Once a Runner

I started running in the 7th grade when I was 12 years old. That was 24 years ago.

I went out for the track team because one of my best friends said it was fun. Her cool older sister ran track. My BFF quit after a week and I was left on the team shy and alone, unable to run even one lap around the track without walking.

At less than 5 feet tall and somewhere in the 70 pound range, I was nearly blown off the track by the Oklahoma winds.

I ran the entire season in navy blue Keds and bobby socks. I finished last place every race. My parents, loyal and impervious to shame, came to each meet, enduring the comments from nearby spectators:

Look at that poor girl. She’s so slow. And her legs are like twigs. Oh look, she’s waving at people in the stands. And smiling…while racing. How old is she?

I honestly can’t tell you why I stayed with it. As a puny and awkward non-athlete, running was hard for me. But quitting was even harder…and so I stayed on the track.

I’m glad I did. I became part of a team. I was “a runner.” And when you’re in 7th grade, identity is everything.

My track coach encouraged me to run the next fall. Thankfully cross-country proved to be better than track. With a field of 50-150 participants, I was no longer dead last in every race.

As the seasons rolled by, I kept running. By my sophomore year I was actually decent, though hardly a standout on my 5A state championship team. I proudly wore a letter jacket with track and cross-country badges. My parents sacrificed so I could get a team state championship ring…which now fits my pinky. And at 36, I still wear my silver necklace with the runner pendant I got when I was 16.

Because once a runner, always a runner…if only in spirit.

I owe a lot to running. Running taught me discipline, exemplified by thrice-weekly 5 a.m. runs as a high-schooler. Endurance as I ran barefoot with my teammates for over an hour in the sand bars of the Arkansas River. Dedication. Determination. Focus. Perseverance. I could use a little more of those virtues now. As a mom of young kids, every day feels like a marathon.

Running gave me life-long friendships {reconnected through the magic of Facebook} and opportunities for leadership. It gave me a place to belong during those tenuous teenage and college years. It was and still is part of who I am.

Best of all, running gave me my husband of 14 years. I met him when we were 18 on our college cross-country team. That was 18 years ago and he is still handsome and fast.

Since then I’ve endured injuries, pregnancies, surgery, physical therapy, and apathy. I’ve run mini-marathons and not run for years at a time.

Today I’m a runner, thanks once again to a friend’s invitation. Months ago she said to me, Let’s run. You’ve been saying you want to get back out there. Let’s do it together. After a 5-year hiatus, I felt much like I did in 7th grade: insecure, puny, and awkward.

Three to four mornings a week I’m out the door before the sun comes up. It’s not much but it feels good to lace up my sneakers, sweat, watch the sun come up, and chat through labored breathing with my faithful running partner. In the midst of this crazy season of my life, running is the calm, the thing I do that’s just for me.

Seemingly random events can set our course. I owe a lot to that 7th-grade invitation, inconsequential though it seemed…a gift granted 24 years ago that keeps on giving.

……………………………………………………

{Title of this post is also the title of a book by John Parker . Wanted to give credit where credit is due.}

God in Everything

I’m visiting Michigan for a month. It’s beautiful here. This is where my husband grew up, swimming and splashing in the same lake where his own children now swim and splash every summer. Our kids are the 5th generation to call this “home,” even though it’s only a few weeks out of the year for us.

I love that sort of tradition and rootedness to a place.

While being here is glorious, getting ready to be here was not. Laundry, cleaning, squeezing everything that 4 people need for a month into 2 suitcases, Cupcake unpacking what was already packed, the mile-long to-do lists before we left. I was Momzilla incarnate during those final days before takeoff.

Driving around town on one of those chaotic days before leaving, just me and my ever-present entourage of three, Brownie said something which gave me pause:

Mommy, I see God in everything.

I nearly spit out the thrice-reheated Starbucks as my eyes filled with tears and my heart swelled with conviction.

I fail to see God in everything. I want to. I need to. I’m learning to. Slowly. But typically my grown-up self is too preoccupied with the business of busy-ness, the service of domesticity, and the selfishness of my own agenda.

The conversation did not remain lofty for long. I’m always amused by children’s ability to go from the profound to the absurd in one fell swoop:

Mommy, is God in my ice cube? If He is, then am I eating Him?

Does God have a pinky? I think he does have a pinky.

Nonetheless, I long for the eyes and heart and faith of a child. I think I outgrew it about 28 years ago. And now, at 36, I am desperately trying to squeeze back into my kid suit.

