Bunco

Our neighborhood has grown recently. We have added hundreds of new homes into our subdivision and, of course, each home brings a new family unit with their own story/background. I love meeting some of these new neighbors and hearing about where they came from. Some are local and only new to the neighborhood, but some are from far away and bring a whole new set of experiences to the mix. One of the things I’ve learned, is that several of the ladies came from neighborhoods where they were actively involved with ladies groups. As such, a variety of groups have popped up now. You can join a book club, a crafting group, a crochet/knitting club, or a group for parents of small children (if you fit that demographic). We even have a yoga instructor who does classes at the club house.

Recently, I joined a ladies group in my neighborhood for monthly Bunco games. What’s Bunco? Great question. I wasn’t sure either, but I heard it was fun and this group was small and private (only 12 women could participate, with the occasional substitute) so it seemed right up my social alley! I figured I could learn the details of it as I went. As it turns out, Bunco is an easy game to learn and a lot of fun. However, it did not start out quite that simple.

The first night consisted of twelve women meeting each other (some for the first time), learning the game (again, some for the first time), bringing food to share (not hard for any of us), eating/socializing (again, not hard for any of us), and then settling in to play the game. As several of us were new to the game, the host graciously spent the next few minutes explaining the rules. (It should be pointed out that she had also typed up the rules on a piece of paper at each table, put instructions on a small sign to tell us which table to go to when it was time to switch places, and color coded pencils for each table… yet still she had the patience to verbally explain the rules to us.)

It didn’t take long to realize that there are apparently many ways to play Bunco. After only a few minutes, several of the women interrupted the host to let her know that “that’s not the way” they played the game and some minor chaos then ensued.

Now, as someone who knew NONE of the rules, the ladies interrupting the host to point out the few differences they had with her rules was distracting and made it more confusing. Instead of a few simple rules to follow (with the printed out rules and directional signs already in place at the tables), it was turning into a more complicated process that had me questioning all the rules. At one point in the heated discussion, it seemed that all they could agree on was that the game was called Bunco and dice were involved.

As a big picture person, I walked away from the group while they discussed and debated the smaller details of how to keep score, how many dice you roll each time, and other things that didn’t interest me at all. I just wanted to know what rules were for THIS night so that we could get started and get to the fun part. Eventually, the group reached a consensus on how to play (which were the rules that the host had already put in writing on the tables) and the ladies who had voiced their opposing opinions walked away (albeit begrudgingly) to their appropriate tables and finally the fun started.

Despite the rocky start, all twelve of us had a great night playing and getting to know each other. We spent the next two hours laughing, talking, eating, and making new friends…which was important because part of joining this group means you made a twelve month commitment to show up the first Tuesday of the month to play and even hosting one of the meetings at your house. Everyone agreed that it was a fun night and we were looking forward to the next meeting. Some ladies even said they liked the new rules they learned that night and felt that it made the game easier to follow.

During an “intermission” from the playing, I struck up a conversation with one of the ladies who I knew was planning on starting a “read through the Bible in a year” program. As it was early in January, I assumed it would still be going along well. Surprisingly, she said it was not going well at all. She then explained to me that on day two of the reading, the Bible study leader made a statement that she didn’t agree with so she hasn’t been able to bring herself to continue to do it. (It shouldn’t surprise you that she was also one of the ladies arguing with the host on how to play Bunco… clearly she is a detail oriented person.) I listened to her concerns about the statement and then she asked me what I thought about it. Personally, I thought this detail was not a deal breaker, but I tried to be sensitive to where she was coming from. I was careful not to give her a direct answer (because I wanted to say “I think you’re being ridiculous”) opting instead to give a more careful, gentle answer. I explained to her that my way doing this study (this is my second time going through it) is to view things that the host says through a more broad lens. I look at it this way: does it affect my salvation? and/or is it heretical in nature? If the statement made by this teacher… or anyone… does not fall into those two categories for me, I am inclined to hear what the person says, but not to put too much weight on it if I disagree. She seemed shocked at this, but then followed up that shock with informing me that her past religious training is Catholic in nature which I took as meaning a more strict adherence to details. We were able to reach an agreement that if she were to continue in this study, she would have to give up a portion of that rigid religious background to get to the heart of the study. In fact, I even joked with her that she should start applying that mindset to the rules of Bunco while we’re playing. For the rest of the night, she would make a “zip the lip” sign when she would start to grumble… symbolizing that she was letting the differences go.

The unique thing about this particular Bible study is that your daily task is not to just read the passages. The main hook to this study is to find your “God shot” in the words. Let me tell you why that is important. By nature we are selfish and self serving. As we read the Bible, our natural bent is to look for how it applies to us: how can this make me better, what does God want me to learn about myself in this, how can I apply this to my husband/child/neighbor? However, when you change that perspective to where do you see GOD in these words, it changes your view completely. It causes you to back up and see the Bible as a panoramic picture, rather than zooming in on the details like a microscope. Suddenly, you can view the Bible as an overview for mankind and His beautiful plan for us (all of us) rather than cherry picking verses to suit a particular circumstance.

Whether it’s a Bible study or a Bunco game, we lose when we restrict ourselves to only seeing things our way. Had the group not been able to “agree to disagree” on a few details of the game, I would (possibly) have gone home and never wanted to play Bunco again. If my neighbor chooses to let minor differing of opinions on interpretations of the scripture hinder her ability to go through this study, she may miss out on an overall amazing experience with her Bible study journey. If we spend an excessive amount of time arguing over the smaller details of Christianity, we will forfeit the opportunity to reach a lost and dying world that don’t know the love of God or the sacrifice that Jesus made for them. They will watch us squabble with each other… or with them… and they will walk away without knowing there is more to life than what is right in front of them. We don’t have to hand them all the answers, we just have to show them to the One who does have all their answers. In fact, just like with the Bunco rules, the more rules and details we throw at someone in the beginning of their walk with Christ, the more confusing we make it for them.

Society is splintering faster and faster over details. Sadly, the church is one of the best examples of this. We debate with each other over details that are not deal breakers. We tear at each other over theological issues that are important in small circles, but not in the big picture that world needs to see. A person who is lost and drowning in sin or depression does not care (or need to care) if they were predestined or predetermined to be saved. They do not care about infant baptism versus immersion baptism. They are not interested in whether a female can preach over a congregation. We have to learn how to let go of distracting details and learn how to love others wholly by showing them the love of God. There will always be differing opinions on grey issues: speaking in tongues, divorce, consuming alcohol, being in church every Sunday, etc. Sometimes there are even bigger issues at play (politics strike a bell?), but when all we can do is debate why we’re right we lose sight of the big picture: loving others and showing them who Christ is in our lives.

The monthly Bunco night would have been a short lived concept if the individuals who disagreed with the rules had not been able to give up their preconceived notions of how the game should have been played. If they had insisted that the game could only be played their way and left, no one would have had a good time that night and the group could not have gone on as planned. I am thankful for the ladies who were able to have an open mind and broaden their view of the rules to include the new concepts that were introduced that night. They chose to walk in openness and laid down their pride to say “let’s try it this way” (even the ones who were not happy about playing a new way) because of the different rules didn’t change the actual integrity of the game overall.

I challenge you to look for ways you can be open with others in your everyday life. Actively look and pray for more ways to connect with others rather than only finding all the differences you have with them. Not every disagreement is a hill you need to die on. Some disagreements can be conversation starters and serve to open a door to healthy discussions. We can disagree on details while still playing together in the game of life. You may find that someone else’s rules in their game of life are actually easier to understand or change your view of something in a positive way.

The Power of Doing

My first memory of running is with my dad when I was about 5 or 6. He would go for evening runs and sometimes he would let me run the first block with him while he was warming up. He’d bring me home and then take off for the rest of his run. I remember thinking that I couldn’t wait to grow up and be able to take off like that too.

Somewhere in my early twenties, running clicked for me and became a lifestyle. It started as a source of stress relief. I had three little ones at home that occupied the majority of my time during the week, but on Sunday afternoons when they went down for naps and my husband was home… I would take off for that run.

These Sunday runs morphed into a passion that has continued for the rest of my adult life. Simple runs turned into 5K races… then the local River Run 15K… then half marathons… then marathons. There was a slow, steady, increased progression of the challenges I would push myself to accomplish.

I have multiples race medals on my wall. I have age group awards. Several top ten percent hats from the River Run (if you know you know)… all hanging in my home gym. I like them. I’m proud of them. But they aren’t what I’m most proud of.

