Using 100 Words When 10 Would Suffice....

Hope

2020-11-16T13:36:00.004-06:00

In 1996 my then-husband filed for divorce. He was very mad at me so he filed in such a way that I couldn't see my kids unsupervised for the week we were waiting for our emergency custody hearing. He also took the car we jointly owned away from me.

The day after all of this happened I was walking down the 2 lane highway that separated me from my kids to have a visit with them at their grandmother's house. I was feeling very sorry for myself at the time. I was 26 years old; about to be a divorced, single mother of two small children. Although I had a degree, it was "just" an undergraduate degree in psychology and it was already 2 years old so I didn't think it was going to be able to get me a very good job. I was terrified that my soon-to-be-ex-husband was going to be able to somehow take my kids away from me. I had a VERY low-level job at an insurance company, but I didn't have a car to get me to the job I needed in order to survive. I also didn't have any money.

I felt hopeless.

Walking along this highway with big 18 wheeler trucks whizzing past me as I bawled my eyes out, I had the thought...what if I just "accidentally" fell into the road right as a truck was coming?

As if it were a bad movie, right at that moment a little dog came running toward me, barking his head off...he ran right in front of one of those big trucks! He was killed instantly. It slapped me back into reality, back into the hope for a future that I couldn't see at the moment. Hopelessness, while a horrible feeling, it is not dead. Dead is dead.

Fast forward many years later. I was visiting a friend the week of Thanksgiving. My son was living with his dad and my daughter was visiting them. My daughter had her beloved dog, Sandy, with her. They were all in the front yard playing; all of the sudden Sandy saw something that made him dart out in the road...in front of a big truck. My daughter was almost hit trying to stop him from being hit. They rushed him to an emergency vet, but it was too late. The damage the truck had inflicted was too much.

Fast forward many years to last month.

I was on my way to teach my 5:30am Spin class at the Y. I "always" speed while driving to class. I mean, it's 5am and no one is on the wide open road, at least not usually. That morning I ended up having to slow down below the speed limit because the person in front of me was obviously NOT in a hurry. I started to pass on the right but at that exact moment another car crept up in the right lane...probably only going the actual speed limit (since I know I was going below the speed limit). As I started to change lanes to pass this slow-mover who was preventing me from diving my usual speed, God spoke to me.

No, I didn't hear an audible voice; but I heard in my head "you aren't in a hurry, just slow down"...so I did. I have to go over a big mountain and then make a left hand turn to get to the Y so staying in the left hand lane made sense, even if driving slower than the already slow speed limit didn't.

Just as we rounded a big curve in the road I saw the vehicle that had passed us a couple of minutes earlier. It was still in the right-hand lane, but stopped a little sideways.

I immediately thought he must have hit a deer, but as I got closer I realized it didn't look like a deer.

I quickly pulled over and called out to the man who was now outside of his vehicle..."hey, was that just a deer?" Hoping my eyes had played a terrible trick on me.

"No...it's a person"

...I am first aid certified. I have been certified in CPR and first aide continuously for 10 years. I first learned CPR and first aid in the military over 30 years ago. I've never actually had to USE my training, but I'm trained.

I ran to the man laying on the shoulder of the road as I heard the driver on the phone with 911 frantically trying to explain exactly where we were all located. As I ran I prepared myself that this person was probably either a runner or a cyclist. Those are the only people who would be out, not in a car, at that time of the morning.

As I reached the man I realized instantly he was not a runner or a cyclist (I could tell by how he was dressed). I also realized instantly that, although he was still breathing, there was absolutely nothing I could do for him. He was already on his side. He was breathing. He was bleeding very badly but I knew enough not to try to move his body. And the blood I could see was not the worst of his injuries. I knew emergency workers, who would be able to get him to the help he needed, would be there "quickly" so I shifted my attention to the man on the phone; trying to help him give information to the 911 dispatcher.

It felt like time stood still.

It felt like the world around us was moving in slow motion.

It felt like it took days for the fire trucks and ambulance to get there.

It felt like it took weeks for the medics to take this badly hurt man to the hospital.

It felt like it took forever for the police to finish up all that they needed to do.

All the while I talked to the driver. He said this man had run right in front of his car. He kept saying "WHY would he have done that??"; I kept lying saying "I don't know what would cause someone to do that."

I mean I guess it wasn't a full lie. I didn't know that man. I didn't know the reasons he would have run in front of a vehicle at 5am on a Monday morning.

Later that day I relayed the story to some good friends. One friend said this person must have just not been paying attention. As if running straight across 4 lanes, in the pitch blackness of early morning, directly in front of a vehicle going 40+ miles an hour, could have just been a terrible accident.

Maybe...maybe it was just an accident. Maybe it was like when Sandy, or that other little dog, was hit.

This man's car was on the opposite side of the road from where this happened. During the minutes that felt like years it took for emergency workers to get there I looked in the car for any clues I might be able to find...(one thought I had: what if there is a woman in labor and he was running across the street to get the attention of the passerby, and the driver just didn't see him). I saw the keys to the vehicle and this man's wallet (that I didn't touch) but no woman in labor.

Although (thankfully) I had not seen the actual impact, I not only felt like I had important witness information to give the police, I stayed at the scene to comfort the driver. I kept thinking "it could have been me...I would want someone to stay with me". I talked with him, asking him questions about his life and telling him little stories to try to get his mind off the terrible incident that no doubt will be blazed in his memory forever. The sun slowly came up as the police gathered all the information they needed in order to complete their investigation; eventually, the driver and I were released. One of the officers told us we should watch the news for reports on the man. He said that would get us the most up-to-date information on his condition. I ended up taking the man home since I felt like I knew him well by then.

I found two news reports of the accident but they never updated the initial news of the crash other than to say the pedestrian was admitted to the hospital in critical condition. I finally got a call from the driver's insurance adjuster last week. He informed me the man had passed away two weeks after the incident. He said the best he could tell it was a suicide.

Fast forward to today. I was on Facebook and saw a post on a travel page I'm on...a woman talked of a trip she was taking with her daughter because her 23-year-old son had committed suicide last month. When I clicked on her name I found out she lives in Tennessee. I was in shock over the thought I might have been a quasi-witness to her son's suicide. (After a little more digging, I found out her son, Matt, actually died three days before the accident.)

I haven't been able to stop thinking about my own thoughts of believing it might be better to jump in front of a truck than to live another day in pain. (I'd be lying if I said that was the only time in my life I've had thoughts like that...)

Pain hurts. Sometimes it hurts more than we can believe we can bear. Sometimes we can't see any way the pain will end...let alone end well.

Hopeless hurts. But dead is dead. We don't think dead will hurt.

But that is a lie.

Dead leaves behind it rivers of pain that flow into oceans of endless agony. (Sometimes felt by complete strangers.)

Being dead finalizes nothing except that person's ability to be anything other than dead.

If you are in pain, regardless of whether it's physical or mental/emotional/spiritual, PLEASE choose to continue to BE before you choose to end being alive. Pain can feel like it is enveloping you, engulfing you in its blackness...there's a reason we said we are "in" pain. When you choose to end your life while you are in pain...you are never delivered from that pain. You might not continue feeling that pain, but people who knew you are left with it.

...and I truly believe disentangling from another person's pain is monumentally more grueling because NO ONE can understand your pain better than you. NO ONE can overcome your pain better than you. NO ONE can use your pain better than you can to make a better life.

I know. I was there.

The answer to pain is not "no pain"...the answer is hope.

I can PROMISE you that ending your life doesn't end the pain you are in...it simply transfers it to someone else. But it's an increased level of pain. If you believe you know someone who might be engulfed deep in such torturous hopelessness that he/she is considering suicide as a way out here's where you can find help. If you believe you are in that kind of pain yourself, please reach out to me or call 800-273-8255.

Stay.

Choose life.

Hope, even if it hurts.

❤️

Stripped Down to Brass Tacs

2018-01-13T09:52:00.000-06:00

I did a boudoir photo shoot. In fact, I did two. One was with hair and make-up and one was without.

I was molested as a child, for a very long time. As a young woman, I was inappropriately promiscuous. As an adult in marriage counseling, I was asked if I felt my "past" was a contributor to my negative feelings toward my (now ex) husband.

Uh...ya think? How could it not be?

But more than that, my "past" was a direct contributor to my negative feelings toward myself.

For most of my life I have hated myself. It hasn't been a mild dissatisfaction, it has been outright hatred. I have used various methods to fight that feeling. I attempted to allow my faith in God, and my belief in His unfailing love of me, override my personal feelings of myself. I attempted to find friends and men who would love me "enough" to prove my value to myself. I excelled in school. I excelled in work. I took on hard challenges in many areas of my life. I have been to gob-tons of therapy. I've talked about my childhood, my inner child, my inner critic, the particulars of what happened, and how everything made me and makes me feel. I've kept a journal. I've gone on retreats. For years I have been an athlete and a coach. I even got a degree in psychology in an attempt to fully understand and "love" myself.