Being here, surrounded by the unmistakable beauty of creation, makes it easier.

Yesterday Blondie spotted this butterfly as we walked down to the beach. It put on a show just for us, gracefully flapping its wings and squirming its fat red body.

Later she rescued this baby dragonfly from certain death-by-arachnid, carefully untangling it from a web on the dock and tearfully exclaiming:

Mommy, I just can’t bear the thought of this being its last day alive!

Much to her horror, one of its wings was broken.

This is a rehabilitation center for the baby dragonfly. (See how comfy it is on that big purple flower.)

Though unsuccessful in mending its broken wing, she was successful in creating the most beautiful deathbed a baby dragonfly has ever known. I assured her that no dragonfly has enjoyed such comfort and beauty during its final hours.

She placed the box on her nightstand, fretting over her winged patient until she finally fell asleep. When we awoke this morning, it had passed. Blondie cried and gave it a proper burial in the front yard.

Her tender affection for living things inspires and humbles me. This is her Father’s world.

I love the quote that inspires my photographer friend, Sarah:

Earth’s crammed with Heaven, And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning

It’s easy to see Earth crammed with Heaven in the splendor of this place. To take off my shoes in reverent wonder.

Beneath a canopy of towering firs and decades-old maples, we have gazed upon deer and sand hill cranes, geese and orioles, groundhogs and snapping turtles, fish and clams.

And all of this has nourished my dry and desperate grown-up soul, reviving my childlike gift of seeing God in everything.

The real test will be grasping it in the everyday life I’ll return to in July.

At least I’ll have helpers.

While these children of mine have much to be taught, I sometimes wonder if their teacher has just as much to learn from them.

*This post is part of “Tuesdays Unwrapped” at Chatting at the Sky.

Ocean View

Summer’s here and I’m in the mood for all things beachy…except frizzy hair. Beachy reminds me that I’ve never given you folks a tour of the beachiest room in my house: the kids’ room.

Sometimes I forget that I can blog about old home projects like this room, which we did 3 summers ago. While it’s fun to take readers on a scenic tour of a new rehab or room makeover, the space people seem to love most in my little house is the ocean-themed bedroom where Blondie & Brownie reside.

She is 8. He is 5. They’ll continue to share this room until Cupcake is out of the nursery. Then the boys will bunk together here and Blondie will get a long-awaited room of her own.

It’s hard to create a gender-neutral room that’s fun…but IKEA worked it out. Blondie and I traveled to our nearest store and she chose this colorful ocean theme. You can’t beat the prices: duvet covers & matching shams for $9.99. Seashell lights for $6. We got most everything we needed there. The rest we picked up at Target and Wal-Mart as our budget allowed.

Brownie’s side:

{That clutter-covered behemoth is the Lego table. We don’t have a play room or basement so all the toys are relegated to their bedroom.}

Blondie’s side:

Those storage cubbies are their dressers. We purchased them at Target a while back. The rugs and chairs were purchased from Wal-Mart at the same time, gifts from my generous and loving-to-accessorize sister-in-law.

I must admit, it’s a super fun kids’ room, colorful and inspiring. One that invites kids to play and create and curl up under a giant leaf with a good book.

Ladybugs seem to love it too. About 200 of them flew to the sun and proceeded to die there. I have yet to give them a proper burial. {Notice the buggy shadow in the center of the sun.}

Of course it’s not always this tidy. We cleaned it up for you because it looks much cuter when it’s clean.

The closet, however, is another story.

Pretty Ice-Cream

I went to a lovely wedding Saturday afternoon. Don’t even get me started on how much I love weddings. Or how I cry at every single one. I love Love.

This particular wedding had an ice-cream reception. Is that the best idea or what? And they still had cake. I know. Paradise.

Anyway, I got permission from the bride (and faithful reader, Kindel) to share her fab reception ideas. Not only did she come up with the idea to serve ice-cream as a MEAL (genius!), she mistreated the boxes in which she housed the ice-cream!

Instead of just lining up a bunch of bulk ice-cream tubs, she gingerly placed the tubs inside these lovely chocolate brown boxes…that she made.

She simply put together plywood boxes, wrapped them in fabric (which she hot-glued into place), stuffed a bit of light blue tulle in between the box and tub, tied satin ribbon around each box, and finished it off with an elegant label.

How beautiful and classy is this?

And look…the boxes match her bridesmaids’ dresses!

