God

To try to define our relationship feels nearly impossible to do. To attempt to put to words that which is undefinable, indescribable, incapable of being tarnished, touched by the limits of words feels degrading to that which I hold in such high esteem.

You have been my calling ever since I could remember. You have been who I've always talked to, always connected with. You've been the One who has always understood me, even when I didn't understand myself. You have been my source of comfort, my source of strength and endurance through a myriad of hell-on-earth experiences that I have lived through. You have been what's kept me going.

You have promised me you will never leave me. I believe you. But I also don't feel you. As these days go on and on and it feels like you're on one side of the grand canyon and I'm on the other: divided by a chasm so deep and so wide that I can't see you.

In the place of peace, there is torment. In the place of joy, there is angst. In the place of rest, there is exhaustion. I am lost. It's not the weight of the world that is defeating me so. It's the weight of your absence in my days.

You come to me in my sleep. I know it's you. I wake up filled with your words. My voice is filled with our songs. I find myself longing for sleep so that you will return and resuscitate me.

Please let me see you in the daylight. Please come and dwell among my heart and my household, and fill me with the peace of your presence once again. Please cast aside whatever it is that is causing this divide, and return to me the joy of my salvation.

I will wait.

Running

I set myself a goal a while back that I'd like to be able to run 2 straight miles (without stopping) by the time I'm 35. I have never been able to run. Not ever. At least not with any steadfast consistency. When I was young, I danced. In school, if you danced, you did not have to run. Below are a few things I have begun to notice about myself the more that I run.

• The more you run, the less you care about what you are wearing. You don't care if you match. You don't care if you have panty lines. You don't care if your socks are up around your ankles making your calves look ginormous. You just don't care anymore. It stops being about what people see in you when you're running, and more about what you want to be doing.
• It really can take a l o n g time for your body to adapt to running. These couch to 5k things don't work for everyone. Trust your own body. Listen to yourself. Don't feel like you have to fit into some pre-cut mold of how-to-run and feel frustrated when you aren't successful. But at the same time, don't make excuses for yourself either. Push yourself as hard as you can in a safe way.
• ALWAYS make sure someone knows where you are running. Don't be an idiot about your safety. Period.
• Run without music sometimes. I realize that for some of us, it's really difficult to do that, but I have found I have some of the greatest conversations with myself, God, my dog, when I don't have music blaring in my ears. Hearing the sound of my own breathing helps me to keep it in check, leading me to my next point. Plus, I can also very easily hear an approaching dog or vehicle and respond to it.
• Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Some of us naturally hold our breath when we're running. I don't know if it's the anticipation of hard work, or if it's some psychological broken component to our lungs, but I am definitely in that category. If this is you, work extra hard at overcoming this aspect in yourself. Concentrate heavily on how you are breathing. If you aren't sure if this category includes you, think about how running makes you feel. If it makes you tired, you're not breathing right. I used to say all the time running makes me SO tired! Then a friend mentioned in passing that when we were climbing up a flight of stairs, I wasn't breathing. It was like a light bulb went off in my head. As soon as I started focusing heavily on making sure I inhaled and exhaled slowly and deeply, running started to give me energy, instead of making me ready for a nap. Makes sense if you think about it.
• Give yourself goals and targets that are reasonable for you to accomplish. For example, I will run from this street light to the next one, without stopping. I have heard people say: run for ten seconds, then walk for twenty, but that only works if you'll count correctly or be staring at a clock the entire time. If you're like me, your counting will go from normal: 1, 2, 3 to 12345678910!
• If you can motivate yourself to run during shark week, give yourself an extra "hero" pat on the back. To run while your loins are angry and ferocious is really freaking hard, and the cramps that are already happening really suck! The fatigue, the headaches, etc etc etc, mean you deserve an extra awesome dose of "I ROCK!" when you run during this time. I don't care what anyone else says. It's. the. truth.
• If you're going to run with your dog, make sure your dog is a runner. Example: Jake (my chocolate lab) is old and frail. His hind legs have a lot of problems and it is extremely difficult for him to do any running. He would not be the ideal companion to take on a run. Gus-Gus however is a ninja. He loves to run. He is also protective of me. I like to think of Gus-Gus as my bodyguard and my teammate. He wants to run, so he pushes me to run (not in an inappropriate, dominate way... he knows who the alpha is, and he follows my leadership), which helps me to get a better workout.

Running is hard. And to be honest, I haven't seen much physical reward (I don't magically have a six pack, no chicken wings under my arms, and perfectly toned and tanned legs). But I can say this: Running is about you verses your body. It's a screaming match between your muscles wanting to stop and your will compelling you to keep going. It is hell, and it is hard. But it gives me this knowledge: I am stronger than my body wants me to believe...

Bruises

This week has been violent. The kind of violence where there's no clear definition of a perpetrator, just miles and miles of casualties strewn all around. I'm sitting here feeling oh so battered and bruised, still reeling from the week's worth of sucker punches.

My head is swollen and swore, and my heart aches. I've got a list of I-told-you-so's that I'm struggling to contain. I've got a plethora of warnings that went unheeded. But worst of all... are the blows that came unexpected.