There have been numerous times in my life when I thought I was making progress. Then something would happen to knock me back into the pit of self-loathing. I would make a mistake, I would have a bad outcome, I would get into an argument with my friend or spouse and I would be reminded, once again, that no matter what I did I seemed to end up back in that pit. I was in a never-ending cycle of try hard/succeed/feel good/"fail"/feel bad, only to start "trying hard" again. I was never satisfied with where I was in life and certainly never satisfied with who I was.

What happened to me took something from me. Well, it took a lot of things from me. Growing up with a stolen innocence molded me into a form I tried my whole life to change. It shaped me into a being I despised. When I was able to put on a mask I liked, I could fall in love with that mask and pretend it was me I loved. "Oh, look how well you do your job! You are a hard worker!" "Oh, see how much this person wants to be with you? You are desirable!" "Oh, look how well you are doing at (fill in the blank). You have value."

I was able to recognize the voice of the inner critic as unhealthy. I wasn't able to recognize the voice of the inner cheerleader as unhealthy. Until it was silenced.

Almost two years ago I was diagnosed with an autoimmune brain disease. In a nutshell, my body's immune system was literally attacking my brain cells! Thankfully my husband forced me to go see a neurologist and thankfully that doctor knew what all my crazy symptoms meant and thankfully he knew how to get treatment started. I eventually went to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota to confirm the diagnosis and to have an expert in the field devise a treatment plan. That plan included high dose IV steroids. The disease and the treatment took a big toll on every part of me. I gained a lot of weight. I lost a lot (most of) my fitness. All the masks I had worn were stripped away.

As treatments began to work, I came to the realization that I didn't want to wear a mask any longer. I wanted to live the way I said I believed was best-from the inside out. Our actions are ALWAYS a product of our beliefs. We can work very hard to try to change behaviors in an attempt to change beliefs, but it never works long term. What is on the inside ALWAYS makes its way to the surface. For a long time I had tried to make what was on the outside align with what was on the inside but I was going about it in the wrong way. I was trying to live a life that matched what I wanted to believe hoping it would eventually sink in. What I truly believed was so ugly that I couldn't even fully admit it much less deal with it. Self-hatred feels insurmountable.

Years ago a friend of mine did a boudoir photo shoot with The Adore Girls in Nashville as a wedding gift to her husband. Her photos were AMAZING! She is pretty in everyday life, but those photos were INCREDIBLE. I told myself that I wanted to do that after I lost that last 10 pounds, after I got my butt more firm, after I got my hair looking better. And then I got sick. I gained 30 pounds. My butt spread out. I lost A LOT of hair, and cut it all off because what was left was in very bad shape. My masks had been stripped down like upholstery off a chair. My foundation was not only ugly, it was severely damaged.

And then something happened.

I changed my mind.

Well...I'm in the process of changing my mind. There's a verse in Romans that says we are transformed by the renewing of our mind. As I changed my mind about how I feel about myself, about who I am as a person, I wanted to commemorate that decision. I am beautiful. I am empowered. I am worthy. I am sexy. From the inside out. What was stolen from me at such a young age is being renewed.

When I reached out to The Adore Girls to book my boudoir photo shoot I had the option to add on a video. I had seen their videos before. They were polished and sexy. But I wanted something a little different. I wanted to have a way to remember the whole experience. I knew it was going to be a turning point for me and I wanted a way to capture the process not just have a finished product.

I was not disappointed. Sarah expertly applied my make up and coiffed my hair. Jamie took some incredible shots while Courtney captured it on video. Jamie worked some magic in the editing room and Courtney clipped and spliced several hours of material down to a few minutes. They all three seemed to exactly capture the essence of me. More than that, they made the outside match how I was feeling on the inside!

Brass tacks are used in upholstery not only for decoration but because they don't rust and won't stain the fabric. At one time it was considered very gauche to have the tacks showing, especially if they weren't fanciful. At that time the tacks were utilized as a foundation for the decoration of the material. Plain brass tacks have never been used for any other purpose. Decorative brass tacks have been added to the outer layer of the fabric to embellish the piece, but plain tacks are to be hidden.

When Jamie presented the idea of a photo shoot without the hair and makeup, I jumped at the opportunity. Plain brass tacks. Exposed. And beautiful. Me, as I am. Without a mask, without embellishment. And, I have to say, I am loving what's there.

The Vulture

2015-10-28T14:15:00.003-05:00

Last Friday I taught a Spin class with a "to be continued" story line about camping in the woods (a Halloween themed class). I continued the story Monday but ended again with another "to be continued". A friend sent me a link to a blog called "Mondays Finish the Story" that has a "finish this story" challenge each week. She gives you a picture and a line and you finish the story in 100-150 words. I am NOT a writer, but I would love to write better. I know the only way to do something well is to hone your practice so you are practicing it well. So...here's my stab at this week's challenge.

“I watched the vulture looking at me hungrily as I lay on the ground bleeding and injured.”

I had heard Savon tell this story a hundred times but it never got old. How he managed to cheat that vulture out of a meal always bewildered me. I want his kind of perseverance, but I’m fooling myself to think I can have it. I’m lazy. Always have been, always will be. In the same scenario I'm sure I would hang my head and cry. As death wrapped me in a cold blanket I would let it carry me away.

How does one learn to stay the course?

For the first time I interrupted the retelling, “What made you think you could?” Those warm eyes stared back at me, “What makes you think you can’t?”

____

This was incredibly fun. I think I might have to do this every week!!

Faith Like Body Odor?

2013-09-20T07:34:00.001-05:00

For those of you who do not read my other blog, you may not know I'm about to "do" my first Iron Man race. (Notice...I'm saying clearly, this is my first, but certainly not my last...). I have battled a shoulder/neck injury for the last year (yes a full year...). I noticed it about the time I rode my first century bike ride a year ago this weekend. I ignored it until it could not be ignored any longer. I've had several procedures, have been to several doctors, have probably taken more medicines than I have in the preceding 4 years combined. And...it's better, but it's not "healed".

So I know some of you are wondering why it is I would still be here, in Lake Tahoe, getting prepared to swim 2.4 miles, ride 112 miles and run 26.2 miles.

I'm going to attempt to put the answer in words.

Faith.

That's really it. Just faith.

What does faith have to do with Iron Man? Well, I believe God calls us onto a path and He directs our steps if we allow Him to be author of our lives. I have always been strong willed, just ask my mother....well, just ask anyone who has known me for any length of time. I do not like to be directed. For most of my life, I wanted to be the author of my life. That would have worked, if everyone else would have played the parts I wanted them to! (Hint: other people do not like to be scripted!) Several years ago, when my second husband left, I gave up. (Well, started giving up.) Not on life, but on trying to be the ruler of my life. I surrendered. I submitted. I stepped out in faith.

Faith is not sight. Faith is not something you can put your hands on. It's not like a jacket, it's more like an odor. And true faith has to be an odor that comes from the inside out.

I can spray perfume on my body, but with time (or a shower) it will wash off. Body odor on the other hand, comes from me. And...it comes out when I am working. James 2:26 says it best, faith without works is dead. Yes...I can still shower and get the odor off of me, but when I work it's there again.

So, you may still be asking, what does faith have to do with Iron Man? Well...I believe God works with us in very individual ways. I am a physical learner (body-kinesthetic). I can ready things all day long, but I need to do them to really learn them. ((Side note...learning styles became very clear to me this summer teaching kids to swim. I had one boy in particular who needed me to explain in words exactly what he was supposed to do before he could learn a new skill...others had to see it...still others -like me- had to do it.)) I need practical life experiences that will solidify what is being taught.

James 1 reminds me that the testing of my faith produces endurance. James goes on to say "and let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing." Let me be clear...a "perfect result" may not mean finishing this race, but believing I will finish and stepping out in faith that I will, and moving forward to work out that faith is a real life example of what I believe it means to trust God with my life--regardless of the outcome.

Iron Man is bigger than me. Yes, I have a good bike, I have good shoes, I have had a great coach, I've gone to good doctors to try to fix what ever is going on in my neck or shoulder...but those things won't get me through this race. Only moving forward --relentlessly moving forward-- in FAITH can do that. Faith that my strength comes from the Lord. Faith that He makes all things possible.

Another really good reason this analogy works so well...there is a constant reminder every time I workout that faith is something that comes out of me. Sweat stinks...and it comes from me...it's a product of working hard. And...let me tell you, I can out stink any deodorant, any soap, probably any perfume (haven't and won't try...). And...I'm going to REEK Sunday night when I cross the finish line.

:D

You Can Change

2013-01-02T23:11:00.002-06:00

I'm currently reading a book called "You Can Change" by Tim Chester. Some friends of mine where going through the book much like a Bible study and asked me to join them. When I heard the title of the book I have to say I was instantly put off just a bit by it. I don't really like the whole idea of "self help" books anymore. I think working hard to change yourself on your own terms by your own power is just a recipe for frustration at best. I think the only thing that can truly effect change in our lives is the power of the God's Spirit.

Turns out, that's pretty much the whole idea of the book. Imagine that!