{I see a new wedding trend: Bridesmaids carrying ice-cream down the aisle in lieu of flowers. It’s cheap, delicious, and what sentimental girl hasn’t wept into a container of chocolate-chip-cookie-dough at one time or another?}

We feasted on Mackinack Island Fudge, Strawberry, Peanut Butter Cup and a wonderful array of sure-to-please flavors. You could use this idea for graduation parties, showers, birthdays…

Blondie thought an ice-cream reception was the best idea ever.

So there you have it. Mistreated ice-cream boxes. It just goes to show that there’s more to mistreat than windows.

Honestly, I never thought fabric and hot-glue needed any help. You can practically save the world with those two. But then I met fabric, hot-glue and ice-cream.

A beautifully delicious trifecta.

My First-Born

Blondie is the first-born of two first-born’s. Bless her heart.

She is a rare breed as first-born’s seldom marry one another. They typically kill each other, or at least severely complicate and over-think things before they ever make it down the aisle.

Procreation between two first-born’s should come with a warning label.

I should know. I parent one of these rare breeds.

She is painfully intense, sober-minded, strong-willed, incessantly inquisitive, passionate, inflexible…

Sometimes I fear her small, slight, blue-eyed, blonde-headed person will burst with all that is constantly churning within.

I could write a book on this child…

But a post will suffice for now.

She accepts nothing at face value. She doesn’t believe something is true just because her Sunday School teacher or pastor or parent tells her so. She has to work it out for herself.

And while she has a million questions of her own about God and the universe, she is not even a little bit shy to ask total strangers, nearly every one she meets, whether they believe in God. And I, as her meek and not-so-bold mother, smile sheepishly at the poor stranger while my face turns red.

Questions about God and good and evil and suffering and sin have plagued her since the age of 3. She frets and worries and broods, losing sleep over the the complexities of life and the world she lives in.

Honestly, she has more existential moments than any child imaginable.

Mommy, if God loves everyone then does He love Satan?

Mommy, where do they still speak that original language? You know how God confused everyone’s language at the Tower of Babel? Well, where in the world is that original language still spoken?

Mommy, it doesn’t seem fair that God and Jesus never sin.

Mommy, if God can do anything, He could have thought of another way to save the world.

Mommy, what if I’m forced to marry someone I don’t truly love? (at age 3!)

And those are just the few I can quickly recall as I sit here writing.

Yesterday was one of those days.

She and Brownie and I were snuggled up in my bed reading The Patchwork Path, a wonderful book about a young slave girl and her father. The story is about their journey to Canada and the patchwork quilt whose patterns offer clues to freedom.

Blondie was moved by the story. And she must not have gotten the historical context at first. She said, Mommy, they could have just escaped to the United States. It’s such a free and great country. Why did they go all the way to Canada? So I explained that this book takes place in the early to mid-1800’s and reminded her that Hannah and her father were slaves in Georgia.

Well, she shot up out of bed with tears in her eyes and indignation written all over her face.

What?!? We used to have slavery here?!? How could any president have ever allowed slavery? I wish I’d been president then! I would have stopped it! How could Americans have ever thought this was okay? Why didn’t someone do something? I don’t understand. I CAN’T BELIEVE AMERICA WAS ONCE SUCH A SAVAGE NATION!!!

I began to calm her down. We talked about slavery and freedom and the world. She remembered her history sentence about the 14th Amendment and how it freed the slaves. And there we all sat, in my bed, discussing history and hard things together.

Clearly she thought about the subject the rest of the day. She offered the blessing at dinner last night…

Dear Lord, THANK YOU for the 14th Amendment.

Thank you that we are not slaves. Thank you for freedom. Thank you that there’s no slavery in our country anymore. Thank you for the warm, comfy bed I sleep in every night. Thank you for all the food I have. Thank you for my family.

The gratitude for all things related to freedom and provision continued and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I think I just sighed…with the sobering realization that this ever-thinking child is mine to parent.

Every day I am scared and overwhelmed. Every day I feel ill-equipped. Her big thoughts are often too big for my brain. Days filled with big questions are exhausting.

The hardest part may be that I see so much of myself in her. The Believer and the skeptic. One whose own brooding and over-thinking can become debilitating and counter-productive and scary.

But I remind myself that she was made this way. Wired to think and to question. Maybe she’ll be a writer or a professor. A political leader or a theologian. Or maybe a mother to a little girl who will be born with much will and mental fortitude.