In a different room of my house is a wall. On this wall, I have window boxes that contain the pictures, race bibs, and medals that I am the MOST proud of. Only one of them is mine. The others belong to the accomplishments of my family members who have taken up running. I have my husband’s first half marathon medal and picture. Both of my daughters’ first half and FULL marathons pictures. My middle son’s first full Gate River Run picture and medal. My youngest son’s first mile medal at the Junior River Run.

Watching my family begin to take an interest in running was unexpected and exciting. Each time a new family member asked to join me on a run… or expressed an interest in signing up for a race… I was thrilled. I loved being able to share this passion with them. I would help them come up with training plans and run with them if they wanted or just show up to encourage them along the way.

I often get asked, “How did you get your family to start running?” I love this question.

I love it because the answer is, I didn’t.

I didn’t get my family to do anything. My family showed an interest in running because they saw the example I lived. I never told anyone that they needed to run. I didn’t lecture anyone on the benefits of running (without being asked first) or force anyone to run (with the exception of my middle son for cross country, but that’s a story for a different blog post). I didn’t tell anyone they were missing out if they didn’t pursue this lifestyle. I simply lived the running life and others wanted to do it because of what they saw…just like my love of running began with watching my dad run.

When you are passionate about something, it takes over your life. You may live, eat, breathe, and dream all about it…and others will notice. It may become all consuming and you find yourself talking about it…posting about it…learning as much as you can about it…and most importantly, changing your lifestyle to accommodate this passion. While you are doing that, people are watching. They are listening to your words. They are reading your posts (or watching them if TikTok is your platform). They are monitoring the changes to your lifestyle and seeing the benefits those changes are bringing in your life. You may be unaware of who you are influencing, but be very aware that your circle is being influenced by you.

As the saying goes, actions speak louder than words. If all I was doing for years was telling people how great running was, but not actually doing it, it would have been a hollow statement. I may have been able to convince a few people here or there, but it would not have been as effective. Conversely, by living a lifestyle of running, I have not had to convince with words at all. I do not chase people down (physically or metaphorically) to talk about running. More often than not, people approach me and ask for advice or ask to hear my experiences (and I will gladly tell them). They are intrigued by my passion and dedication for the sport and want to get some of that for themselves. It’s a wonderful exchange to share that piece of my life with someone whose heart is ready to hear ALL about it.

Your walk with Christ should be the same. When we are passionate for Christ it is all consuming. We may be up early reading the word… staying up late to pray…seeking out ways to show His love to others…posting about how our lives have changed…and displaying the changes He has brought to us in our everyday lives. Our passion for Him may seep out in every conversation we have with others… whether it’s boldly declaring a recent miracle…or just listening in kindness as a friend is in a dark spot.

Our everyday life should reflect that there is something different about us and should make others want what we have. We shouldn’t have to chase others down… or give lectures to them that they are heading for hell…or scoff that they haven’t been to church in years. We should be LIVING our lives in such a way that others WANT to know how to get that peace in their lives… and then we tell them.

It is also important to temper those conversations. If someone was new to running and just getting started, we would talk about training for a 5K… or even something as basic as finding a running shoe. I would tell them about the Galloway method of running (the walk/run method that eases you into running). I would NOT tell them about training for a marathon, or even MENTION a marathon (unless they called a 5K a marathon… then I would gently point out that difference).

If someone is deep in a non-Christian lifestyle, but they want to discuss why I seem different, I am going to temper my response. I am not going to come out of the gate with a hellfire and brimstone response. I am going to cultivate a relationship with that person, right in the midst of the muck and the mire that they may be in. I am going to focus on making sure that person feels loved and heard…regardless of whether they EVER express a desire to be a Christian. My goal is to connect on a level with that person where Jesus can reach them…not me. Jesus and the Holy Spirit can use our conversations in any way that they need to in order to accomplish their goal. My job is simply to hear them and lead by example. The statement, “People want to know that you care before they care what you know” is my driving force.

I don’t care if people are runners. It’s not for everyone. As many people have said to me: “I want to do this” as have said “I have no interest in that”. And I’m ok with both of those statements. I give the naysayers other options by saying, “maybe you prefer walking? Or swimming? Or biking? As long as you are active, you are helping yourself.”

Hot take: I feel the same way about religion.

I would love to see everyone follow Christ. I think Christianity is the way to go. I believe the Bible and what it says about salvation. I believe in the Holy Spirit and that guides my life. But I also know that for many people this will not be their lifestyle… ever. I know that some people will never get saved. They will never go to a Christian church…or any church. They will never want to hear about what I believe is true. And I am OK with still being in relationship with those people because I know that ultimately, it’s not up to me to change a heart. That’s God’s job through Jesus and the Holy Spirit. I have been called to love the lost and to be an example of Christ’s love to them. I am called to listen to the brokenhearted and offer them the hope that I know worked for me. If they don’t want it, that’s OK. I can still pray for them and be there for them.

The worst thing that I have seen (and experienced myself) is watching Christians alienate others who think differently than they do. Watching the cliques of Christianity turn their backs on the hurting because they are not on par with their spiritual level… and they do it in the name of Christ. How weak is your faith if you think that a hurting sinner will drag you down? You don’t need to go to bar, but you could offer to pick someone up after a night of drinking to be sure they get home safely. You don’t need to go to a drag show, but you could offer to meet your homosexual friend for lunch instead. You don’t need to drive someone to get an abortion, but you could listen to her to understand why she feels this is the only option… and maybe you can help her see it differently, but if you can’t… you can love her afterwards knowing she’ll need that.

You can be different without being isolative.

This level of accepting where a person is…even though it’s in a different spot than you… speaks more to their soul than any amount of preaching ever will.

The reality is… not everyone wants to be a runner or a Christian… but those that do want to watch people who are doing it and that opens the conversations for the change.

We are not going to convert everyone to Christianity…. but we can love them the way we are supposed to and pray that the Holy Spirit opens that door for the opportunity to help us minister to the unsaved… even if it doesn’t result in a conversion to our faith.

We are living in a time when people are choosing sides and drawing hard lines in the sand against those that believe differently… but how can we touch the lives of others if we are busy pushing them away?

“When the Pharisees saw this, they asked His disciples, ‘Why does your Teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?’ But when He heard this, He said, ‘Those who are well don’t need a doctor, but the sick do. Go and learn what this means: I desire mercy and not sacrifice. For I didn’t come to call the righteous, but sinners.'” Matthew 9:11-13

From Buoy to Buoy

The sun was barely visible on the horizon…just a glimmer of pink and orange surrounded by an inky black sky. We walked out on the cool sand to watch the waves crash gently onto the shore. There was an anticipation in the air…nervous energy tempered with excitement and expectation.

Race day was here.

As start time came closer, one of the organizers called us, as a group, to come near so he could explain the details of the swim portion. There were two distances for the swim: one longer and one shorter. Since swimming is my weakest area of the triathlon, I listened intently to the instructions that were being given. He addressed how the course worked. There were five buoys in the water. They were huge triangle shaped buoys that were visible from the surface of the water, but were securely anchored to the ocean floor. The buoys were three different colors: two yellow, two orange, and one green. I looked out into the surf while he spoke and got a good visual of where the buoys were anchored at. I could see that the waves had picked up a bit, but the buoys were in place. Because our distance was shorter than the other race, we only had to swim out to the first orange buoy, turn right, swim past the green buoy (that marked the halfway), swim to the second orange buoy, turn towards shore, and then make it to shore. Got it, I thought to myself!

We lined up two by two and every three seconds a man simply said “go”. That was our signal to start: run from the starting flag to the water and then swim. No problem. I had just done a 2,000 meter ocean swim the week before with relative ease so I wasn’t worried about this measly 400 meter swim. I waited for my turn with an uncharacteristic excitement to start the race. It had been a long time since I had felt elation at the start of a race.

I lined up next to my stranger-partner and waited for our cue. When we heard the “go”, we both took off running on the sand. This was the fastest I had run into the ocean since I was child. The water was cooler than I had expected and I cursed myself a bit for not doing a warm up swim. My plan was to run until I couldn’t touch and then start swimming…just like I’d been practicing for the last several months. I felt a bit of pride that I was going to do so well on my first race.

Instead…I ran until I was blasted in the face with a huge wave. “What the…” I thought. These waves didn’t look that big from the safety of the shore. Maybe I just needed to get out from these first waves and then it would ease up. I ducked under the next wave and came back up ready to go. Only when I surfaced back, I was met in the face again with another large wave. And then another. And now I couldn’t touch the bottom. I could only see the waves and feel the current. And that’s when I felt it.

