as my pastor recently said in a lightning bolt moment for me, "there is such thing as failure with a purpose". Wow. Never thought of it that way. Failure always seemed to just be failure. Just bad. Just disappointing others. Just proving the lies in my head. Not so, slow-learning Barbara, not so. There is a point to trying. And there is a point to sometimes failing. It will be one of those things that the Lord uses to make me more like Him. I may do this race just fine. Or I may be the girl being carried on the stretcher for the last 2 km. Who knows? Either way, I need to give myself the freedom to fail, and the freedom to succeed. Because, presently, both are equally terrifying to me.
And thus, the awkwardly vulnerable and transparent post comes to its end. Thanks for stickin' around :-)
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
One Small Step for Man....
This morning I did something I've never done before. And I'm a little proud of it. But let me back up...
When my husband and I had been married for almost 4 years, he realized, with an uproarious amount of laughter, that he had never, until one fateful Cell Group social, seen me run. Not even a scamper as a jay-walker. Not even a trot to answer a ringing phone. So when he saw me, at that Cell Group Social while we were playing stupid soccer-baseball, run to first base, he laughed like a man who had never laughed in all his days. As if he had only just in that moment learned the art of the guffah. He may have even shed some tears in that moment.
It's a good thing he's cute :-)
And I recall on 9-11, and in the multitude of talk-show interviews afterward, hearing women who were out-of-shape and overweight confessing that the jumpstart for their new, healthy lifestyle was the realization that, had they been trapped on an upper level floor trying to race down a stairwell or had they been down on the street trying to outrun a cloud of rubble, they would not have been able to.
I get that.
And then I think about the what if of being chased by a villian. Could I get away? Could I actually run away from the armed maniac?
Plus, I'd like to get somewhere near the weight I was when I first started having kids back in the 2nd Millenium.
And so I was walking. I really love walking. And I'm a quick walker. I like to say I walk like I'm being chased. The trick comes when I read things about the best way to boost your metabolism and kick into "high fat-burning mode" is to work some interval bursts in to your walk. Sadly, I came to realize that the only way for me to walk faster was to *cough* jog.
Gross.
I do not like jogging. I have not liked jogging since the beginning of my wee existence. Any excuse available for avoiding gym class has been utilized by yours truly. Run around the block for gym? Sorry, not gonna happen. Forced to do track and field? Yup. I'll take the 100m dash because I'll be done in 14 seconds, and even *I* can run for 14 seconds without collapsing into a heap.
My childhood activity level consisted of jumping up to get a snack before starting my next chapter of my book.
And so, I stand on my street looking at my happy little 2.7Km walking route realizing that I should jog a couple stretches of it.
Next thing you know, I'm actually doing it. Left, right, left, right. Imagining people being awakened from their slumber by the sound of laboured breathing and heavy foot-falls outside their bedroom windows. I found 100m to still be doable. Walk 500m, jog 100m. Walk 500m, jog 100m. Piece of cake.
Mind you the walking bit became really ugly. My 'recovery time' after the jog part was not so good, and I quickly looked like a woman in end-stage disease mode rather than 'being chased' mode. But I digress.
Slowly but surely I jogged more and walked less. And my friends were cheering me on. And encouraging me to go farther. And even (*gasp*) to consider signing up for a 5km run on New Year's Eve.
Sorry. Not this cowboy.
But then my pastor had the nerve to be doing a really great sermon series on being as bold as a lion, and about not being a slave to the sins that so easily tangle us. Rats. That's yelling right at my weaknesses. I'm a chicken. Like, really really chicken. As in, chicken enough to be the mascot for KFC. (Or Chik-Fil-A because it's holier.) Particularly about what people think about me. Which leads me to run at 5:00am when no one can see me.
I'm also lazy. Like so lazy that I could just stop typing now instead of finishing this blog and leave you all in a cliff hanger!
Anyhow, this sermon series is really getting to me. I want to be free of my fleshly desires (read: sleep and potato chips) so I am learning that freedom means saying no to myself a whole lot more often than I like.
Does jogging make me holy? No, but it sure is teaching me discipline in one area that is spilling over into other areas.
And so this morning, for the first time, I ran my whole route, the whole 2.7km route without walking at all. And really without even hating it totally. And certainly without puking. Or dying. No death over here today.
Now here is the irony. I'm pretty sure that as I was running my 2.7Km (heavy on the "Point") that I have at least one friend who may very well have been running 27Km (notice the lack of a "Point"...pun not intended). And yet, even with my meager little beginnings, I know that same long distance bunch of people I adore are celebrating with me like I won a Gold medal.
I love them.
Also of note is that I'm not very fast. I mean, if the armed maniac really was behind me, he could totally catch me. Likely even if he was walking. Or on a pogo-stick.