And if that’s the case, she’ll be well-prepared.

Painted Pots

Most of you readers are already skilled in the ways of spray paint. You can speak of its transforming power. You know of its magic to morph thrift store trash into shabby chic treasure.

I’ve spray-painted everything from free kitchen chairs…

To tacky urns…

To picture frames & shelves…

And now flower pots.

That was a faux-painted-brown garage sale find in a former life. Now a lovely cream.

That’s right. I’ve found a way to incorporate toxic, earth-unfriendly spray paint with flowers, soil, and all things green. Please don’t call the environmental police.

I realized this Spring that I had only two pots in which to plant a few annuals. And when I started browsing my favorite discount stores for cheap pots, I stood aghast at the prices. Pots, even plastic ones, can be pricey.

So, I bought these white tacky ones from Big Lots for $3 each. And I corralled my other two big pots plus a few little terra cotta ones sitting around. I bought some blue spray paint for $1. I dug out some partial cans of black and off-white spray paint from the garage…

And went to work…

BEFORE:

AFTER:

The hardest part was keeping Cupcake away from the fumes and drying pots. I was only partially successful.

Ever my faithful sidekick, he assisted by scattering soil about the front porch and gobbling up fistfuls of dirt.

And in case you’re wondering where my blue paint inspiration came from…

The French, of course! This bold blue always reminds me of France. Sigh.

My plastic beauties are no match for these gorgeous Euro-vignettes but it’s the best I can do.

THEIRS:

MINE:

{This blue looks WAY bright and garish in the photos. Yikes! It’s not so day-glo in real life.}

And I’m hoping that as my flowers and foliage grow more and more lush, my painted and clustered pots will look more and more Frenchy.

One could certainly go a step further and make the pots more authentic-looking by “aging” them with some goldish-brown paint rubbed along the edges. But, done is better than perfect. And to borrow from the Nester, “It doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.”

If only I could invent a way to age vinyl siding…

…………………………………………………………..

I purchased these lovely flowers in the clearance corner of my local Wal-Mart’s Garden Center. 87 cents for 6-packs of annuals! They just needed a little love and hydration. Voila! Pretty on a budget.

Late Bloomer

I love lush flowering gardens. But I do not have a good track record with growing things. I forget to water.

I also have perfectionistic tendencies. I’m a bit all-or-nothing-ish. I salivate over cottage gardens in Southern Living. I have nearly been run over while absentmindedly strolling through old neighborhoods. The ones with ginormous maple trees and perennials as old as I am. The ones with ivy climbing the aged brick walls.

As I’ve mentioned, I live in a little vinyl-sided neighborhood that’s sort of in the country. Our yard was formerly a field. Actually, it still is.

And because I don’t know how to grow maples overnight and cultivate cottage gardens, I do nothing. Or at least I did.

But times, they are a changin’.

No more excuses.

I have 3 kids. I homeschool.

I have laundry and dishes and cooking. No time for gardening.

I don’t have a green thumb.

I don’t have a landscaping budget.

Enough.

I’ve been weeding. Turns out that I love it. Something about getting at the root of something and yanking it out that’s gratifying.

I’ve planted dozens of free bulbs and tubers that a friend gave me for free.

I’ve dug a few little beds.

I’ve squealed with delight upon finding a fat juicy worm to show the kids.

The laundry can wait but as my gardening friend says, “The soil is dying to produce!”

Just today, I spent hours outside weeding and watering and planting. The older kids rode bikes around me and Cupcake helped out by eating excess potting soil.

My little plot of former field isn’t exactly pretty yet. Southern Living has not come calling.

But better to bloom late than not at all.

………………………………………………….

Stay tuned for a post later this week on painted pots. Cheap, tacky plastic pots were no match for me and my spray paint.

This post is part of Emily’s Tuesdays Unwrapped. Check it out.

Vacation

I just returned from my annual trip to Hilton Head Island with The Man, our kids, and the rest of my family. Eighteen of us to be exact. My mom, dad, two brothers, one sister, their spouses and most adorable children.

The Man and I first came here back in August of 1995 for our honeymoon. HHI set record hot temperatures that week. But we hardly noticed. We were young and in love and setting record hot temps ourselves. (Yes, I know this is a family blog.)

We fell in love with the South Carolina island and told my parents it would be a fun place to vacation as a family. Long story short: we’ve been coming here together for 12 years. Back then there were no children and I, as the eldest of four, was the only one married.