Pure panic.

Only this panic was different from the lake panic (see previous post about the open swim). The lake panic was a more controlled panic. In the lake, I knew I could stop. I knew I was in control. In the lake, my husband was right next to me on the paddle board, patiently waiting for me to get out of my head and calm down enough to swim. That water was calm and I was in control of the circumstances there.

THIS panic was not THAT panic at all.

I was on my own in these waters…and they were far from calm. I couldn’t stop the waves. Whether I liked it or not, they were coming… and they were not small. My first beach swim had soft, rolling waves that gently rocked us back and forth. They were easy to swim through and felt almost peaceful. These waves wanted to be sure we knew that they were there and that they meant business. I genuinely thought I may drown. And that’s not just hyperbole for this story. I started to fight the waves, but that just made me panic more. I tried to put my face in the water and swim, but I couldn’t catch my breath. My heart and lungs felt like they were competing against each other to see which could go faster. I pulled my head up to catch my breath and swallowed sea water…. again and again. I didn’t know how much sea water you could swallow before you drowned, but it seemed that I was going to find out.

After a few minutes of struggling and flailing in the water (which felt like hours), I decided to start some introspection. I had only a few options of how to proceed. I could swim to the finish. I could float to shore and quit. Or I could drown. With these as my options, I had some decisions to make. Since I’m no quitter and I wasn’t ready to die yet, my only real option was to pull myself together and SWIM.

Only….I couldn’t.

I could not put my face in the water because my breathing was so out of control. I lovingly kept saying to myself (both silently and out loud when I wasn’t taking in mouths full of water) “What the HELL is wrong with you?” “Get it together! Stop acting like you’ve never swam before!” “Stop panicking! You’re screwing it all up!” Over and over, I berated myself for not being more in control of my actions in this tumultuous water. But when I stopped the internal monologue of negativity, I remembered what the race organizer said…swim from buoy to buoy.

That was it. That was all I had to do. Just go buoy to buoy until I reached the end. I didn’t have to look like an Olympic swimmer…or even one of the multiple amateur swimmers next to me. All I had to do was get to the first buoy.

So I took my eyes off the waves, and set them on the first orange buoy. Despite the strong current and the choppy waves, it stood firm against the chaos. I doggy paddled towards it. I thought, if I could just get to that one, then I could turn and swim parallel to the shore and then I wouldn’t be swimming against the waves anymore. That would make it easier to finish.

I made it to the first buoy, turned right, and prepared to have a smoother swim. Only I didn’t. The waves were easier to swim parallel to (as opposed to against), but they were still strong and now I was tired from having fought with them. So I flipped over and back stroked for a bit. I kept thinking, “just get to the green buoy because that’s halfway and then you can talk yourself into finishing because you’ll already be halfway.” I switched between the back stroke and doggy paddling heading towards the green buoy…still panicked and still swallowing sea water…but still moving forward.

When I finally reached the green buoy, I wanted to cry…not tears of relief. Tears of frustration and fear and exhaustion. This wasn’t supposed to go like this. I trained. I prepared. I researched. I read multiple articles on triathlon training. I talked to everyone I knew that had done one before and asked for their advice. I swam and swam for months in preparation for this event…but here I was drowning in the conditions that I couldn’t have planned for and certainly couldn’t control.

And to top it off, I looked like a fool. All around me people with swim caps and goggles were swimming gracefully and strong. Stroke-stroke-breathe. Stroke-stroke-breathe. Meanwhile, I looked like someone who had never swam before and was taken from a nice warm bed then dropped in the cold ocean and forced to swim in shark infested waters. A feral cat swimming in the ocean would have looked more graceful than I did at that moment.

But, I kept going. Doggy paddle, back stroke, float… again and again… and before I knew it I was between the green buoy and the last orange buoy. All I had to do was get to the last buoy and turn towards the shore. Then I could use these rough waves to push me in until I could reach the bottom. Once I could feel the bottom, I could run through the water and onto the shore…and I KNEW how to do that. I just had to endure this unfamiliar territory until I could make my way back to the familiar.

That’s exactly what I did.

I let go of all the expectations I had set for myself for how I thought the swim portion should look like. I released the self imposed goals of how fast I thought I should have finished…or how strong I thought my strokes would be…or how peaceful I anticipated this part of the journey. Then I embraced the actuality of the rough waters, the unrelenting current, the panic that gripped my mind and body. I accepted that this swim was miserable…and hard…and unexpected. I relented to that fact that I wasn’t enjoying this at all. In the midst of what felt like defeat…while still swallowing ungodly amounts of sea water…I KEPT GOING. I reached that last buoy and I turned to shore. I NEVER once put my face fully in the water…except when a wave pounded into it. I didn’t take ANY strong, calculated strokes. I didn’t swim freestyle AT ALL. I did NOTHING in that water that I prepared for….except moving forward and I only managed to do that by keeping my eyes on the next buoy.

Here’s the thing….without hearing the instructions from the race coordinator and without those buoys for guidance…I would have been lost in the swim portion. Those buoys set the course and they provided a guide for me in waters that seemed like it would do me in. The buoys were in the same waters that I was in…the same current pulling at them. The same waves relentlessly crashing on them. But they were anchored to the solid ground below the rough surface. A strong, unseen source of strength kept them in place so they could do their job. They were anchored because their job was to be fixed in the circumstances. The same circumstances that I needed to move through…they needed to be still in…because that’s what they do. They provide guidance…they give the swimmers a solid, fixed point on which to focus…a certainty in the uncertain waters.

I don’t need to tell you that we are living in uncertain times. There is no shortage of chaos in everyone’s lives right now. Fear and confusion are rampant in all waters of our lives. You may be in the middle of your ocean swim now. Maybe you’re flailing in a situation that is out of your control. You did everything in your power to prepare for your race and you even listened to instructions and advice along the way. You did everything “right”, but the waves of life have come and crashed into your face and knocked you off balance. Every time you lift you head for air, you are greeted with another swallow of salt water…and you feel like you’re drowning. A divorce that you didn’t see coming. An adult child addicted to drugs or alcohol. The loss of a job. An eviction from a house. The constant calls from creditors. Another miscarriage. An unexpected diagnosis. An estranged relationship of a person you care deeply for. The death of a spouse. The death of a child. I am not here to offer nice words of encouragement or platitudes for circumstances in your life that are huge and scary and unfair and out of your control. What I AM here to tell you is…find your buoys.

In the race, there were two different distances for the swim because there were two different races taking place at the same time. My race was the shorter distance and marked with the orange and green buoys. The longer route not only had different colored buoys, but also a completely different set of instructions. We all had to find the correct color coded buoys or else we would have been doing the wrong route. I would have been in a (bigger) world of hurt if I had swam past the first orange buoy and out to the yellow one. If a swimmer from the longer race had followed the orange buoys, they would have been disqualified from their race. The specifics for each race mattered as much as the colored buoys themselves.

Your race is different from mine. Your circumstances are not my circumstances. Your buoys for life may also be different from mine. What brings you strength, peace, and guidance in your rough waters may not be the same as your friend’s…and that’s OK. It’s not my job to judge what grounds you…nor your job to critique what anchors me. What matters is that if I see you struggling in your waters then I help you find your buoys: those things in your life that you KNOW are true and grounded. Personally, I believe in prayer and am rooted in a Christian lifestyle (the best I can do). I know that when my waters are rough and unexpectedly hard, I can call on Jesus and he anchors me in the storm. I open my Bible or find a podcast to listen to. I pray or text a friend and ask them to pray for me. These are things that I lean on when I feel like I’m drowning in the waters around me. But that may not bring you peace. Family can be a buoy. Solid friendships can be a buoy. Your faith, whatever it is, may be a buoy. Look for the solid and unchanging things in your life and keep your eyes on them.

Then take it buoy to buoy until you are out of the rough, uncertain waters of life.

At the race, I finally got out of the water. I was beat up and scared and exhausted. I felt pickled inside from the all the salt water I had unintentionally consumed. But I didn’t drown and I didn’t quit. Once I finished swimming, I left it there. I ran from the ocean and towards my bike and running shoes. I leaned into the events that I knew I was better at and left the swimming results behind me. Lesson learned…and I would work harder on it another day, but for the rest of this day I would look forward to the road ahead of me and enjoy the rest of the race… and I was still able to place third in my age group despite starting with an event that I was sure was going to bring my demise.