I barely slept last night. Betrayal, devastation, dishonesty, laziness, incompetence, loneliness, hurts, weakness... Words blaring through my brain at a volume so much louder than peace. Why is Peace so often too quiet?

I wish I could define it all. I wish I could pour out my chest right here on the pages of this blog. I wish I could unleash and unload and give my soul some reprieve from this agony. But I have learned that silence is powerful, and there are wounds that cut across my flesh that are not mine, alone, to share.

So I cry.

I am angry. I am hurt. I am trying so hard to be selfless, but the wounds of the takers feel so overwhelming at times. And the wounds of my inability to heal the hurts of others frustrates me.

I feel heavy. Burdened. Drained.

I pried myself out of bed at three in the morning and I crawled into the embrace of the only Being that gets all of me. The only Being that sees as I see it, feels as I feel it, hurts as I hurt it, is angry as I'm angered by it. MY God. I pray, and I sing, and I cry.

I can feel it all falling away. It's like watching the desert sand and sun destroy. It's gradual, slow, seemingly unending. And then one day it just crashes under the weight of itself and all of the destruction that was so invisible explodes in your face. It's a mess. I'm a mess.

Anxiety is knocking on my back door and trying to worm itself in. I am tired God. I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to do this anymore. I'm tired of this desert life. I want to move away. I want to learn whatever lesson You have for me here, so that I can be freed from this destructive environment. Please take the weight of this off of my shoulders.

Explosive Love

The anticipation of the end of a separation is killer. The moments of angst and eagerness building up, developing like a firework that's about to explode, are difficult to contain. This is our life. Goodbyes, loneliness, and reunions.

Here I sit with my bottle of water, headphones on, music blaring, shaking non stop with eagerness. Chief has been away. It's been a period of doing-this-on-my-own, single-parenting, and lonely adultness (meaning, no other adult around to share the quiet with). Chief is my most favorite person on the planet. Cut. Paste. Go to print. Ab.so.lute.favorite! My idea of a perfect day always involves being wrapped up in him in some capacity. When he is away, I feel differently. I view the world differently. I struggle.

I really don't know how to define the period apart to those who've never experienced it. I also know that those who have, know exactly what I mean without me having to say a word. It's like being turned inside out, put on pause, separated from yourself, but hoping, dreaming, visualizing the day when it all goes back to the way that it was. When home becomes home again, and the world goes back to normal.

Probably the best comparison of reunion day, to the non-militarized, would be the day before your wedding. Those feelings of nerves and angst and excitement... that's the closest feeling that comes to mind. It's this feeling of insane nausea, where your brain is screaming as loud as it possibly can: hurry up, hurry up, HURRY UP!!!!!

Then it comes. That first glimpse. Searching, aching eyes get what they've been longing for... the sight of him. This sense of calm comes and I almost always end up saying something completely ridiculous. I lose all sense of filter, calm, and collection. Basically I become who I really am underneath all this "decorum" (haha): a girl insanely, intensely, and whole heartedly in love with this dude who walked into my ears on a random Tuesday and changed my whole world.

I feel awkward, embarrassed, and incredibly nervous until like magic his touch takes that all away. His arms, or his hands, or his body touches mine and in an instant the goosebumps come. Time stands still, and music plays. Fireworks explode.

The waiting for that moment is rough. The awful that has to happen before that explosion of great comes, sucks. But that explosion, that display of magnificent fireworks is extremely powerful. It's the sort of thing that fairy tales are made of. For the last 10+ years, I've had the pleasure of experiencing that over and over again. And what makes all of this so astoundingly beautiful is that this is what eternity will be, magnified a million times over, when one day I stand in front of God and have the most intense emotional fireworks explosion ever.

I am waiting with great anticipation and eagerness. Screaming at the top of my lungs hurry up!

Spock and Princesses

I live in a world that I've created for myself. It's filled to the brim with meetings, tasks, events. It's an overloaded calendar and a way-too busy schedule. It's a sea of stress and over exertion.

Today I looked up and my eye caught the gaze of one of my children. She was standing about ten feet away from me, watching. I was busily working away at the computer. Emails, homeschool lesson plans, facebook pages all demanded my attention and I "needed" to get it done.

Come and play with me, Mommy.

My instinct was to say Just a minute and the truth is on any other day that's probably what I would have said. More than likely I would have said it in an irritated tone that hinted at "How dare you interrupt me?" But for whatever reason that I can't possibly give myself credit for, I got up. I walked over to her, smiled and picked her up. I spun her around and she laughed and laughed in the way that only she is capable of doing. She kissed my cheek and I stared into her brown eyes. She had a small patch of her curly hair over her eyes, between her glasses and her face. I brushed that aside and said You are SO beautiful. She proceeded to Vulcan Death grip me. I reminded her that I am immune and in my most serious super villain voice I said BUT YOU ARE NOT!!! MWA HA HA HA!

She jumped down, screamed and ran off down the hallway. She did so, in a beautiful tone that hinted at "Come and chase me Mommy!" I happily obliged, and turned myself into a Star Trek bad-gal out to get Ms. Spock (that's who she likes to be).