Vacations here were glorious. The guys enjoyed golf while the girls enjoyed shopping. We read fashion magazines on the beach and sunned by the pool. We all played bocce for hours on end and went out to dinner at night. But this sort of indulgence and ridiculous leisure cannot last forever.

Now, with eight children in all and six under the age of 3 1/2, we do not enjoy golf or shopping or leisure. But we do enjoy each other.

And the week is still glorious…but louder than it used to be.

Here are a few of my favorite photos, taken with my new camera. (I hope you’re reading this Camera Fairy.)

……………………………………………………………………

Our ever-growing crew…baby #9 coming any day!

My brother assures me that he can photo-shop my hair in this picture. I am much obliged seeing that all our other family photos feature an angry Cupcake. Poor thing. He got sick right after vacation started. Very, very sick.

See how happy he is here…

And here.

Here’s a few of our happier moments.

I have the best nieces and nephews. I snapped almost as many photos of them as I did of my own children.

Cannot. Even. Handle. This.

Seriously, I have not seen such deliciousness in all my life.

And this…

I am going to have another girl just for the baby swimwear collections. Ruffles never looked so good. It’s like polka-dotted icing atop the fattest, most scrumptious truffle I’ve ever seen.

One of my sweet nephews and his band-aid. And a poor starfish. This unsuspecting creature had no idea he was about to be plucked from his ocean home and land in the grip of an excitable 3-year-old.

Until next year…

Thrifty Inspiration

I haven’t been thrifting much lately. Truth is, even thrift stores and yard sales aren’t free. And the more shameful truth is that I can get a little carried away with my bargains and still waste money…which ends up not being thrifty.

But one of my favorite local haunts beckoned me last week. My favorite score, you ask? The mother lode of magazines. And at 10 cents a piece, I did what any woman would do. I bought forty.

You read it right. Forty. And though I am probably insane for hauling home 40 magazines, I rationalized that 40 at 10 cents is still less than one in the checkout line. This is how I justified a hernia-inducing load of magazines to The Man…who just smiled and shook his head.

They were all published within the last year too! Country Living, Martha, Coastal Living, Better Homes & Gardens, etc. As much as I love my favorite decorating blogs and seeing real people spruce up real homes and real furniture, I’m still a sucker for pretty magazines. There’s nothing like a cup of coffee and page after glossy page of hydrangea-laden tablescapes and dreamy cottages.

And after I’m all inspired and ready for some new reads, I’ll just recycle my 40 magazines by delivering them back to the same thrift store. Because I’m green like that.

So the next time you’re tempted to spend $5 on that pretty magazine in the checkout line, don’t! Get in the car, drive to your nearest thrift store, and get yourself a Southern Living. Or 40.

Tuesdays Unwrapped: Brothers & Oatmeal

I love what Emily is doing on Tuesdays. Seeing as how her blog is all about “reflection and discovery in the midst of the mundane,” Tuesdays Unwrapped fits right in.

I’m a glass-is-half-empty kind of girl. I wish I wasn’t. I’m working on it. But too often my focus is on all that I wish was different. In any given moment, I’m brooding about all sorts of dissatisfactions and displeasures.

Finding the miracle amid the mayhem is like swapping out the cloudy lens through which I view life. It changes everything and I finally see clearly.

I mourn the precious vignettes that I never noticed or documented. And I’m hoping that some Tuesdays here and there will be a step in the right direction.

………………………………………………………..

My moment came yesterday morning. Five-year-old Brownie was the first one up. He is always bright and chatty and happy upon waking. And hungry.

As I groggily prepared his microwaveable oatmeal, I heard Cupcake…also hungry.

Balancing baby on hip and bowl in hand, I slid the oatmeal to Brownie. Cupcake nearly leapt out of my arms so I set him down, not knowing what I would feed this finicky and feisty toddler.

Cupcake sidled right up to big brother, who eagerly and cheerfully fed him from his own bowl of oatmeal. And after they shared that bowl together, I fixed them another…and another.

Three bowls of oatmeal and one giant helping of unprompted generosity later, I soaked it all in. And sighed.

I’m thankful for a big brother who gives sacrificially to his little brother. I’m thankful for all the moments of togetherness and the tender familial bonds that living life with one another creates.

For in the midst of squabbles and annoyance and craziness, there is tenderness and love.

And I got to watch it all unfold over a bowl of oatmeal.

……………………………………………………..

Now head on over to see what others have unwrapped today…