You will get out of your waters and you will “place” in life too. You will get through your circumstances and get to the shore…back to your familiar. You will keep moving forward and not back: no matter what that looks like or how long it takes. You may feel foolish at times. You may be frustrated that things did not (or are not) going the way they were supposed to go. It may not seem fair that other people around you seem to be gliding along while you can barely keep your head above the water. And you may be right.

But…

If you keep your eyes on your buoys and not the waves you will come out of the waters and you will accomplish your goals. Just keep going. And when you’re out of the waters, leave it there. Don’t dwell on the “what could have” beens or “what should have” beens. Embrace the “what is” and look for the “what will be”. Then lean into the rest of your race and don’t forget to enjoy the ride.

“That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, ‘Let us go over to the other side.’ Leaving the crowd behind, they took him a long, just as he was, in the boat. There were other boats with him. A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, ‘Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?’ He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, ‘Quiet! Be still!’ Then the wind died down and it was completely calm. He said to the disciples, ‘Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?'” Mark 4:35-40

****I don’t usually add a post script on my blogs, but I feel strongly that I needed to say one thing here. I didn’t want to put it on the main blog because I didn’t want to take away from the general message of the story. But I think someone needs to hear this. I don’t know what your buoys are, but I know what is NOT a buoy for anyone: ANY political figure. Do not get caught up in this election season on either side. No matter what happens in America in November 2024 do not let yourself think a person in politics is your stronghold. Buoys are bigger than that.****

The Raised Flower Bed

Between my backyard and my neighbor’s yard is a wrought iron fence. As such, we can easily see into each others yards. In my neighbor’s yard, there is a large wooden raised flower bed. The wood is old and slightly rotting now. The bed is overgrown with grass and weeds No viable plants are growing from it…or even planted in it now. To anyone walking by it would just look like an old, neglected relic in an otherwise tidy yard.

But every time I look at it, I smile.

I remember when it was built. My neighbor (at the time) had her husband build it for her so she could grow tomatoes and zucchini and peppers. It flourished year after year…even in spite of the scorching Florida summer sun. We enjoyed comparing crops and sharing with each other what we would grow. I remember the year she couldn’t plant in it because she was so pregnant with her first child that she couldn’t comfortably tend to the garden. She and I would stand at the fence and laugh about how wonderful her garden of weeds was coming along. But soon, she had a little baby boy that ran all over the backyard and “helped” her in the garden. I loved watching him grow even more than watching the garden grow.

Those neighbors are long gone now. They moved back up north. Thankfully, the new neighbors have left the wooden bed in place. They haven’t planted anything in it yet because they, too, have little ones that keep them busy, but we stand at the same fence watching their little ones running around and talking about life. However, while we’re talking, I look at that old raised garden bed and enjoy the trip down memory lane the sight of it brings me. It reminds me that I can love and cherish old memories… while still making new ones too.

People will come and go in our lives. We have seasons of relationships like we have seasons of weather. Some seasons are mild and refreshing, like spring and fall. Others are more harsh and distinct, like summer and winter. But all seasons are necessary to keep balance in life. There are people who will gradually come into your life and then gradually leave without much of a disruption in your harmony. And then there are people whose presence you feel in a sharp and strong way… both coming and going.

When you feel a loss from someone in your life…whether a break up, a move, the end of a friendship, a divorce… the tendency can be to try and forget about them. We set up a defense mechanism in our minds, hearts, and emotions to pretend that season in your life didn’t matter…that they didn’t matter. And perhaps, for a time, you need to think that. Grief and loss can be tricky to navigate, especially if the reason for the loss is out of your control.

But the fact of the matter is that they WERE a part of your life. No matter how it ended, a portion of their life coincided with yours and it’s important to remember that. Even a bitter break up can be softened if you remember the lessons you learned. A friendship that has soured can still have fond memories of fun experiences you shared. That person you’re divorced from may have given you beautiful children. That loved one that has passed on gave you cherished memories that you’ve clung to.

Our lives are made up of our past experiences. We are who we are because of where we came from… and we weren’t alone in that journey. No one travels this world alone. We are interacting with others constantly and forming relationships of all different levels along the way. If you try and forget a piece of that journey, you are forgetting a piece of yourself. What may seem like therapeutic amnesia, will actually prolong your healing process. By pretending a relationship didn’t exist in your past because of the hurt it caused, you allow it to embed and fester in your psyche and it will come out in other ways…perhaps in other relationships. The sooner you can accept that this person was in your life (both good and bad)…. and the sooner you appreciate what they brought to your life … the sooner you will be healed and whole and ready for the next season.

It’s OK to wish an ex friend well and to remember how close you were. It’s OK to think of funny memories…or that you loved watching that one movie together…or even that you miss them from time to time. For a season, they mattered to you, and then it was time to let them go… for whatever reason. Forgive them for any wrongdoing… perceived or actual… and move on. But don’t forget about them. Remember the good times because those are important memories. Learn from the hard times because those are important lessons. Those memories…good and bad… helped bring you to where you are now… and that matters.

I hope my new neighbors leave that raised garden box in their yard and I hope they eventually get around to planting something in it. Until then, I will hold onto my memories of when it was flourishing and look forward to new crops…and new memories…in the future.

“Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.” John 16:22

The Open Swim

A few months ago I decided to step out of my comfort zone and sign up for a triathlon. I was excited to try something that was unfamiliar and challenging. Since I had no idea how to start my training, I researched training plans (on Google) and found one to suit my schedule and skill level (novice).

The most daunting part of the training program was the swim portion. I had never been a swimmer and so assumed that I was not a good swimmer. When I went to the lap pool for the first time, I found out that I was correct to assume that: I was not a good swimmer. Turns out, I was actually quite awful. I could not do a 25 meter lap without having to stop and catch and my breath. At first, it was disheartening, but I kept at it. Twice a week I would go to the pool and slowly push myself to go farther each time. Twenty five meters turned to fifty then a hundred and eventually to 1200 meters without stopping. However, this was in a pool: a controlled environment. The race would take place at a beach and I needed to train for that environment.

Looking ahead at the training plan, I saw several “open water swim” workouts scheduled closer to race day. At first I could ignore those words as they were several months out, but as race day drew closer, those work outs loomed greater and greater in my mind. I grew more nervous about the challenge, not just for the workouts, but for the race itself. Open water swim is when you try to create the same conditions you will have on race day. For me, that meant swimming in the ocean or a lake. These were both daunting options since I had only swam in a pool and honestly had no interest in swimming with alligators or sharks. If I wanted to do this race, though, I was going to have to figure this challenge out.

So, back to Google I went. I found a local group that did swims at the beach on Sunday mornings and decided I would join them for a swim in the ocean. However, before I joined a group of people I didn’t know, I wanted to test the waters alone (see what I did there?) There’s a small local lake that we go paddleboarding in and that seemed the perfect place to try the open water swim for the first time. My husband agreed to help by paddling next to me while I swam, watching for any dangers that I wouldn’t be able to see.

The day came and I felt confident in this plan: both in my swimming abilities and in my choice of water. We drug our paddleboards to the edge of the lake-just like we planned. Paddled to the far end of the lake-just like we planned. I got in the water-just like we planned. I started to swim and then panicked-not at all like we planned. After only a few strokes, I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. The water was deep and murky, nothing at all like the clear pool water I was used to. I couldn’t calm down and felt irrationally afraid of the water. My mind was racing with possibilities of what was below me and around me. I tried several times to put my face back in the water and force myself to keep going, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t slow my mind down or get my thoughts under control. Despite several attempts to move forward, I finally had to abort my plans, get back on the board, and paddle to the shore that I was supposed to be swimming to. I felt defeated and sad, but I could not get out of my own head.

The lake was still and calm, but also isolated. It should have been the perfect place, but there was something unsettling in the isolation. The solitude that in some conditions brings peace, was suffocating and anxiety inducing in this circumstance. Now, with the race less than two weeks away, I felt defeated and began to question my plans to race at all. However, I had invested too much time and money to quit now.

With plan A scrapped, I had to execute plan B: the beach swim with a bunch of strangers. On the last possible day, I showed up to the beach access they posted on the Facebook group and mustered up my resolve to get this done. I dreaded the impending small talk conversations as much as I dreaded the open water swim with the sharks. I didn’t know anyone in the group. I didn’t know how fast they swam. I didn’t know how far they went. I didn’t know that I was supposed to bring an inflatable buoy to wear around my waist for visibility. I felt vulnerable and out of place. Everything in me wanted to go home. Let this one goal go, I thought. My mind was gearing up to scream at me and I felt the anxiety creeping in. But then something happened.