So, I was thinking I might try to write a bit about it as I go through the book. With everything else I have going on, it may or may not work out the way I'm planning, but I'm willing to try anyway. We'll be meeting every other week and only planning on going through one chapter at a time, so maybe writing (or reading) a post won't be too terribly time consuming.

So...basically Tim says we are to be a reflection of God's glory. I think we're a bit like the moon. Whereas the sun IS light and produces light, the moon doesn't It reflects the sun. When the full moon is "shining" bright in the clear night sky, you'd never know the moon wasn't making that illumination on its own. Another way to think about it is a mirror. When a light is shined in the direction of a mirror, that light is bounced off and redirected somewhere else.

So, the "work" is not in us attempting to "shine", but merely to be a reflect-able surface.

You may be thinking that would involve cleaning up your exterior....but that's what's really even better about it...God's glory seems to shine all the more brightly on broken surfaces!! All we really have to do is get out of the way! When we are intent on following "law" and working to do things the right way we are actually not turned toward God at arll. However, when we keep our attention on HIM and bask in His truth we become a medium he can use.

As the new year gets started, everyone begins to think about things they want to change about themselves. The most common items on the to do list are losing weight, getting fit, eating right. Maybe you are resolved to spend more time with family or give more time/money to charity. Whatever it is, if you focus on doing the right things rather than being the kind of person who does those kinds of things, chances are high you'll end up frustrated. However, if you direct your attention to being the right kind of person and allow your actions to flow out of who you are, you'll have a better chance of success.

So...what is it you are looking to change this year? I hope you'll join me on this journey.

Not so Thankful for Thanksgiving

2012-11-21T10:05:00.001-06:00

I love Thanksgiving. I can't say I've always loved the traditional Thanksgiving Day meal and I know I didn't like the parade when I was little ("GEEZE, do we really have to watch that AGAIN? And eat that AGAIN?? And have turkey and dressing with gravy the next day, too??") But, with only one exception (that I can remember), I have eaten the traditional Thanksgiving Day meal my entire (food eating) life. Although I was about two months old for my first Turkey Day, my grandmother probably still fed me off her plate, so I could be talking about 41 out of the last 42 years (tomorrow will be 43).

Traditional meal means: turkey (and for the last 10 or so years that means injected with Cajun Butter and deep fried!), dressing (NOT stuffing...), gravy, deviled eggs, sweet potato casserole (with toasted marshmallows on top), cranberry sauce and rolls with butter. The "extras" have varied slightly...mac and cheese, pecan pie, oreo pie, banana pudding, mashed potatoes, 5 Cup salad, peas, green bean casserole, pumpkin pie...you get the picture.

Well in November 2009 I was diagnosed with Hashimoto's Thyroiditis, an auto immune disorder. I started doing some research and (because of A LOT of different factors) I got tested for food "allergies"/intolerances. I did a test run, (VERY STRICTLY) cutting every single thing on my "list" of "bad" food out of my diet. About a week later I had lost three pounds and was feeling better than I had in a long, LONG time. No more sinus issues, no more headaches, no more bloating and gas, no more diarrhea, no more swollen joints. And...my run times started getting faster because I could breath better. The first time I had a little bit of something on that list, I had an immediate reaction. (It was butter, my nose started POURING and then I started coughing from the drainage.)

For the last two and a half years I have tried being very strict, just eating a little of this or that on the list every now and then. I've also completely fallen off the food wagon for several days at a time. I've tried to pretend it's not that bad and all in my head, but it's really hard to ignore what ends up coming out of my body when I eat "poorly"...just saying. It's interesting because I'll eat something I think is fine and my nose will start to stop up. I'll go back and look at the ingredients of the thing that should have been just fine only to see some form of milk in there.

I've had constant confirmation it's not psychological...and yet, I don't WANT to believe it. I wake up with a terrible headache and think, "people have headaches for other reasons..." but...how can I ignore the fact that when I'm eating "well" I don't usually have headaches, or gas (yes, seriously)?? How can I ignore the fact that when I am eating "well" (the right amounts of the right kinds of food), I can move my joints freely and have energy but when I have a "treat" my hands swell up and the scale shows an extra three pounds? (Yes, seriously, three pounds...and, no, I didn't eat 10,500 extra calories to gain them!)

Thanksgiving 2010 was at my sister-in-law's house for the big FOOD day; I brought my own lunch. Salad greens, no-butter turkey, raw almonds, salad dressing with no garlic, egg or dairy (do you have any idea how hard that is to find without making your own??), and I had Skittles for desert. I was so proud of myself. I resisted and I felt great, physically. But it came at a cost. I missed out on the TASTE of all that good food!! Sure, there are substitutes, but they aren't the same. No-cajun-butter-turkey, and sweet potatoes with no marshmallows are NOT even close to the same.

Sometimes I think I "need" to eat "bad" to remind me why I restrict myself 90ish% of the time... You know, "remember, THIS doesn't feel good..." The problem is, the worst of the effects aren't immediate but the good taste of the food is. Sure, it may only there for a few seconds (until the next bite goes in), but it's instantaneously rewarding. However, the fall-out on my body is far reaching. Not just heartburn, headaches, gas, bloating, diarrhea, three extra pounds for a few days (due to inflammation...yes, sometimes it really is "just water"...), irritability, pimple out-breaks...there is emerging "evidence" that these immune responses** are the "cause" of auto-immune problems (including the one I have, Hashimoto's Thyroiditis).

**Let me be clear. I had a blood test (which some experts have said is not reliable, and others swear by) that showed a list of foods which cause an IgG immune response in my body. An "allergy" in the traditional sense of the word is an IgE response. I'm not saying headaches and gas are immune responses...but it's interesting that the foods on my list cause bodily "issues" that I don't see with other foods.

Last year I ate the Thanksgiving meal. I was very careful leading up to the big day because I had a 5K race that morning and I wanted to do well (and I did!). But that afternoon, I thew caution to the wind and ate the turkey and dressing and eggs and banana pudding and Oreo pie. And it all tasted delicious. I knew the effects would pass, and they did.

Last Friday night I ate PIZZA. It was delicious. I got up early the next morning and ran 12 miles and it hurt WAY more than it would have if I had eaten plain grilled chicken and steamed veggies. As I ran, I thought about that pizza and tried to decide if the temporary taste was worth what I was going through. And, I tried to decide how I could really KNOW that particular run would have felt better otherwise. Maybe it still would have felt just as bad?

Thanksgiving is tomorrow. I feel like either way I'll lose. If I don't eat all the yummy food, I lose the desired experience of delicious food but I also lose the undesired ill effects (all temporary, unless it really does trigger the immune response responsible for preventing my body from fighting off cancer.....yes, seriously, that's what some people are saying). If I eat the food I lose what I view as self-control and honor for my body. (And I as I type this my taste buds are SCREAMING, "WE ARE PART OF THE BODY TOO!!! WE COUNT FOR SOMETHING!!!")

Yes, there are substitute foods, but they aren't the same. Keep in mind, we aren't talking about gluttony and I'm not talking about wanting to snort cocaine. It's food. "Healthy" food. (Hey, banana pudding has milk and bananas in it...). I work out A LOT. WAY MORE THAN AN AVERAGE PERSON. Let's be clear, I work out enough that I "should" be able to eat WAY more food than I really do. I have the metabolism of a snail....maybe of a rock. But I'm not talking about amounts of food, and I'm not talking about eating a "treat" (like no-milk chocolate chips or an occasional spoonful of no-milk cake frosting). I'm talking about eating "normal food" that my body doesn't like as much as my taste buds do! Is it worth it?? More to the heart of what's going on inside of me...is it a sin?

Am I the Only One...

2012-01-21T08:33:00.000-06:00

...who thinks high school SUCKED??

My 25th class reunion is coming up. Thanks to FaceBook people are coming out of the woodwork to get re-connected. I'm not going to lie, I'm somewhat looking forward to the reunion, but mainly in the hopes of gaining some new understanding of who I was then. I don't have a lot of memories from high school. It felt sort of like an out-of-body experience for me, but one in which I didn't know what I was watching.

Even though I can't wait to see a bunch of people I haven't laid eyes on in 25 years and awkwardly talk about my Cinderella life (so thankful I'm in the "lived happily ever after" part of the story now!), what I don't understand is how so many people can be talking (on FaceBook) about how much fun they had back then. I'd rather shoot myself in the face than have to go back to those high school days. Teenagers are just plain MEAN. If you didn't have that experience, you were probably on the bully side of the equation. It reminds me of a recent Big Bang Theory episode...here's a clip:

You know the truth is, even as mean as kids were...I wasn't a bulls-eye target for their "fun". Mean kids weren't the bane of my teenage existence. I had a more-than-just-a-little-bit horrible home life. School was my respite from home...but it wasn't the warm, cozy, happy place a girl could find comfort and solace. It was more like jumping from the fire into the frying pan full of hot oil. Both home and school burned, just in different ways.