When it was all said and done I had this overwhelming sense in my heart that this is what I want them to remember about me. I want them to reflect back on their childhood and remember that Mommy got up from whatever it was that she was "SO busy with" and played. Even if she didn't feel like it. I want them to remember us playing with legos, barbies, and baby dolls. I want them to remember pillow fights, Sardines, and dog-piles. I want them to at least know, for a period of time that I hope to make last as long as possible, that they are safe, they are adored, they matter. Especially since reality will come in like a hurricane one day and tell them the opposite of all of those things. When it comes, it will chip away at their foundation, and I want to have built up enough of it to be able to withstand the destructive components of "you suck" that wash over children in puberty.

I want them to believe me when I tell them about how much God loves them, because I have lived a life that has shown them how much I love them.

I can't give myself credit for getting up and playing Spock. I have no idea why I did it. But for a moment, however brief it was, and how little it damaged my unending to-do list from being completed, I made my six year old brown-eyed girl feel like the center of my world. It cost me nothing, but it gave my heart so much joy.

Rain

There's a refreshment to the spirit that can come when you have eight thousand days of sun, and then the rain begins to pour. It's amazing how much you can take it for granted. The smell... The sound of gentleness in the air. It's amazing how the brown looks less brownly when there's rain all around.

My thoughts drift off to a thousand days of insanity in greener pastures. I am reminded of what life was like so many years ago. No kids. No husband. Just me. Me and my goals, against the world. It was all so much more complicated back then. Isn't that strange? Back when I had only myself to worry about, life was more complicated than it is now.

To have a family was not what I envisioned for myself. To have a husband and eight zillion kids was not what I believed I wanted. One day it all sort of happened. I resisted, and ran, and fought, and one day I had the balls to give in. That day it was more humid than I could ever remember. I was terrified, and all of this anxiety about a promise was welling up in me. A promise I knew I would keep. I would have to.

Down an aisle I went. Chief cried. I remember looking at him thinking I'm supposed to be crying. Why am I not crying? Force one out! Force out a damn tear! (plop) What's wrong with me???? Oh crap! My turn to talk! (vows) Promise done. 

I remember going out to the landing before we got in the car and thinking it was so surreal. I just gave away my entire life, and I felt "normal". I remember feeling like I had to put on some show for everyone else around me. Like everything had to be done their way, their standards, for their picture of what "a wedding" looked like. It wasn't funny, or beautiful. It was not a reflection of either of us in any capacity. It was just motions. I hated it. But then the moment came where it was just the two of us. And boom! The tears. The power. The might of that experience. I looked out the window and he grabbed my hand. He said "Hello Mrs. Jones!"

It rained on our way home. We had a tornado that night. Funny how storms make me think of that day. The day I married the greatest person I have ever known, in the most ridiculous of ways. It took seven years, a change of religions, and an iPhone Priest to rewrite that picture of a wedding ceremony. On that second day, it was overcast, but it didn't rain. Inside of the church, it was filled with warmth, and silliness, and the most sincerest of passion. And I cried. Not because I felt like I needed to, but because I couldn't not. Because it wasn't about what anyone else wanted. It was just this crazy, dramatic, fiercely fragile girl making her promise all over again to this boy that changed her world. As our four children looked on, I couldn't help but ignore the beauty of him. He has given me so much. And almost all of it I never knew I wanted.

But for the here and now, the rain has come and the brown looks less brownly, and the green looks more greenly. Life is less complicated now, than it was so many years ago. I am blessed.

Death

A child is dead. It's a horrible, awful, ugly experience. It feels like someone pulling the shades over your very soul and erasing the sun from your memory. It feels like being gutted and sucker punched, and hollowed out simultaneously while demanding that you maintain a strength, clarity, and endurance that you are not capable of. A child is dead and it's awful and painful and devastating.

Burying your face in your hands, or being incapable of tears, because the weight is too much to bare. Screaming out between the heaving and the sobbing "Why? Why? WHY?"

The misinformation is astounding. How quickly people make assessments and opinions and determinations. You weren't paying attention. This is your fault. You should have been more aware, more present, more attentive. This wouldn't have happened if you had done something differently. You should have done random drug tests, or stalked their cell phone. You should have placed armed guards outside of their school. You should have fed them only organic food. You should have carried those babies for much longer than you did. You should have, you should have, you should have.

As if everyone else's version of "you should have" somehow could drown out the chorus of it playing over and over again, like a broken record in your own head: Why didn't I? Why didn't I? Why didn't I?

Tragedy is ugly. Why are we so uncomfortable with accepting it? Why do we have to make laws, or have protests, or need vengeance? Why does there always have to be blame? Why do I always have to find blame?

A child is dead and I'm angry. I want justice, vengeance, change. I want to "be certain" that this will never ever happen again. But I can't be. I can't undo the actions of cells going crazy, or lake's with quick sand, or gunmen that are insane, or a body that just can't.keep.going... I can't undo the very actions of God, or prevent the hurts from happening to someone else. But I can embrace and pour out love on a tragedy that is consumed with loss. I can weep and mourn and celebrate the life that existed. I can honor the memory of the person I loved.

A child is dead. It's a horrible, awful, ugly experience.