Here in this group of strangers-with their chattering and pleasantries-with the waves crashing on the shore-with the seagulls cawing overhead-with people walking around and cars driving down the beach something shifted in me. In the midst of all this activity, I got out of my head. My nerves calmed and my fear ebbed away. Listening to the stories of others, emboldened a bravery in me that I didn’t know was there. A quiet confidence began to push the loud anxiety to the side. I began to remember how strong I felt swimming in the pool. I remembered how unfamiliar that was in the beginning, but how I kept at it and developed my strength and skill in that area. When I explained to the group that I had never swam in the ocean before they explained the process. They gave me advice and pointers. They informed me of safety measures they take and told me that no one is left behind. They told me their success stories and their failures. They helped get me out of my head and into the water. Together we swam 2100 meters that morning-the longest distance I had ever swam in my life-and I walked away from that experience feeling more confident and excited about the upcoming race than I had ever felt.

It is tempting to try and go it alone when we are facing difficult situations in our lives-things we are unsure of-things that are new or hard or awkward-things that take us out of our comfort zones. Out of fear or insecurity, we want to do it alone in case we do it wrong or embarrass ourselves. We don’t want to seem vulnerable or to ask for help because that seems weak. But in this self imposed isolation (that you may misinterpret as strength) something happens. Your fears escalate. Your rational thoughts are drowned out by your irrational assumptions. As these distractions in your mind increase, your actions are hamstrung into complacency and you release your desires to attain new goals. The lake in your mind is too still-too quiet-too murky-and you can’t motivate yourself to move forward. You can’t get out of your head-and you can’t get out of your own way.

We were not designed for isolation. We were created to be in relationship with others. We thrive when we engage in our community-when we allow others to see our vulnerable sides. We flourish when we ask for help or seek advice or admit our fears. We grow when we help others-when we get out of our heads and into people’s lives. It’s ok to need alone time-everyone needs that-but we cannot thrive alone because that’s not how we were designed to live.

It’s becoming harder to connect on deeper levels today-despite all the ways we have to stay in touch. People feel more lonely, depressed, and disconnected now than decades ago and that’s because despite the proximity we have to people (text messages, social media, etc.), we lack the depth of relationship we need to make an imprint on those around us.

On the days you’re panicking or feeling like your drowning in the murky lake of your mind-I challenge you to get out of your comfort zone and go find an “open water swim” group to connect with. Learn to reach out-learn to be vulnerable-learn to be approachable-and learn to approach others. You just may find that it’s not as scary as you think-and that you’re a good “swimmer” too!

“And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another-and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” Hebrews 10:24-25

It Doesn’t Have to Suck

Several months ago, I was doing one of my favorite things: enjoying a run with my oldest daughter. We were in the middle of training for a half marathon that we were going to do on a girls trip weekend. The weather was good and the discussion was better. We had just found out that my youngest daughter was pregnant so we were talking about all the upcoming excitement: baby showers, a baby to play with, etc.

About midway through the run, she said, “I have some news for you, too.” As every mom does, I held my breath and waited for her to finish… a thousand scenarios flooding my mind with every second that passed. Slowly, she said, “Paul got a great job opportunity and we’re moving to Oregon.” For a minute, I couldn’t speak. Please note, we live in Florida. Oregon is not a short distance away. It’s not even “just a long drive” away. It’s a plane trip and a decent amount of planning away. And I was shocked.

I didn’t even know this was a possibility. It wasn’t as if he had been talking about looking for a new job. He wasn’t in the military where you would expect to have orders and then have to move. He wasn’t applying for colleges all over the country. When I say this came out of left field, that is exactly what I mean… there was no reason for me to think this was even something I needed to prepare for.

Needless to say, I had to end the run short so that I could process all the emotions I was having and not break down in front of her. Of course I was happy for her and her boyfriend. It was a great opportunity for him and a fun adventure for her, but it would leave a giant size hole for our family here.

We are a large family and are used to large family holidays and birthdays and vacations and day trips and family dinners. Especially family dinners. Years ago, we established the “monthly family gathering”. As the kids got older and started to move out, my husband and I prioritized needing to “lay eyes” on them at least once a month. We needed to talk to them and look them in the eyes on a regular basis to be sure they were really alright. There’s a value in face to face that you can’t get through a text message or even a phone call. Most months there was either a holiday or a birthday, so the monthly gatherings would just be whatever we were celebrating at that time. But in the off months, we would have an intentional family dinner.

As the news of her move settled down into my soul, I began to think of the monthly family gatherings and how that wouldn’t be a possibility anymore. This caused me to spiral down another emotional rabbit trail. It wasn’t that it was devastating. No one was dying and it wasn’t even bad news. It was just an unexpected and big change for us as a family that we were having a hard time adjusting to. And to be honest, I was a little angry that my family had to be broken up so that her boyfriend could have a new job (yes I know that’s selfish and self centered. It’s also honest).

While I was riding the roller coaster of emotions, I realized one thing. I am NOT responsible for the change, but I AM responsible for how I handle the change. I am allowed to have feelings about the move. I am allowed to wish the job was closer. I am allowed to take time to process all the emotions and to grieve the loss of what I thought our family dynamic was going to be and look like. But then, once I am done with all that, I have to figure out how to move forward with the change.

I was faced with a choice. I could be sad and selfish and pine for the old way…. the way I preferred for this to go. Or I could embrace the change and make the most of it. I chose the latter.

It took a few weeks of processing, but then I finally got myself into a good head space about it and did what I do best: I started planning!

I knew that the hardest part would be the lack of communication. The best part of the monthly meet ups was that I would hear all about each of their lives while we were together. Life is busy and the mundane day to day activities make it hard to stay in touch. If you aren’t careful, that lack of communication becomes a void you can’t traverse which is hard enough to combat when you live locally. Adding distance to this equation seemed a daunting task to overcome.

It was from this viewpoint, that the Family Book Club was born.

I racked my brain about how to keep the communication and tightness going, while embracing the distance. I had recently joined a few local book clubs and I loved how we discussed the books, and then also discussed life. I thought, let’s embrace this process and use the format we all learned during the pandemic: the Zoom meeting! The premise became: we pick a book to read and a movie to watch (for those who don’t enjoy reading). Then, join the Zoom meeting to discuss our thoughts and opinions on both…. and the rest of the time is spent getting caught up on each others lives. It’s not the same thing as an in person meet up, but it’s close enough for now and it lessens the sting of the distance!

There are so many people going through unexpected circumstances. I have read posts from people dealing with cancer diagnoses, tragic car accidents, unexpected medical emergencies, divorces, etc. I know that my example of an unexpected circumstance is so mild compared to what others are going through. I don’t pretend that it compares. But I do know that no matter how great or small your tragedy is, you will have to learn how to mold it into your life somehow. Whether it is something benign like a vacation that has gone awry or tragic like a cancer diagnosis, it is up to you how you process it. And there is no right or wrong way. You have to do it your way… the way that makes the most sense to you.

You may not be responsible for the changes in your life that you’re dealing with, but you are responsible for how you choose to process them. One thing that we’ve all learned is that life is not fair, but it doesn’t have to suck either. You are the master of that fate. Learning to accept a situation… exactly as it is… takes the pressure off of trying to force outcomes in your life.

I have heard it said many times that the Lord won’t remove the storm from your life, but He will walk through it with you. There is a peace in that perspective, a comfort in the knowledge that you don’t have to try to manipulate outcomes or circumstances in order to find peace and joy. Both peace and joy are internal monologues that can remain steady in any storm with the right mindset. It’s ok if those aren’t your first reactions to news. You’re allowed to feel fear, worry, anger, sadness, or stress when faced with the unexpected and unknown. You’re free to walk through the process of grief at your own pace without judgement. But eventually, you will have to create your own solution to your new reality. You will have to find a way to make it not suck.

“The Lord himself goes before you; He will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” Deuteronomy 31:8

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:6-7

The Keeper of the Memories

There’s a wooden chest in my room that I inherited from my grandmother. I sanded it down and refinished it back to it’s original beauty. I love this chest because every time I look at it I feel a connection, not only to her, but to the past… my past and the past of my entire family for generations. When I see this chest, I see a piece of my heritage and a sense of nostalgia to my familial roots.

Because the chest causes such an air of reminiscence, it is no surprise that I filled it with all the family photographs that I could find: recent pictures that I can readily identify, really old pictures that I have accumulated from family members over the years (some of relatives that I have never even met), vacations photos, baby pictures, weddings, graduations, and all the pictures in between. Every picture in that chest has a story and a memory behind it. Some of the stories are mine. Some have been told to me. And some I have had to wonder about because the story is a mystery.