It's ironic, in my senior year I was in Advanced Placement English. At the end of the year, our teacher, Mrs. Young (one of the few I remember) gave out the "APE" awards. Everyone in the class got one for something. Mine was called the "Gameplayer" award (affectionately dubbed the "Brown-noser" by my peers). I didn't realize I was doing it, but apparently raising my hand for every question, doing all the work I was tasked to do and being passionate about my performance was not exactly expected and/or normal for a 17 year old. I remember feeling slapped in the face. As if all my hard work had been for naught.

I had a few boyfriends (well...only one boyfriend and a few other guys I went out with or liked). I had a few girls I would have called "friends" but not anyone I spent any real time with after 10th grade. Having the "hidden" home life I did made it almost impossible to genuinely connect with other people. I wasn't allowed to do the things other kids did (parties, hanging out ((AKA loitering)), oh, I don't know, drive myself to and from work...). I think my dad believed if I had any real connections, someone might figure out what was going on behind closed doors at home.

To make high school awkwardness worse, I decided to start college my senior year. I went 1/2 day to high school and then went to UALR the other half of the day. I didn't fit in at either place. I started college as a 16 year old. I fully missed out on my last year of high school. I just wanted to be out and done with it all. I didn't go to parties or dances or even to prom. (The night of my prom I had a date with a 28 year old man...can you say CREEPY??!!) I thought it didn't matter...and yet, all these years later it seems like it does...like I missed out on something everyone else loved so much. It's like I had a completely different experience of high school than everyone else.

Surely I'm not the only one....

My Romans 7 Life

2011-12-24T09:22:00.000-06:00

....If you don't know Romans 7, this won't really make any sense at all...

What then shall I say? That the list of "allergy" food is intrinsically bad? By no means! Yet if it had not been for the list, I would not have known what was causing me to feel so bad. For I would not have known what it was that was keeping me so swollen if the list had not said, “You shall not eat dairy (et al).” But those foods, seizing an opportunity through the list, produced in me all kinds of cravings. For apart from the list, food is just food. I was once as healthy as I could be apart from the list, but when the list came, cravings came alive and I realized how sick those foods were making me. The very list that promised a healthy life proved to be death to me. For those foods, seizing an opportunity through the list, enticed me and through it are killing me. So food is good, and the list is helpful to me.

Did that which is good, then, bring death to me? By no means! It was those certain foods, producing sickness in me through what is good, in order that those foods might be shown to be bad foods, and through the list might become unhealthy beyond measure. For we know that food is healthy, but I have raging antibodies, because my immune system has gone haywire. For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not eat what I know is healthy, but I eat the very thing I know will make me sick. Now if I eat what I know will make me sick, I agree with the list, that it is correct. So now it is no longer I who eat those foods, but the cravings that dwell within me. For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to eat what is healthy, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not eat the good food I want, but the unhealthy food I do not want is what I keep on eating. Now if I eat what I do not want, it is no longer I who eat it, but cravings that dwell within me.

So I find it to be true that when I want to eat right, cravings lie close at hand. For I delight in the list of allergy foods, in my inner being, but I see in my body another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of cravings that dwells in my stomach. Wretched woman that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, I myself believe the list with my mind, but with my flesh I serve the law of cravings.

Living a Romans 7 Life--the Backstory

2011-12-24T07:56:00.000-06:00

I woke up this morning with a pounding headache...my ears were ringing out of my head...my throat felt like I'd been swallowing glass...my whole body throbbed as if I'd been hit by a truck.

I want to believe this is just a random illness. I picked up some bug through no fault of my own. It will run its course, or at worst I'll need to take some medicine to make this thing leave my body. Either way, I didn't invite this virus in and had nothing to do with its invasion on my members.

However...there's the little matter of cookie and cake which I simply can not ignore, no matter how hard I want to try.

Two years ago I started trying to lose weight. I started walk/running (in January) every other day and watched every bite of food I ate. I tried various different ways of eating...low calorie, eating several small "meals" a day therefore spreading my calories out "responsibly", Zone diet, I even tried eating a little more calories than what I believed would allow me to lose weight (because a real nutritionist told me I wasn't eating enough and my body was in starvation mode). Nothing was taking even ONE pound off, much less the 20ish I wanted to lose. Okay, honestly, it was more than vanity, I was tested at 31% body fat, the 20 pounds NEEDED to be lost. But nothing was working.

Through a series of events I finally went to see a doctor who ran a blood test to determine if I had any food allergies or sensitivities. I don't remember now if it was a RAST or an ELISA test, but it came back positive for ALL dairy (both beef and goat), beef, avocado, peanut, egg, dill, barley and garlic. (The doctor told me since barley was on the list, I might be sensitive to all gluten.) I had a lot of discussions with Dr. Google whose knowledge is far and wide, sometimes reaching the outer planes of what most people would consider reasonable.

I decided to allow experience to be my guide. I went all in and eliminated every single item from my diet COMPLETELY (with still maintaining the same calorie intake). The first week I lost about 5 pounds!! After the second week I felt better than I could remember feeling in a very long time. Every time I would eat something on that list of foods I would gain about 3 pounds and either feel sick to my stomach or would swell up or have a terrible headache, or a combination of maladies. I became convinced "food hangovers" were indeed REAL, and the list of foods to avoid was a good thing, not a limit on my dietary freedoms.

So why is it, if I was "convinced", I have continued to test my dietary limits? I'd love to blame it on my Prince, the fact he can't seem to be supportive in the changes in my meal plan. (Do you want some eggs for breakfast? Would you like some pizza? YYYUUUMMMMMYYYY ice cream...do you want some?) I think I know how Eve must have felt in the garden that fateful day. Just saying. But...I know the truth is I make the decision to eat "forbidden foods" more often than what he has any influence over.

I used to view eating those foods as a treat. I would set up a meal as a reward. For instance, as I was getting ready to run the Mardi Gras Half Marathon, I decided I would be very careful about what I ate...until after the race, then Katie bar the door Momma was gonna EAT!! I expected to feel bad, but convinced myself those beignets, po boys and buttery Aunt Sally's pralines were WORTH the inevitable "hangover". I basically ate what ever I wanted, and then some for three days and was mildly sick (in comparison to the amount of food I ate) for about a week. If you asked me at the end of the week if it was worth it I may still have said yes, but not with the same gusto I would have had given sitting at Cafe de Monde the Monday morning after the race!

It became a habit for me...after "big" races I would "treat" myself to a meal I had been missing. After I ran the McKay Hollow course I had Mexican. After the Long Course Training Camp I ate pizza. After Rocket Man I ate steak. After Rocket City I ate a hamburger. The way I saw it, I was probably going to feel a little bad after racing, so I might as well eat "good" food (thinking the soreness from racing would mask the ill effects of the food...a little causation confusion if you will).

The problem is none of these foods cause SEVERE reactions. I don't go into anaphylatic shock or anything like that. Sometimes I don't even seem to get sick at all. That is the very reason I ended up eating an America's Greatest Cookie Factory cookie and what ended up being a huge piece of cake yesterday. See...night before last I had a little bite of cake and it didn't seem to do anything to me...so, as is often the case, I decided the list was a bunch of hooey and stuffed my face with yum-ness.

And here I am, once again, wondering, could these symptoms I'm feeling be a random virus, a coincidence? I just happened to get sick at the same time I ate cake. Again. Funny how in a year and a half I haven't gotten sick that I can remember at any other time...all the random virus attacks have coincided with eating food off that darned list.

....

Once Upon a Time, Four Years Ago...

2011-06-29T19:11:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, in a land not far from here, lived a lady named Dana. Even though her life resembled that of some other fairy tale princesses (she was a step-daughter and an alien in a land not her home), she was instead a commoner.

You see, throughout most of her youth, Dana longed for the love of a man. Her heart mistakenly believed that the right Prince would bring happiness and fulfillment. And so she searched, experiencing disappointment after disappointment, emptiness after emptiness, void after void. After a second failed attempt at "happily ever after," a new realization dawned upon her.

She discovered (or re-discovered) that she had indeed been adopted by the King Himself. This All-Powerful and All-Wise King showered her with love and the fullness of His riches. As she lived in the completeness of that love, Dana's heart slowly changed, and she longed instead only for that special relationship with her King. However unhappy her life had been before, she now lived with joy and peace surpassing all understanding, regardless of the circumstance in which she happened to find herself. Dana was content to spend the rest of her life sheltered in that love ... but the King had other plans.

In that season of joy and contentment, the King decided to introduce a prince from a far away land. Dana immediately sensed the possibility of more "happily ever after" and pleaded with the King to change His plans. She assured her Liege that she no longer sought the love of a man. The King smiled, knowing her better than she knew herself, and He asked her to trust Him ... which she did.

Prince Dwayne and Not-Princess Dana met through the orchestrations of the King, and they began a courtship filled with excitement and travel. Living in lands far away from each other meant more conversations than dates. And, as the King knew would happen, the conversations turned to knowing and knowing turned to love ... deep love.

In time, a year after the introduction, Prince Dwayne asked for Not-Princess Dana's hand in marriage, which she gave willingly. Reality beset the fairy tale as questions arose: Where would they be wed? Where would they live? How would their friends and families attend since they lived so far apart from one another?

As the questions mounted, the couple postponed making any firm plans. After all, the King would provide direction at the right time, as He always had.