But still I am doing it! One giant leap for Barbara! And I *have* signed up for the 5Km run on New Year's Eve. And I actually want to do it now for more than just the nifty jacket you get for registering. (Though, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a really great motivating factor...)
There is a part two to this story. However, because I respect you, my humble, loyal reader, I will cut my self off now in this marathon of a post and tell you the other side of this story another day.
(Aren't you completely intrigued by the suspense of it all?) :-)
When my husband and I had been married for almost 4 years, he realized, with an uproarious amount of laughter, that he had never, until one fateful Cell Group social, seen me run. Not even a scamper as a jay-walker. Not even a trot to answer a ringing phone. So when he saw me, at that Cell Group Social while we were playing stupid soccer-baseball, run to first base, he laughed like a man who had never laughed in all his days. As if he had only just in that moment learned the art of the guffah. He may have even shed some tears in that moment.
It's a good thing he's cute :-)
And I recall on 9-11, and in the multitude of talk-show interviews afterward, hearing women who were out-of-shape and overweight confessing that the jumpstart for their new, healthy lifestyle was the realization that, had they been trapped on an upper level floor trying to race down a stairwell or had they been down on the street trying to outrun a cloud of rubble, they would not have been able to.
I get that.
And then I think about the what if of being chased by a villian. Could I get away? Could I actually run away from the armed maniac?
Plus, I'd like to get somewhere near the weight I was when I first started having kids back in the 2nd Millenium.
And so I was walking. I really love walking. And I'm a quick walker. I like to say I walk like I'm being chased. The trick comes when I read things about the best way to boost your metabolism and kick into "high fat-burning mode" is to work some interval bursts in to your walk. Sadly, I came to realize that the only way for me to walk faster was to *cough* jog.
Gross.
I do not like jogging. I have not liked jogging since the beginning of my wee existence. Any excuse available for avoiding gym class has been utilized by yours truly. Run around the block for gym? Sorry, not gonna happen. Forced to do track and field? Yup. I'll take the 100m dash because I'll be done in 14 seconds, and even *I* can run for 14 seconds without collapsing into a heap.
My childhood activity level consisted of jumping up to get a snack before starting my next chapter of my book.
And so, I stand on my street looking at my happy little 2.7Km walking route realizing that I should jog a couple stretches of it.
Next thing you know, I'm actually doing it. Left, right, left, right. Imagining people being awakened from their slumber by the sound of laboured breathing and heavy foot-falls outside their bedroom windows. I found 100m to still be doable. Walk 500m, jog 100m. Walk 500m, jog 100m. Piece of cake.
Mind you the walking bit became really ugly. My 'recovery time' after the jog part was not so good, and I quickly looked like a woman in end-stage disease mode rather than 'being chased' mode. But I digress.
Slowly but surely I jogged more and walked less. And my friends were cheering me on. And encouraging me to go farther. And even (*gasp*) to consider signing up for a 5km run on New Year's Eve.
Sorry. Not this cowboy.
But then my pastor had the nerve to be doing a really great sermon series on being as bold as a lion, and about not being a slave to the sins that so easily tangle us. Rats. That's yelling right at my weaknesses. I'm a chicken. Like, really really chicken. As in, chicken enough to be the mascot for KFC. (Or Chik-Fil-A because it's holier.) Particularly about what people think about me. Which leads me to run at 5:00am when no one can see me.
I'm also lazy. Like so lazy that I could just stop typing now instead of finishing this blog and leave you all in a cliff hanger!
Anyhow, this sermon series is really getting to me. I want to be free of my fleshly desires (read: sleep and potato chips) so I am learning that freedom means saying no to myself a whole lot more often than I like.
Does jogging make me holy? No, but it sure is teaching me discipline in one area that is spilling over into other areas.
And so this morning, for the first time, I ran my whole route, the whole 2.7km route without walking at all. And really without even hating it totally. And certainly without puking. Or dying. No death over here today.
Now here is the irony. I'm pretty sure that as I was running my 2.7Km (heavy on the "Point") that I have at least one friend who may very well have been running 27Km (notice the lack of a "Point"...pun not intended). And yet, even with my meager little beginnings, I know that same long distance bunch of people I adore are celebrating with me like I won a Gold medal.
I love them.
Also of note is that I'm not very fast. I mean, if the armed maniac really was behind me, he could totally catch me. Likely even if he was walking. Or on a pogo-stick.
But still I am doing it! One giant leap for Barbara! And I *have* signed up for the 5Km run on New Year's Eve. And I actually want to do it now for more than just the nifty jacket you get for registering. (Though, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a really great motivating factor...)
There is a part two to this story. However, because I respect you, my humble, loyal reader, I will cut my self off now in this marathon of a post and tell you the other side of this story another day.
(Aren't you completely intrigued by the suspense of it all?) :-)
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