I have had the chest for almost a decade, so I honestly don’t remember where I put the pictures before, but I love having a central place where everyone knows the pictures will be. My family never has to wonder where to look for their photographic memories because they know that somewhere deep in that chest are the physical pictures that I… or someone else… has had printed out over the years. 

The problem with this chest is that it became too vast. As time marched on, and more photos were added, it became a deep well of chaos. Random pictures were everywhere and finding the specific picture of the specific person of the specific memory became an increasingly insurmountable chore. There was no order to the pictures. They were tossed into the void and then if you wanted to find it, you had to go through all the stacks and stacks of photographs until you found the right one. (This is less of a problem now, of course, due to the rise of digital photography.)

Eventually, I broke down and went through and organized the photos into storage bags for each person in the family so at least I could narrow down my search when I needed to locate a specific photograph. But still these mounds of pictures didn’t tell an actual story… well, not the story they were supposed to tell. In the chest, they told a story of a family that was in a hurry to make memories, snap a shot, and then hope that they would remember the memory later… or that it would come back to them when they happened to see the picture. But that doesn’t help others to know what happened in the photo. 

After years and years of accumulation, I began to hang out with some friends who re-introduced me to the joy of scrapbooking! It had been ages since I had taken the time to put photos in an album, much less scrapbook them. In an era of Facebook and Instagram, the art of physically cataloging memories has almost become extinct. There is a whole generation of people who have no idea what it is like to take a picture… but not know what it actually looks like until you take it to the store to be…. DEVELOPED… (insert gasp here.) And while I love a good vacation social media post… full of instant memories for the world to see… it’s not the same thing as pulling a scrapbook album off the bookshelf and remembering that same vacation in the quiet stillness of your living room and having the physical touch of the photos in your hand.

With scrapbooking, you can take these photographic memories and make the story as elaborate as you want. There’s no limit to the imagination you can put on the pages. You can express yourself freely without having to worry about a sarcastic comment from someone you haven’t seen since high school. You get to write the story exactly as you want it to be and you can put an added layer of beauty on the page that wasn’t there before. The blank page you start with comes to life before you as you add different colored paper, stickers, words, embellishments, trim, ribbon, and of course… just the right amount of pictures to create a unique masterpiece to tell the tale of that moment in history that you want to preserve forever.

The downside to scrapbooking pages of your life is that it is time consuming. It takes minutes to post your vacation memory online, but it can take weeks to months to put a scrapbook together. Even adding pictures to a basic photo album is quicker than scrapbooking them. Another downside is that you have to be selective with the pictures you use. It is not cost or time effective to scrapbook every picture. The amount of time and resources needed to create even one page necessitates that you choose your memories carefully. You want to tell the memory in a way that will captivate, not annoy… and you want to be succinct enough to show what you want to be seen publicly, but that will also trigger you to remember the part you want to keep in the private recesses of your mind about that moment. Not every bit of each moment needs to be told out loud and scrapbooking reminds you of this while you are working intently on the pages. 

Scrapbooking is also more personal than social media. Anyone can see your social media post… people who haven’t spoken to you in years will know whatever details you put on your page. However, to show your scrapbooked memory, the person would need to be more intimate in your life… at the very least you would have to have an interpersonal relationship for them to even see the finished product.  

We are the keepers of the memories of our lives. We start as a blank page and we add to that page as time goes on. We fill the chest of our mind with the memories we store there. We have been given the grace and freedom to share our memories and write our stories how we see fit. Circumstances determine part of how these memories are made, but we get to choose how those stories are written and told. We choose how past hurts, joys, successes, failures, situations, and relationships are remembered. We can toss them in a chest and hope that someone will sort out what they think they mean. We can post them on social media for the world to see and form an opinion on. We can put them in a storage bag to compartmentalize them. We can put them in a photo album, with a plastic sense of meaning. Or we can scrapbook them in elaborate detail showing the cherished parts to a selected few and keeping the private parts to ourselves. There is no wrong answer for how you tell your story… and not every part of your story needs to be told the same way. I have many pictures that are fine to be shared on social media because they matter at the moment, but they are not so deeply rooted in my life that I need to invest a significant amount of my time and resources to recall them later. In my closet and on my book shelves are multiple photo albums from times gone by, that will stay there because someone before me took the time to put them in the plastic holders and hand them down. I still have bags of pictures in my grandmother’s chest that I will never throw away… nor will I scrapbook them because they are precious enough for me to look at from time to time, but don’t need to be elaborately remembered. (I also have pictures just flying free in that chest because I have not been able to take the time to put them in the storage bag they belong to, but that’s a whole different blog post.)

I love all of the pictures that I have in my possession because they remind of where I’ve come from… where I’ve been… and what I’ve been through. But my cherished stories and memories will be scrapbooked. These are the moments that have shaped me. The moments I want others to see long after I’m gone. The memories that I want others to know stood out in my life and made a difference. I want them to be looked at longer than my social media posts. I want them to be revered more than the bags of pictures in the chest. I want there to be more details on these pages than a photo album could provide. I want anyone who is close enough to see my scrapbooks to be aware that these moments are the important points in my story.

You have a story to tell, too. Memories to be “scrapbooked”. You have moments in your life that have defined you… paved your way… made you who you are. But some of these memories are not fond. Some of these moments were hard and they are difficult to try and remember because of the pain they caused. It is because of these trying times that you don’t like to tell your story. Maybe there’s shame… or guilt… or embarrassing moments that you don’t want to recall… so you don’t. 

But here’s the thing… all of your past memories and experiences shaped you… ALL OF THEM. They all matter, but they don’t all have to be told. You get to choose how your memories are relayed… which ones stay in the chest, which ones get the plastic (superficial) story, which ones go on social media (the public side), and which ones you scrapbook for the next generation. 

Remember to tell your story and share your memories… because it matters…. because you matter… because you are the keeper of your memories… and one day that is all your family and friends will have of you.

“Let this be written for a future generation, that a people not yet created may praise the Lord” Psalms 102:18

The Finish Line

Mile twenty five was slowly turning into twenty six. We had been running for what seemed like an eternity, though in reality it had been just over four and a half hours. I could hear the crowd at the finish, faintly at first, but growing louder with each stride we took. Rounding a corner, we saw a lively choir in matching yellow gowns singing and swaying in unison: “Hands up. They’re playing my song. The butterfly flies away. I’m nodding my head like, yeah. Moving my hips like, yeah.” Their enthusiasm made me smile and almost forget about the last four hours of my life. Almost.

We pressed on, rounding the corner, and there was the crowd. Hundreds of people yelling and cheering. Spectators looking for their runners. Runners looking for their families and friends. Smiles, signs, and waves were abundant on both sides. I scanned through the people, looking for the familiar faces I knew were there waiting for me. Not slowing my pace, but staring intently, I saw them! Big smile. Big wave. Pictures of the happiness being taken as we ran past. A flood of joy, relief, and pride welling up inside… pushing us faster toward the end! One final picture from the professional photographer as we joined hands and ran under the giant inflatable finish line sign! Medals were placed around our necks and Mickey Mouse ears were put on over our sweaty and matted hair. 

To the non runners, it looked like pure bliss as the marathoners crossed from the gated corral into the general population. Such joy. Such accomplishment. Such pride in that finish line. Months and months of training culminating in a single event for everyone to see and celebrate. But when my family finally found me, I was sobbing. Not tears of joy. Big, huge, uncontrollable rivers of salty water flowing freely my eyes… right underneath the Mickey Mouse ears that sat on my head. 

Make no mistake. I was elated to have finished the marathon. I was proud of myself for showing up at the starting line at 3:30 that morning… when I would rather have kept sleeping. I would wear that medal… and those ears… all day because I wanted everyone to know what I had accomplished. My tears were not because I had finished. My tears were for how hard it was to get to that line and how much pain it took to get there. 

It is no secret that I hate marathons. I love running, but marathons are not my distance. The length of that race is daunting and intimidating for me. It requires months of training. It takes determination and planning to be successful. To train properly you must sacrifice multitudes of mornings of sleep in order to lace up and head out on the road to get in the miles needed, often alone. Strength training and stretching take up the rest of your time. And still there are things on race day that you cannot prepare for. Weather, illness, and other situations that are beyond your control can factor in at the last minute causing a shift in your race day performance.