One day shortly thereafter, when Prince Dwayne visited Not-Princess Dana, they strategized on how to best spend their time together. Not-Princess Dana had planned to meet with her personal physical fitness trainer early in the morning for her twice-weekly torture session (as she liked to call it). Then her responsibilities at the honorable job provided by the King beckoned to her. She was truly grateful for the job, and always strove to honor her King while performing her duties, but she had the undeniable feeling that her life lay in another direction.

Prince Dwayne, being a bit of a scoundral, suggested she skip the torture and the job and wile the day away eating grapes and cheese with him. Ever the pragmatist, Not-Princess Dana reminded him of her obligations, even though she secretly wished there could be a way for this fairytale day to happen.

Prince Dwayne, not being one to give up easily, suggested that if the trainer didn't show up, they should take it as a sign from the King and fly off to a distant land and be married that very day.

Not-Princess Dana laughed, heartily, knowing the torturer/trainer had never failed to show for his session. Although she desperately wanted the magical day to materialize, she knew it wouldn't, given the nearly impossible obstacles they faced.

She smelled the magic pixie dust as their carriage arrived at the den of torture, only to witness the inexplicable absence of a trainer that never failed to show up.

With magic in the air, Prince Dwayne and Not-Princess Dana deliberated over breakfast, contemplating travel and ceremonies. Fortunately, the magic prevailed, causing them to see that precious time would be lost travelling, more plans would have to be made, stress would increase, and so on and so forth. Instead, they called the local court officials and made an appointment to be wed that afternoon.

Not-Princess Dana begged leave of her employer and began preparing her dressing gowns, while Prince Dwayne scurried off to secure a bouquet of beautiful flowers for his bride.

Without pomp or circumstance, plans or stress, the couple were joined in marriage on that very day.

And, with the continued blessing of the King, they are still living happily ever after....three years later.

Being a Hammer

2011-06-24T10:26:00.000-05:00

I had a very interesting conversation this morning with my darling husband. I've been struggling lately (story of my life). I'm in the middle of a triathlon training group (Tri201). I think middles of anything are difficult for me. Beginnings are pretty easy--I'm excited about what ever it is I'm doing. I'm pumped up and raring to go. Beginnings are full of possibility. Endings are fairly easy, too. The end of whatever it is I'm doing is in sight and I can devote myself to finishing strong.

Middles are a different story. The new has worn off. It's usually more of the same of whatever it is. The end isn't near enough to spur me on.

Middles are a struggle for me. I begin to question what I'm doing. Why I'm doing it. By the middle I've forgotten what triggered the start and the end is too far away to be a motivation. It feels like the end will never arrive. Middles are work.

This morning I was in the middle of verbally processing (read: babbling on about something I don't quite understand trying to say enough words for it to make sense) when my dear husband gave me a great word picture.

He asked me to imagine a tape recorder and a hammer. They are both tools used for very different purposes. Obviously the tape recorder records and plays back...the hammer drives nails (among other things). If the recorder "thinks" it needs to drive nails, it's going to break if it tries...and the hammer will never be able to record no matter what it does. And if each of these tools strives to be like the other they are missing their individual calling.

Furthermore...the hammer doesn't need a nail to be a hammer. The tool wielder will use the hammer as He sees fit....for the job He needs it for. It's not up to the hammer to a) try to be something it's not, or b) to find the nail to drive...it's just called to be a hammer and to be ready to be used.

Middles are hard for me because I miss the excitement of "learning to be a hammer" and I'm not quite ready to "drive nails"....I'm just "sitting in the tool box" BEING a hammer.

Callie

2011-03-31T12:56:00.000-05:00

I know...it's been close to four months since I've written anything on this blog. Like everyone, I've been insanely busy! I've been writing some on my running blog. And...I'm on a Hood to Coast relay team!! I won't go into that here, but check out our team's blog.

So...what was so important to get me on here today??? My talented husband has written a story that I love (as usual). He wanted to enter a writing contest with a theme of "baggage claim"...and this is a link to his story....http://convozine.com/zine/mar-challenge/c/11208. It's not a popularity contest, so you reading it (or clicking on it, or liking it, or tweeting it) doesn't impact the judging (from what we know)...but it's just a great story, so naturally I wanted to share it with you all!!

One of these days I'll have time to write!
:D

Powerless

2011-01-09T07:54:00.000-06:00

I woke up this morning thinking about what it means to be "powerless". ((If you're wondering why, just read my last blog entry....the first step is to admit I'm powerless over food.))

My first thought was a TV. A TV can't turn on without being connected to a power supply. But as humans, we can function without God's power. We are alive, we move around, we think... So the TV analogy doesn't fit very well. Then I considered my laptop. I plug it in until the battery is charged and then unplug it to carry it around (mainly to Starbucks!) so I can write (or web surf) where ever I please....until the battery runs down and it needs to be charged again.

On its own, the laptop is powerless. It must have an external power source.

On my own, I am powerless. "Where does my help come from?" (Psalm 121:1). What does that mean, particularly concerning food? That means when I go to the kitchen and I NEED food to fuel my body, if left to my own devices, I will choose butter and sugar in my oatmeal, or maybe even cake, for breakfast. (Cake has eggs and flour...two things I shouldn't have...let alone sugar and no protein.) Is it wrong to have butter (fake butter for me) and sugar in my oatmeal, or even to have cake for breakfast? No...that's not what I'm saying. But, for me, it's not the best choice. (To use yet another analogy, it's like putting regular gas in my car that has a turbo engine. The car will still run, but it would eventually build up gunk, and mess up the something or other and make the engine light come on. Obviously I don't know a lot about exactly why regular gas isn't the best for the car, but you get the picture!)

In 2 Corinthians 12 Paul talks about the thorn in his flesh. He says it was given to him as "...a messenger of Satan to torment me-to keep me from exalting myself!" We don't know what that "thorn" was, but it was something Paul was powerless over. He asked God "three times" to take it from him. God's response: "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness." Paul goes on to say he will boast of his weakness "so that the power of Christ may dwell in me."

I think Paul didn't admit defeat to the weakness. He didn't give in to what ever it was. He simply admitted that he, by his own strength, was powerless over it. He couldn't make it go away on his own. He couldn't handle it on his own. He was able to rest in his weakness because of his faith in the almighty power of his creator. He knew God's strength was sufficient. Paul still had to live with the thorn. He still had to deal with the effects of the thorn, whatever it was. If it was some kind of pain, he still felt it. For me, I will still have to deal with the desire for certain foods (**unless God removes it from me completely).

That's where the power cord comes in...I am powerless over my desire for food, but God is bigger than that desire. He made my body need food to function. Food isn't bad in and of itself. However, just like regular vs. premium gas, there is a better option of fuel for breakfast than cake. So I will admit I am powerless over food and ask God for His strength to make a better choice for breakfast. The tricky part is to step out in faith and eat that better choice "knowing" it will satisfy my body's need for fuel.

I remember being in a sticky situation one time, a time of extreme temptation. I looked up 1 Corinthians 10:13: "...God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it." Immediately SEVERAL ways of dealing with the situation I was in came to mind. Not just one way out, but SEVERAL. Instead of choosing any one of those SEVERAL escape routes, I tried to bear up the temptation by my own strength, and naturally lost out to it.

When I go into the kitchen this morning, I will be faced with all kinds of choices for breakfast. If I go mindlessly I will most likely eat the worst thing in there (for me). Instead, I will boast of my weakness, admit that I'm completely powerless over food, and ask God for His strength. I'll not lean on my own understanding, but in all of my ways I will submit to Him (Proverbs 3:5-6). Then, by His strength, I'll choose from the good-for-me options and thank Him for giving me the power to eat well.

****
Let me take a pause here and just try to explain some things for those of you who don't have a "thorn" you can readily identify and are trying to understand my "thorn". My thorn really isn't food. That is the way it manifests itself at this moment in my life, as it has been many other times. But my "thorn" has taken many shapes in the past: alcohol, the "need" for affirmation from men, my job and the need to excel in order to feel a measure of significance. I think a thorn can be anything I focus on more than I focus on God, anything that takes me away from Him and who I am in Him, anything I think His power and might "can't" conquer. That may or may not make a lot of sense, I just don't want anyone to get caught up in the fact that because I'm talking about issues with food this post doesn't apply to everyone. I think we ALL have "thorns" they just might look vastly different.

**Also, there have been many "thorns" in my past which God saw fit to completely remove from me. But, make no mistake, the manifestations might look different, but a thorn is a thorn. I think that's probably why Paul's thorn was never explicitly defined or identified.
****

Paying the Landlord

2011-01-03T22:03:00.000-06:00

I love the pastor at my church. Not in a freaky sort of way...like in the "I love chocolate" kind of way. Week after week he comes up with sermons that are not only scripturally accurate and solid, but that somehow manage to dig down to the core of my being and force me to examine myself in light of truth. On top of that, he's (dare I say) ...entertaining!! It's nice to go to a church service I don't have to pump myself full of coffee, or prop my eyes open with toothpicks, to get through. More than that, it's "nice" to go to a church that keeps me thinking all week.

Last Sunday, in the midst of a great message, he shared an analogy whose deeper meaning will forever change me.

Imagine you are living in an apartment. Day after day the landlord bangs on your door demanding more and more rent...which you have no choice but to pay. One day someone shows up and tells you he has a condo waiting for you that has been bought and paid for in full--all you need to do is move. Naturally you load up the U-Haul...but just as you're putting the final picture on your new wall, the old landlord bangs on your door demanding to be paid.

This is an illustration of Romans 6. In a nutshell, when we are "saved", we are no longer slaves to sin. The problem is we sometimes still "pay the landlord" even though we don't owe him anything. We were challenged on Sunday to prayerfully examine our lives, asking God to reveal any sin areas that need to be dealt with.

I have known for quite a long time one major are of sin in my life is gluttony. I don't eat to live...for a long time I have lived to eat. Sure, I've tried to break this cycle many times. For the last seven months I've had some external "forces" that have "assisted" me in breaking my addiction to food (allergies). There's a sense in which we are all addicted to food because, yes, we all have to eat to live. But, I go WAY beyond just satisfying a basic need to fuel my body. Truth be told, I worship food.

If I were addicted to heroine or alcohol or cigarettes, you'd applaud my admission. I could join an "anonymous" group and 12-step myself to freedom. I started to say there's not a program for food addiction...but, alas, Overeaters Anonymous has proven me wrong. However, my point is most people look at me like I'm crazy when I say I'm addicted to food....like I've said I'm addicted to breathing air! The worst part is, I KNOW I don't look the part. I'm at the point in my life I can even call myself "thin". So it makes it that much harder to confess my sin. To make matters even worse, because I'm a runner, it's not like I can avoid eating. I have to fuel my work outs. But, I think anyone would agree...fuel doesn't have to look like this:

I used to believe I had no power over food. In the analogy it would be like giving all my bank account information to the landlord. The truth is, because of what Christ did for me on the cross...there is NO sin-including gluttony-that has any power over me at all.

I'm living in the condo...and I'm going to open the door that landlord is banging on and tell him to get lost!!!

Helios

2010-11-16T07:11:00.000-06:00

My husband has taken to writing short stories. He's written one full novel, and has started at least three others, but has published two short stories now, with a third and possibly fourth one waiting to be printed, on top of all the ones he's written that are waiting like diamonds waiting to be mined.

The one he just finished, however, is WAY too good to keep short. It's my all time favorite story he's ever written. I think I've said that every time he's finished a new one, but this one is HANDS DOWN the best. It's not only that he's becoming a better writer, it's also the nature of the story and the overall content.

My darling husband has a knack for story telling. He is a big picture kind of guy so he's able to make some connections in a story that link things together in a way that most people only dream about. I can remember in high school when we'd study a story and all these connections would be made-symbols of this or that-and I'd think we were all just maybe reading too much into the story....but my wordsmith husband has proven me wrong time and time again, but never more so than this time.

I am in the process of begging and pleading him to develop it into a full blown novel because I'm POSITIVE this one would quickly be published, and turned into a movie, and give us the second home in Venice that currently exists only in my dreams. It's that good. It really is. As it's written now, it's only 4400 words, but it could easily be expanded to 44K, even 88K and probably still leave me thirsty for more.

Please, darling....if you love me, write the NOVEL version of this tale. I NEED that house in Venice so when we go over for the Venice marathon we'll have a place to stay!! Because we know it's really all about me.

I love you.

I'M BEING ARRESTED!!

2010-10-06T20:00:00.000-05:00

Yes, you read that right. I'm being ARRESTED!!! I'm being locked up for "good" and your donation is my key to freedom!!

Before you decided I've completely lost my mind and stop reading....let me explain. It's for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. I've chosen to participate in their fund-raising effort by agreeing to be locked up on November 17th. In order to be released, I need to raise $3200 in bail money!

I'll be honest, the only thing I knew before today about muscular dystrophy was...well, nothing. I started to say I knew about Jerry's kids, but I think if you'd have asked me yesterday, I wouldn't have been able to tell you his telethons were for MDA. After I got the call saying a friendly warrant had been issued for my arrest, I did the geek thing I do-research.

Turns out, muscular dystrophy isn't just one thing...the muscular dystrophies (MD) are a group of more than 30 genetic diseases characterized by progressive weakness and degeneration of the skeletal muscles that control movement. There's no treatment or cure and no way to reverse the diseases. There are some therapies and drugs that are used to treat the effects of the various diseases.

According to the Muscular Dystrophy Association website,

MDA is the world's largest non-governmental sponsor of research seeking the causes of and effective treatments for neuromuscular diseases, sponsoring 330 research projects annually.

There are so many different causes that are asking for your money these days. We have all been hit by one disease or another either personally or through a friend or family member. Obviously, the charities that raise awareness or sponsor research for those nearest and dearest to our hearts will also be the ones that reach into our pocket books as well.

Allow me to tell you why it is you should click on my bail raising link and help to raise funds to research these diseases. Because if you're reading this blog, chances are you either run now, did run at some point in time, or want to run some time in the future. Children and adults who are most severely hit by MD aren't afforded that luxury. These diseases rob people of the joy you and I know that comes with running. There is constant ongoing research looking at everything from how to eradicate these diseases to how to most effectively treat them. But, that costs money.

Ultimately, my goal is to raise $3,200 for "bail" by November 17th at 2pm, but that's the "marathon" if you will. I have been told that one hour of research costs just $74. Therefore, I have a preliminary goal to raise $74 in 74 hours (that's my "one mile" mark).

I know all too well how easy it is to put off making a donation when things like this pop up--I am the QUEEN of procrastination. But, won't you consider CLICKING THE LINK and making a donation that will help me make it the first mile of my marathon...and help MDA get closer to a "cure"??

Am I Lazy?

2010-08-08T06:18:00.000-05:00

Yes, I think it's true. I think I'm just lazy.

I have good ideas, and great intentions, but just not the wherewithall to follow through on some of my plans. That is the very reason I've set the goal to run a marathon in December. It's a goal that can't be easily met, and requires planning and focus and FOLLOW THROUGH.

I started writing a fiction novel a little over a year ago....and just can't seem to finish it. But, the truth is, it's really not the story I want to tell. The "real story" I want to write about is my own. I have a lot of very good friends that have encouraged me to sit down and write my memoir....and it is truly my heart's desire to do so. But, I think I'm just lazy. It's going to be a hard story to tell. It's going to be tough to rehash some things I think I'd rather just leave in the past.

In order to write the story well I'll certainly dive back into some left-over emotions that I left behind long ago. Like taking a box out of the attic and sorting through old photographs... And, I think I'm just lazy. It's going to be work. Hard work.

I got to meet a dear blogger who I called friend long before I met her in person for a (LONG) lunch this past week. We talked about my running blog a little bit and it got me to thinking. I started that blog as a sort of on-line, public, log of my progress. I am completely obsessed with running and love it with every muscle fiber in my body as well as every synapse in my mind! I love writing about all things running, and it comes very easy to me. I sit down (usually after a run/work out) and the words just flow right out of my fingers. I don't usually even have to think about what I'm saying (and, yes, the readers can tell). Most of the time, I'm not really writing for anyone other than myself. Sad, but very true.

The novel I started was completely (well, almost completely) for "others". Romantic fiction is not something I really have any interest in at all but the story came to me and I started writing. I like the story....but it's getting harder to get the words out. I know what I want to say, but it's getting harder to put it all together. And...well...I think I'm just lazy. I don't want to invest the time it's going to take to finish it. I'd rather go for a run, or a swim and write about that. Or even write a post about new runners' race strategies and tips. That's easy.

It's the same thing with my training. I want to sign up for a marathon training group, but I'm scared I won't be able to cut it. I have to start out with six miles at a pace of 12:30 and I just don't know if I can do it or not. I "need" to go find out, but I'm just .....lazy? No, I'm scared. I'm scared I "can't" do it. It's the same with the story. I'm scared that the truth is that it's just complete garbage. No amount of anyone telling me, "you're a good writer" will change what I think about myself.

I'm not lazy. I'm afraid of what I can't do. That fear keeps me stuck, holds me back, keeps me from finding out what I CAN do. That fear keeps me from working toward a goal. That fear has me shoot for shorter goals, whether that's an easier run or an easier story to tell. That fear makes sure I don't get hurt by failure by not even allowing me to try. Ironically, not trying hurts more than not finishing.

I am not lazy...and I will not be scared any longer. But...just like my goal to run a marathon will take training and time to work up to...my writing will also take practice. I can't go out and run 26.2 miles today (especially not doing it well and still be in good shape the next day)...and I can't sit down to write "my story" (and do it well) right now. But, I will do it. I will do them both.

An Attempt At Fiction...

2010-07-22T14:58:00.000-05:00

I took this!! (This photo is copywritten, please do not use without permission.)