This is where I found myself that day. I had trained for months. I increased my strength training. Put yoga in my workout schedule. Changed my diet and prepared my nutritional intake to help peak my performance. I prepared myself the best I could for the race and showed up at the starting line knowing the rest was up to the “race gods“. My friend and I nervously waited for our turn to pass through the starting line. It was dark and cool, but exciting. It was a Disney race so there was plenty of excitement around us. Fireworks went off for the start of each corral. Mickey and Minnie were on the big screen while announcers hyped everyone up on the microphone.

Then it was our turn to go! We set out at a comfortable pace, ready to assume this position for the next several hours. My friend was no stranger to this distance. This was her tenth marathon so we knew we could rely on each to get through. The first mile ticked by with ease. By the second mile, runners were bottle necked as there was some sort of construction near the course that had not been there in the years prior. Into the third mile, my friend began to have some stomach issues and now multiple bathroom breaks were needed… for the next five miles. The stop and go for the bathroom, put an unexpected stress on our pace as we just couldn’t get into a good running flow. We finally found her some medicine (thank you Disney for multiple medical tents along the course). Now we were ready to hunker down into our rhythm.

Between miles ten and eleven, we felt small, cold drops of water. We looked into the sky, but didn’t see any clouds. It must have been some random water source. There was no rain predicted in the forecast… I know because I checked multiple times before leaving the hotel. (I despise running in the rain, more than I despise marathons.) Nearing the eleventh mile marker, we turned onto a road… and there… looming in the distance was a large, ominous gray cloud. The kind that is unmistakably a rain cloud. I felt the pit of my stomach drop. I knew there was nowhere to go to escape it. The adage “the only way out is through” went through my mind… and definitely applied here. Before I could even process the situation, it was raining. Not a mist. Not a light sprinkle. A deluge of cold, hard rain was pouring down on us. Soaking our hair, our clothes, our shoes, and my spirit. I went silent, but kept running. To add insult to injury, after the rain finally cleared, the temperatures dropped about fifteen degrees. What was a pleasant cool before, now turned to a frigid cold, made worse by the fact that our clothes were soaked and the sun did not come out so we couldn’t dry off… or warm back up. 

I will spare you the details of the next fourteen miles, but just know that the muscles in my legs cramped up and I could not get them to release because I could not get warm. My hip began to hurt from the muscle cramping and I began to run with a limp. My friend had numbness in her fingers and feet because the cold triggered her Raynaud’s syndrome to flare up. We were miserable, but determined to do two things: finish and make the most of our situation. We walked, we ran, we complained, and we encouraged each other. We struggled and we felt defeated. We felt tired and fatigued. We wanted to quit. But we knew we couldn’t. When I really felt like stopping, I remembered that my family was waiting for me at the end. My parents, my husband, and two of my sons were looking for me to come across that finish line and I was going to have to fight to get there. 

So fight we did. I forced myself to think of positive things. I forced my legs to move when they wanted to stop. I ignored the pain in my hip, even though it felt like bone on bone by the time we finished. We stopped talking about quitting and began to discuss what we would do when we finished. We dug deep into our minds and spirits and made it happen. We made it to that finish line hurting and humbled and limping. But we made it across. 

And this is why I cried.

Sometimes people only see the finish lines in our lives. They see our successes. They see our happiness. They see our health. They see our faith. They see our social media posts with the smiling family.

But what they don’t see is the struggle it took to get there. They don’t see the sleepless nights from worry. They don’t see the weariness from working two jobs to make ends meet. They don’t see the tears you cry from the helplessness you feel about hopeless situations. They don’t feel the heartbreak you had when you walked away from relationships that were hindering you. They weren’t there when you prayed all night for your child who was determined to make poor choices. They are unaware of the darkness that surrounded you while you struggled to keep your faith. They did not hear the words you spoke out of desperation to find God in a godless world. They did not feel your heart start to harden when you realized the world will only get darker and more filled with hate… and that even the Christians in the church are not impervious to the tendrils of the enemy that twist and turn perceptions causing the love and compassion of the believers to grow cold. 

The struggle for our faith is real. The onslaught of unexpected, outside forces that fight for your attention and strive to break you down on a daily basis are everywhere. You pray… you read your Bible… you go to church. You prepare yourself for this marathon of life the best you can, but there always seems to be a rain cloud, or a cramp, or an injury lurking just around the corner that catches you unaware. If you spend too much time focusing on these unexpected surprises, you will find yourself in a mire of self pity with an overabundance of desire to quit the race altogether and to let your faith grow cold. But remember who is watching for you at the finish line… waiting with a smile… and a sign… and a “well done my good and faithful servant.” Don’t stop until you get through.

We all have our own “marathon” story: a unique story of struggle and wrestling to maintain our faith in a God that seems to be becoming less relevant to this world. And yet we know that we need to press on. We need to keep moving. We need to keep putting one spiritual foot in front of the other. We need to go deeper into our struggle and not let up until we see the blessing. We have to cross that finish line, even if we walk with a limp afterwards.

“Then the man said, ‘Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome.'” Genesis 32:28

““But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 3:13b-14

The Breakfast Club

In the mid 80’s there was a movie released called “The Breakfast Club”. It was a teenage angst story of 5 high school students, from completely different backgrounds, who are forced to be in a Saturday detention together. Were it not for this compulsory situation, they would never have spoken to each other or possibly known each other existed.

There was Claire (the popular/perfect one), Brian (the brain), Bender (the mess up), Allison (the outcast), and Andrew (the jock). The story unfolds as you would imagine: no one wants to be there and they all seem to hate each other. But then they work together against a common foe (the teacher) and they learn that they really aren’t that different at the end… well sort of.

The plot is somewhat predictable and good hearted. I remember watching this movie in my younger years and loving it.

But, recently, I rewatched it and picked up on a few things.

With the exception of Bender, you wouldn’t have expected to see these kids in detention: especially Claire, Andrew, and Brian. However, even though they were all in the same dismal situation, the one who made the biggest deal out of it was Claire, the popular/perfect one. She makes the point that she “doesn’t belong here” and is intentional in her pursuit to separate herself from the others, especially Bender and Allison. As the day goes on, she softens towards the group and even begins to be nice to them and form a slight bond.

But, here comes the kicker. After all the antics, adventures, and slight bonding that takes place during the day, there is a scene at the end where they are sitting together and discussing what they have been through. Brian asks the group, “so on Monday…what happens?” And Claire says, “Are we still friends, you mean?” When Brian affirms this question, Claire answers, “I don’t think so.”

And there it was. A kick in the gut. All the feel good moments leading up to this brutal answer were sucked right out of the atmosphere in that response. No matter what truths Claire had learned about her fellow students, no matter what memories they now shared, no matter how much bonding had just occurred, she was not interested in soiling her reputation, her friendship pool, or her conscious by admitting that she could be friends with people who she viewed as outside/beneath her.

In that instant, as I watched the reactions of the other students, I realized: Claire is the church.

Even though Claire broke the rules too, she felt entitled because of her standing in society. In her mind, she was better than these other rule-breakers and SHE shouldn’t have to do detention. She shouldn’t even BE around these other kids. And after being forced to be around them for a day, she couldn’t wait to get away from them and pretend like this whole thing never happened.

How many church people are out there channelling their inner “Claire”? Being around people who are different than them, but making sure those people know the social hierarchy to which they belong. Having forced conversations, but staying superficial. Listening to the plight of others, but not trying to see the world through their eyes. The church has become experts at cocooning themselves away from people who “rule break” differently than they do.

Prior to 2020, I had my own views and opinions of things, both in the church and in the world. I was quick to accept stereotypical doctrine from the pulpit and not question anything behind it. If you didn’t believe the way I did, or worship how I did, or look like I did, or love how I did, then you were different… and you were WRONG. I would pray for you and hope you did well on your path, but we wouldn’t be real friends. I couldn’t sully myself with WORLDLY things or people.

But then I went through a SEASON.

For a season, I could not bring myself to be a part of the church. I still believed in God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit. I still accepted them as real and true in my life, but I couldn’t stand His people. I read arrogant posts on social media and watched how they gloated over things that made them feel superior. I read the insults and innuendos about the intelligence (or lack thereof, in their opinion) of others who viewed things differently than they did and suddenly I knew I had to pull away from the church for a while.

In that time frame I felt lost and didn’t know where I fit in anymore. I was no longer willing to go along blindly with the church flock where I had always felt the most comfortable. I felt the need to question every doctrine, every “truth”, every command I had ever heard in the Christian world. And it was UNCOMFORTABLE.