Last year I started writing a Christian romance novel. It's still not done but, I've decided to post what I've written so far in another blog called "Writer's Block" (the proposed name of the book). This is my first attempt at fiction, and romance is not the genre I intend to eventually be published under, but I've had fun writing it. Please go over there and check it out. I'll be posting new installments each day until I get caught up to where I've stopped writing. Depending on feedback I'll either scrap the whole idea or keep on with the project. Please be brutally honest, even if you post comments anonymously, I want to hear what you have to say!! (Questions about plot or characters may be answered later in the story, but go ahead and ask anyway.) Thank you so much for your help developing me as a writer!! :D

"...you must master it."

2010-07-17T14:24:00.002-05:00

I was diagnosed with Hashimoto's Thyroiditis back in November. I was told this is an auto immune condition where my body is attacking my thyroid. I was told I'll need to take Synthroid the rest of my life. I was also told there's no explanation for why this happens.

In my quest to figure out for myself why this is happening to me (as if I can explain something doctors have been trying for years to understand), I stumbled upon the theory that food allergies might cause the body's immune system to go haywire thereby causing any number of auto immune responses. I went and had a blood test done looking for allergies, and was given two lists. One was a list of foods that elicit an Immunoglobin G (IgG) response, the other list of foods cause an Immunoglobin E (IgE).

Even after spending days pouring over all the information on the internet, I can't say I have a handle on what all this means, but the little card I got from the lab that did the test said I needed to not eat the following foods:

Avocado
Barley
Beef
Milk (cow's)--including all cow's milk cheeses
Milk (goat's)--including all goat's milk cheeses
Coconut
Dill
Garlic
Peanut
Egg

I pretty much immediately stopped all of these foods. I had been "preaching" to a friend of mine who had just gotten her own list of "off-limits" foods how she should feel good because she was going to start feeling better just by giving up some foods, so I had to step up and walk the talk. Within a couple of days I felt better than I have in a couple of years!

Even though I made sure to keep up my calorie intake, within a week I lost about three pounds (NOTE: I've been trying for six months to lose weight with NO success), and within two weeks I lost another four pounds! My sinuses were clearer than I can ever remember them being. I had energy that I haven't had in a very long time. My chronically swollen lymph node in my neck went down and my thyroid, that has been noticeably enlarged for about five years, shrunk.

Pretty amazing results.

And yet, here I am, about a month later, craving all those foods I "can't" have. I want to put Country Crock in my oatmeal. I want pizza. I want bread. I want a steak. I want cake. I want a Nutty Bar. And yet, every time I've eaten any of that stuff my nose runs, my throat hurts, and (sometimes) I wake up the next morning swollen up like a puffer fish!! I'm trying to remember that taste is temporary and the effects are lasting. More than that...those foods are damaging my body.

And yet, I want.

It feels like I will always feel this way. It feels like I will crave these things forever and that I'll never be able to eat any of these foods again (there is an indication after a period of time the foods can be reintroduced slowly).

I personally believe that this is something I am being called to overcome. Do I love my body and my well-being more than the taste of these foods? Am I willing to sacrifice a fleshly desire in order to gain better health? Am I willing to abstain from foods that certainly seem to be hurting me? Can I exhibit self-control over food? ...The jury is still out. For now, this verse is what I'll hold on to:

⁶Then the LORD said to Cain, "Why are you angry? And why has your countenance fallen?
⁷"If you do well, will not your countenance be lifted up? And if you do not do well, sin is crouching at the door; and its desire is for you, but you must master it."

Let me be clear-eating food is not a sin. I do believe lack of self control is. I believe my body is a temple and should be taken care of. I believe that to do otherwise is sin. I am not pointing a finger at anyone else or trying to tell anyone else how to live or what to do. This is personal. It's about me. All I really ask is that you wish me well in my quest. I'll keep you updated on my progress.

Mesmerizing Insanity

2010-06-26T16:34:00.000-05:00

Dwayne invading Dana's blog once again.

One afternoon, a little over three years ago, I received an email from eHarmony informing me of a potential match living in NW Arkansas. I checked the map and discovered that Springdale, AR was over 9 hours from Huntsville, AL. I knew I wasn't likely to make a 9 hour trip just to see a skinny, short-haired, goofy girl that liked to travel and eat at non-establishment, hole-in-the-wall restaurants. I could have closed the match (and she almost did from her side, but you'll have to get her to tell that story) and my life would have remained within the realms of sanity, but something drove me forward ... curiosity, divine providence, synaptical misfiring ... not sure, but I started reading her replies and, unknown to me at the time, the infection began.

If you're not familiar with how eHarmony works, then allow me briefly to explain. You start by filling out a massive questionnaire that digs into every area of your beliefs and psyche, then they "match" you with someone who seems to be a good fit. Obviously this is an inexact science, so there are protected stages of getting to know someone. If an initial match seems interesting, then you respond with a list of likes and dislikes, then questions and answers, and finally an email or two. At any stage you can decide things aren't to your liking and kill communication. Since it all takes place through their system, both sides remain somewhat anonymous.

During the Q&A stage, they offer an extensive list of prescripted questions, which most people use. I should have noticed the first sign of trouble when Dana wrote her own questions instead. This alone intrigued me, but even more so were the questions themselves. In retrospect, looking at those three questions on the screen was akin to Alice peering down the rabbit hole ... falling in was bewildering, exciting, emotional, confusing, maddening, and unbelievably satisfying.

Her first email was a tome of epic proportions. She "borrowed" the title of her blog, "Using 100 Words When 10 Would Suffice", from a novel I wrote, but it accurately describes her at that time (NOTE: Her writing now is much more focused and concise). As I navigated the uncertain waters of her initial letter, seeing flashes of brilliance coupled with vast spans of utter perplexity, the disease wormed deeper into my mind.

I could have ignored her. I could have deleted the match. I could have replied with, "Are you insane?" Instead I waded into the fray and answered her, point for point, matching her voluminous verbiage word for word, trying to make sense of her chaos.

Emails led to chats ... sessions in which we literally typed the exact same reply at the exact same time over and over again. I thought it was amazing at the time. Looking back, I now realize it was actually a side effect of the infection. How, I asked myself, could ALL OF THAT be going on inside her head at the same time?

And then we talked on the phone. I didn't like her voice at first because it reminded me of a friend's wife that had less than desirable mannerisms. That changed over time though, and now her voice makes me involuntarily smile (except when she's angry, and then I want to cut the grass). I initially thought her meandering, spaghettified lines of thought might be the product of a stream-of-consciousness writing technique. Wow, was I wrong! She spoke the same way, circles within circles, seemingly incoherent but somehow teetering on the edge of making sense, weaving a web that drew me in tighter and tighter.

And then we met.

Our first meal together was at Mike's Place in Conway, AR. We choose Conway, AR because, in part, it was three hours from her home, six hours from mine. That way if the worst ensued, we could both drive home. But the infection had other plans, and within 24 hours of meeting my wife-to-be for the first time in person, she laughed, stunned me with her beauty, collapsed into a bawling mess of emotional insecurity, waxed eloquent on topics from music to theology, and kissed me with the fattest tongue I've ever known in my life.

We dated for over a year, and with every lengthy drive from AL to AR, I foolishly thought I had a choice in the matter. You see, I had a knack for making sense of her seeming insanity. I've always been a "big picture" person, seeing patterns, discerning structures within apparent chaos, and as she talked, I saw what was underneath and it was ...

...

so beautiful!

The scars carved by a life of disappointment and imperfect love had made the path from her heart to her words so complex that what emerged seemed insane ... but it wasn't. And over the course of that year, God slowly, one episode at a time, allowed me to see through the maze. I caught glimpses of the truth from time to time, obscured by angry words or seemingly meaningless tangents, and knew her heart was not only one that resonated with mine, but it was so beautiful, so soft, so tender, so caring, so desirous of truth and purity that I was hopelessly mesmerized.

And then we married ... June 26, 2008.

The journey of understanding my wife has not ended. I come to know her a little better, trust her a little more, value her increasingly, every day. And to anyone else listening, she still babbles incoherently from time to time, but the Mesmerizing Infection allows me to understand her ... most of the time, anyway.

She cries hysterically at movies, screams with delight at the TV, greets me with a hug and kiss when I get home from work, makes me eat fish, steals the covers at night, loves my bald head, and likes to watch football. I may be infected, but if so it's with a disease I intend to die of.

Happy Anniversary, Dana. Life with you is indescribably good ... even on those increasingly rare moments when you make absolutely no sense at all!

My Three Fathers..Part One

2010-06-18T00:27:00.000-05:00

Biological

My main childhood memory of the man who provided half my genetic code is not his face at all. It is his electrician's belt. After searching though about 825 images, I was very disappointed to find Google doesn't seem to have my memory accurately depicted in their database. The closest it got was still not what was captured in my mind's eye. I remember it being dark brown leather with a thick leather belt strap and covered in pockets, slick and shiny from use, full of tools of his trade. He's not wearing it in my mind...it's just laying on the floor after being discarded from the day's use.

Interestingly enough the word that comes to mind is "utilitarian". I wanted to be sure that word means to Webster what it means in my mind, so I looked it up. One definition is basically "fitting some purpose/designed for use/worth to some end". That mostly fits what I had in mind. But as I dug further into the word, I found the definition of utilitarianism..."a doctrine that the useful is the good... the determining consideration of right conduct should be the usefulness of its consequences; specifically : a theory that the aim of action should be the largest possible balance of pleasure over pain or the greatest happiness of the greatest number."

Ironically, that definition fits what I have come to understand of my biological father better than what I originally had in mind. The determination of what constitutes "right conduct" should be based on the usefulness of its consequences. The aim of action should be "the largest possible balance of ...the greatest happiness of the greatest number."

If you had asked me twenty years ago, I would have said the part of that definition that represented him was "the largest possible balance of pleasure over pain"--his pleasure over his pain. Twenty years ago I didn't have children of my own.

My parents divorced when I was about five. (If you read the series of posts I wrote for my mom, now you can see why I said life changed a lot for me that year of my life.) My mom moved out of state; my brother and I moved with her. When she remarried, she gave us the choice of who we wanted to live with. I choose to stay with her. I didn't really know my biological father. He worked a lot....out of state. Between the time of the divorce and her remarriage, only a few mental images were added to the one of the tool belt...only a couple of which were actually happy memories of him.

I saw him only once after my choice was made, until 17 years more had passed. During that time the man my mother married, the man I called "Daddy" for most of my life, adopted me. In order for him to do this...my biological father had to relinquish his paternal rights.

At the time I believed this to be a matter of "the largest possible balance of pleasure over pain"--his pleasure over his pain.

I reconnected with him as an adult, well after I had two children of my own. He explained the decision to allow the word "step" to be removed from the relationship with my "Daddy". He believed it to be a matter of "the largest possible balance of ...the greatest happiness of the greatest number." He tearfully recounted to me the night he signed the papers. In his mind I had moved on just as my mother had. This man I had called Daddy for most of my life at that point had replaced him. He was certain that by signing over his legal rights, the pain it caused him would be overshadowed by the happiness it would surely give me, my mother and my Daddy.

For most of my life I believed my biological father had little concern for me, little concern for my happiness. I believed the decision he made was for reasons I won't mention here, but certainly not with an unselfish heart. I have come to believe, correctly or not, this sacrifice was made as an act of love for me.

Happy Father's Day...Dad. I love you.

What My Mother Has Done For Me

2010-05-09T16:26:00.000-05:00

All week I've planned on writing about the summer my mom spent living with me and my family.

The year after my dad died she came to live with us for the whole summer. She took care of the kids so we didn't have to send them to summer care, or hire an expensive baby sitter. You might think having your mother/mother-in-law live with you would not be the happiest of situations, but it was one of the best summers of my entire life. I've spent the week rehashing all the great memories of that time.

But something changed.

As I've spent the week writing about other things...all the wonderful things my mother is...I realized the best thing my mother has done (and does) for me is just simply to love me in the best way she can with all the love she has to give.

My mother has supported me in every thing I've ever done. She has always told me I could do whatever I set my mind to, and even when I'm sure she thought my mind was pointed in a direction that might not have been the best, she allowed me to make my own mistakes, knowing I would ultimately learn from my choices.

My mom has loved me like no one else on earth could love me, with a mother's love. This was something I never understood until I had children of my own. As my kids have grown, my understanding of this love has also matured.

Mother, I love you and I appreciate all you have done for me. Thank you.

Random Memories and Thoughts

2010-05-08T22:21:00.000-05:00

I have tomorrow's post planned out, but I want to save it for the "big day". As I was sitting here pondering what to write about today so many random thoughts and memories came to mind, I thought I'd make sort of blog collage.

My mom was a fantastic artist. I used to beg her to "draw me a horse". She had art books that I tried (unsucessfuly) to use to learn to draw. She drew really good faces.

My mom was the QUEEN of Random House magazine subscriptions and is the QUEEN of e-mail forwards.

My mom has always bought plants. I used to think she had as much of a black thumb as I do, but the truth is she's been able to keep a lot of things alive. She had rose bushes and a wisteria outside, and all kinds of various house plants inside, when I was growing up. Now, she's got a veritable botanical garden of things growing. She killed a lot of things, but, unlike me, she never gives up.

My mom is a consummate student. I remember her taking college classes when I was very young, with her books all spread out on the living room floor. She probably took every correspondence course there was to take when she was in the guard (always making perfect, or near perfect scores). She and my dad took Spanish two semesters. Whereas he couldn't remember how to say, "Hola" (he would usually say "Low-ha"), she made A+'s and could have taught the class!

My mom could play the piano, but she rarely ever did. We had an organ (I think she still has it), but I think I pretended to play more than she ever got on it. I loved to hear her play.

My mom had a little black French poodle named Pierre when I was little. She later owned a Siamese cat named Mai Tai. She now owns a teacup chihuahua named Chiquita.

My mother makes the best breaded porkchops and baked Corn-Flake chicken breasts.

My mother's laugh is contagious. So is her clap. When she laughs or claps, the whole world wants to join in. (Well, angry people don't like it because it makes them realize just how sad and pathetic they really are!) I realize more and more every day just how much like her I really am--especially when I'm "cheering" or laughing!!

My mom found out I had, uhum...cough..., "altered" my 7th grade report card (I changed my art grade from a D to a B and my French grade from a D to a C)....and she kept it a secret from my dad. She told me I had to 1) bring up the grades, and 2) NEVER do anything like that again, or she would rat me out. I did bring up the grades, and never did anything like that again....and, as far as I know, my dad never found out!

I had several boyfriends who told me they thought my mom was seriously hot, especially her legs!!

I really can't wait to write tomorrow's post.

I love you, Mother.

Letters Kept

2010-05-07T22:07:00.000-05:00

Believe it or not, no one in my family is the writing kind. It might be hard to fathom given the fact your reading my blog right now...but it's true. Letter writing, specifically, is just not something any of us do, no matter how far apart we are from one another, or for how long. However, when I was probably about seven years old, and staying with my father for the summer, I wrote my mom a letter. I told her all about how tan I was getting and how I was learning to dive into the swimming pool. The whole thing couldn't have been more than five sentences.

In the fifth grade I wrote another letter, but not to my mother. This one was addressed to Santa Claus. I had gotten into an argument with my best friend over the veracity of the toy-giver. I wanted conclusive proof of his existence so instead of allowing my mother to tell good old St. Nick of that year's toy desires, I wrote directly to him. I asked for a Bing Crosby White Christmas record. I explained to him it was of the utmost importance that he prove himself to be real with this one request. And, he did!! Christmas morning I burst into the living room and there it was, my album. I remember the elation, jumping up and down with giddy joy, to finally know for sure Santa Claus was certainly real. I called my friend and boasted to her about my irrefutable proof.

As clearly as I remember that morning, I also remember the events that took place months later when I found that very letter, the one that had been sent off to the North Pole, IN MY MOTHER'S PURSE! I was devastated. As an adult looking back, the careful planning it must have taken to convince a skeptical ten year old of Santa's undeniable existence far outweighs the one minor "mistake" of saving the letter. My mother could have won an Oscar that year when she feigned surprise over the "mystery" album under the tree. (I had intentionally not asked my parents for that particular item, in order to get the assurance I needed.) It was probably the same day I found that letter that I went in search of all my missing teeth, because no doubt if Santa wasn't real then neither was the Tooth Fairy!!

Many years after Santa-gate, I was given the opportunity to keep a letter of my own. I was spending the fall of my eighteenth year at Basic Combat Training. My name was announced at mail call, to receive an envelope from my mom. She told of home life, work, my dog and the cat. She gave encouragement and love in the form of her familiar writing on notebook paper. It couldn't have been more than five paragraphs.

I still have the letter in a box of keepsakes; I know my mom still has my letter to her. I'm not sure what happened to the one written to Santa. ...You don't think I TOLD her I found that letter, do you?? Hello? What child would give up extra presents???

When You Care Enough To Send The Very Best

2010-05-06T22:00:00.000-05:00

One thing I can count on for all major (and some minor) holidays from my mom....a perfectly worded Hallmark greeting card. Now I realize some people might think it's "easy" to find a perfectly worded card from Hallmark...but I personally do not find that to be a simple task. I have literally spent hours in the Gold Crown Shop searching for a card for a special someone only to come away empty handed and frustrated. My mother, on the other hand, can walk in, peruse the selection, and as expertly as Elizabeth Taylor can pick out diamonds, walk away with the exact card that pours forth all the emotions a heart can contain.

My mother has never had a hard time saying, "I love you"...but the cards she chooses don't just spout off trite platitudes. The greeting cards my mom sends are overflowing with artesian wellsprings of heartfelt emotion. Not the cards' creator's emotions, but my mother's emotions, pour out of the words on the card right into the heart of it's recipient.

Much like Pavlov's dog, I've grown so completely conditioned regarding the response one of my mother's cards brings, I am usually teary-eyed before I have even broken the golden seal of the envelope.

Mother, thank you for caring enough to send the very best. It really does mean more to me than I can even begin to express in words. Maybe there is a card for that, but I'm sure only you would be able to find it!