In this season, I could not listen to a sermon, a worship song, or a prayer without feeling anger and physical sickness. I had never been this way before, and honestly, it scared me. I was afraid that I would never find my way back to Christianity, but I didn’t care.

Interestingly, however, in turning my back on the church for a season, I turned towards the world. And I found out something that I never would have expected.

I love the world. I met broken people, angry people, intelligent people, kind people. I saw goodness in people who weren’t Christian. I saw people as PEOPLE: all religions, all genders, all thought processes, all view points, all sexual identities, all political views. For the first time, I could experience people who were different from me and NOT BE AFRAID that their differences were going to affect me in a negative way.

I learned to talk to people just for the sake of talking to them. Not to judge them. Not to save them. Not to offer unsolicited advice or to tell them how much they need Jesus. I listened to their stories and developed relationships with people who I never would have associated with before because of the unfair biases that I had allowed to develop over the years.

Slowly, I felt this season shift and I softened towards the church again, but I see it differently now. I used to see the world through the eyes of the church, but now I see the church through the eyes of world and it’s frightening. I can see how people view the church: the hatemongering hiding behind Bible verses, the harsh judgments passed onto people who are different, the callousness of church people to the hurting in world.

But, also, I see that the world doesn’t care about the church anymore.

They are tired of trying to prove their worth to a system that is only fixated on themselves… on their owns rules and values… their own worldviews… and they no longer care if the church accepts them because the church has been cruel and snobby and exclusionary for decades… generations even. The church has become the Claire of the world and has exuded a “you can’t sit with me” attitude for so long that she doesn’t even realize no one wants to sit with HER any more.

Don’t understand how a woman could support or have an abortion? They don’t care. Don’t understand how a person could love someone of the same sex? They don’t care. Can’t fathom gender confusion? They don’t care. Think that the opposite political view is ignorant? You got it: they don’t care.

The world is not interested in the church views anymore and it’s not because of Satan. It’s because of His people. The church has safeguarded herself right out relevance to the people she is supposed to be loving because of her arrogance and conceit and fear of the dissimilar.

In the same conversation where Claire told the group that she was too good to be their friend, the focus eventually shifts to Allison, the outcast. When she was asked how she would treat the group on Monday around her friends, she answers, “I don’t have any friends. But if I did, I wouldn’t have the kind of friends who would mind.” (That’s paraphrased). The point being that Allison understood what it was like to be isolated, different, alone, and rejected so she wouldn’t want to make others feel that way. This is the kind of character that should be valued. The one who always has an open seat at the table and will make room for others just as they are.

In a world of Claires, be an Allison.

“When the Pharisees saw this, they asked His disciples, ‘Why is he eating with the tax collectors and sinners?’ But when Jesus heard this, He said ‘It is not those who are healthy that need a physician, but those that are sick. But go and learn what this means, ‘I desire compassion, and not sacrifice,’ for I did not come for the righteous but the sinners.’ ” Matthew 9:11-13

Upward Dog

Mountain pose. Fold forward. Half lift. High plank. Upward dog. Downward dog.

Over and over the yoga instructor called these poses out as she walked slowly around the room. The incredibly hot room. She would add on extra moves and sequences, but would always bring us back to this series of moves…almost like a restart before we moved on with the more complicated poses.

Normally, those moves are the easiest for me to do in a yoga class. They are familiar to my mind and body. I don’t have to think about moving through them…even when I am dripping with sweat from every pore in my body. No matter how tired I become, that sequence is almost comforting to me because of the familiarity of it.

However, the other day, I could not do the upward dog motion. It hurt the left side of my lower back. I tried it several times and the result was the same. The calm reassurance that sequence would usually bring me was causing a bit of stress because of the pain. It wasn’t a muscle tightness pain that just needed to be worked out. It was a warning pain…as in stop doing this movement because you’re hurting me…and that got my attention.

I am newer to yoga. I have only recently started to incorporate it into my life. When I first started it, I would look around the room and compare where I was in my flexibility (or even ABILITY) to do the poses. I would feel defeated if I couldn’t get into a pose that seemed so easy for the person next to me. At one class, I said to a woman, who I had just been introduced to, that “I’m not very good at yoga.” She looked right at me and said, “That’s not a thing. Being ‘good’ at yoga is in your mind. It is your own practice with your own body. We are all ‘good’ at it in our own way. There is no competition in it.” With this realization (and it was a massive, eye opening revelation to me), I never compared my practice to anyone else in the room again.

One of the statements that I hear repeated in any yoga class I’ve taken is “if that’s for you today, take it. If it’s not in your grasp today, leave it there.” They are referring to the pose that they’ve just called out for the class…and it is truly liberating when they phrase it that way. There is no judgement or condemnation for anyone in the class who can’t do the ‘birds of paradise’ pose or who needs to drop back to ‘child’s pose’. You are accepted if you can keep up with the pace of the class or if you just need to lay on the mat and sweat it out for a bit. You are celebrated for showing up and bringing what you have to offer to yourself and your health that at that moment.

This is where I found myself in class the other day. Upward dog was simply not available to me in this timeframe. For whatever reason, this very simple move hurt. I didn’t overthink the pain. I didn’t obsess over why I couldn’t do it. I didn’t berate myself for not being able to do a simple move. I just skipped it and said to myself, “That’s not mine for today.” And sometimes in life, we need to tell ourselves that some situations are not yours for this timeframe.

There are times in your life when something is “not in your grasp”. Things that have been comfortable and familiar suddenly feel awkward and out of place. They may be causing pain or discomfort and you just can’t understand why. It may be a job or a relationship or a friendship or a thought process that just feels out of step to you in this season of your life. You keep trying to make it work. You keep comparing yourself to the others “in the room” and it’s causing you discomfort or stress. It could be something that has brought you peace in the past, but now is causing strife. Don’t question the pain, simply let go of it for now. It does not mean that it won’t be available to you in the future, but for now it needs to be released.

For a season, I walked away from church because of this. It was not in my grasp at that time. I was disillusioned by some things I had witnessed/heard/ experienced and resentful towards Christians. I have been around churches and church people my entire life so walking away from that was scary and foreign to me. My reasons for this are personal, but the feelings are sadly more universal than I realized.

While I went through this season (and it lasted for years), I talked to people who have had similar feelings and stories. People are mad at the church (as a whole) for their perceived callousness towards the world. Christians are viewed as elitists. “Christians think they have sole possession of God and no one else is allowed to have him.” “Christians only care about my soul, but not my life.”

And this judgment extends to people in the Christian church, too. We must use the right Christian-ese and have the exact same view points, or we may be shunned from the church society. We’ll be prayed for, but not tolerated, in certain church circles. All “profound truths” of the Bible must be understood and put in practice, everyday, or else you will have to try harder to be let back in the fold. There is no grace for “if that’s not for you today leave it”. You must accept what is told to you, or move on. Your practice must match up to everyone else’s.

During my church sabbatical, I did not walk away from Jesus, just the church and it’s people. I did not pray or read my Bible like I use to, but I didn’t dismiss Christ. I just needed time to process my feelings towards his church and some of things I had seen and experienced over the years. For decades, I had held certain things as fact because I had heard it from the pulpit or from someone that I had considered wiser than I in the ways of the Lord. As I walked through this season, the Holy Spirit was quiet, but not in an isolating way…more like a parent who is watching their child explore. I felt his presence in a reassuring, but not smothering, way. I felt many viewpoints that I had held as fact, fall away or soften. I saw people and situations completely differently than I had before. (Just like when that woman changed my perspective on yoga). I stopped judging the outside of a life (whether good or bad) and started to see that most people are doing their best and we are all approaching life from different angles and have different practices. I also accepted that sometimes a belief or principle is just not available to everyone at all times.

Sometimes, people have to drop back to the ‘child’s pose’ of life because the strength for the ‘birds of paradise’ pose is just not available to them right now.

For the record, I have done the ‘upward facing dog’ pose since that class with no pain. I still don’t know why my back hurt that day or what kept me from that simple pose. I still don’t care. I’ll go back to class next week and carry on with the poses available to me…with the practice available to me that day. I am also back in church. But with fresh eyes and a softer heart. I listen to the sermons and let the Holy Spirit tell me what’s mine to take that day and what I need to leave for another day. And I extend that grace to others as well.

“In the same way, the Spirit also helps us in our weakness, since we do not know how to pray as we should. But the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans too deep for words, and the one who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, for the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to God’s will. And we know that for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose, all things are working together for good.” Romans 8:26-28