Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'...

It's been a month, I know, and I find it harder and harder to make time for this blog, as well as making motivation. I hope to sit down and give explanation eventually, but, for now, just know that life is sailing right along here, that things are happening, and things are not. Some big things are changing, some are staying the same. Hearts are being searched, minds are being stretched and time is at a premium, as always.

On Being A Non-Runner at Forty.

When I was lithe and slight and eighteen, an early summer day would find me stretched out on the lounger in my rural back yard, slathered with Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil squeezed from that slippery bottle speckled with fresh grass cuttings, the promise of a deep island tan with the added benefit of that classic "tan of the island" coconut scent. It wasn't a relaxing endeavor; some days I would restlessly squint my eyes against the noonday sun and check under my suit strap for proof that I was cooking, wondering how long I could take the beating rays before giving in. Other days, I would partner up with the hose and mist myself every few minutes, taking advantage of any light breeze that would come my way. And some days, the breeze itself was enough to cool the heat, and I would relax, willing the wind to blow, but never falling asleep like my friend Stef, who would snooze on her side and come away with a raging burn on one half of her body, the other half maintaining its original ghostly whiteness.

I never had a problem achieving a tan. I can remember my dad coming home from work on summer days when I was just a child and declaring, "Well, you're brown as a biscuit!", a description he and I still use on my own little sunbunnies. I never had a freckle or a burn in my young life, just a Coppertone-girl golden-brownness.

As a teen, I would take advantage of this ease-of-tanning on those sometimes-blistering, sometimes-breezy days, feeling that I could give myself an instant makeover by just spending a couple of hours lounging around. My favorite part of the ritual was always the lukewarm shower that followed, the moments where the water would resist the oil and form droplets on my darkened legs, where the whiteness of winter would meet with the crisp, brown lines of summer. And then, after the shower, it was the choosing of the whitest tank top or t-shirt, something that would showcase all of my time and dedication. Of course, a thin layer of after-shower Hawaiian Tropic wouldn't hurt, either. Just enough to emit that summer scent.

After Bard was born, my skin changed. Hours in the sun would result in a smattering of freckles over my face and arms, but particularly on my shoulders. My legs, now carrying the weight of too many cravings, rarely saw any kind of light, let alone that of the sun, so they remained a pasty white. Though I'd never been into bikinis, due to a frightening incident of the realization of power when I presented myself in a white knit bikini to the young man I was dating as he picked me up for a boating outfit. His jaw dropped. I got scared. I changed into a one-piece. Still, I had allowed myself modest two-piece suits when tanning in my own yard. Now, the area that had once been my taught tummy, henceforth my big belly, would never again own a tan.

I have fantasies of living in that young body again, sleeping in it, running in it, tanning in it. Sometimes, like today when I was lying in my new lounger, the fantasy is so strong that I awaken with a sort of shock when I open my eyes to this frumpier, flabbier, frecklier body. And I vow I will change it. I will run. I will get fit. I will cut out the Dr. Pepper and the potato salad.

And I do think I should. I could just kick myself for getting out of the running habit, especially since it seems that everyone around me has picked it up and, ahem, run with it. And it makes me feel like a foreigner, an outsider, even a leper of sorts. Can't I just do this simple thing? Can't I just get out there and run?

But it seems that my impatience runs true. Face it, I tell myself, you have a hard time just LYING STILL for fifteen minutes. When running, I find myself constantly checking my clock. Am I done yet? Have I filled the time requirement? No? Then why do I feel like dying? When will this end?

And, unlike tanning, one outing doesn't offer a makeover. An afternoon in the sun would always elicit comments like, "Wow! You've been in the sun!" Unless I walk into the grocery store with my running shoes and jogging attire on, sweat dripping from my furrowed, impatient brow, no one will say, "Wow! You went running today!"

Even my pastor, my trusted pastor, has jumped on the bandwagon. On Sunday, he gave a sermon based on Hebrews 12: 1-2.

^"1-3Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we'd better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit! No extra spiritual fat, no parasitic sins. Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we're in. Study how he did it. Because he never lost sight of where he was headed—that exhilarating finish in and with God—he could put up with anything along the way: Cross, shame, whatever. And now he's there, in the place of honor, right alongside God. When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he plowed through. That will shoot adrenaline into your souls!"

Some pastors,those with less talent, might think that preaching on a running theme would be banal. Some pastors might focus on the pioneers who blazed the way, or the veterans cheering us on. But not Patrick. He preached on running, and it got me all fired up. He said-- and I kid you not, this actually slapped me in the face like a pair of wet running shorts-- "Running is something only we can do for ourselves." Huh. I can't pawn this running responsibility off on someone else, eh? If I want it done, I actually have to do it myself? What a revelation that was... even though he was preaching from Hebrews.

One of the reasons I would like to run is for much the same reason I would like to tan. When I was young, I was good at it, and it felt good. Running came naturally. It was simple, enjoyable. It was the easiest way for a kid to get from one place to another. And it provided hours of entertainment. Freeze tag. TV tag. Kickball. Foot races. Chasing boys on the playground.

But now, I'm forty for crying out loud. And I'm not a *good* kind of forty, either. I'm a flabby, frumpy, freckly forty. My friend and former running partner Kim, who took the easy way out and did not give up running, is a different kind of forty. She's young and trim and gorgeous. And when I see her, and I realize how hard she works to keep running, I think, "You can't look like that. And you don't deserve to look like that. You're just a flabby, frumpy, freckly forty-year-old who can't run a half-mile without your digestive system running the other way," and the old Solomon in my head starts doing the nanny-nanny-boo-boo thing. All is vanity. It's futile to try. What's the point? Blah.

So I battle with myself this way. Every. Single. Day. And if I do get out and run, I criticize myself for not running farther, or often enough, or fast enough.

See why it's easier to tan? Or, better yet, to just stay inside, in my room, at my desk, and write about tanning and running?

Except that today, as I lay in the sun, I actually fell asleep. I actually got a bit of a burn on my upper legs. I didn't use Hawaiian Tropic. I didn't take a shower. I didn't put on my whitest shirt.

And no one anywhere said to me, "You're brown as a biscuit!"

Not even my father.

I guess this means that a tan can't suffice as a makeover anymore. I need something more serious.

I guess this means I'm in the market for a new running partner, someone who can handle me running at a turtle's pace. And possibly vomiting.

And then I'll work on the tan.

A Birthday Apart

When I awoke this morning, I just wanted to go and give you a big hug, wrap my arms around you and tell you how much I love you, how much I appreciate your carefree spirit, your adventurous nature, your individuality. We butt heads, you and I, like two big-horned rams, each coming at the other with our own ideals. Why can't they mesh, I wonder? Can they? Will they?

And if you had been here, I'd definitely have charged into your room and said, "Happy Birthday!" to you. Maybe even breakfast in bed. Maybe not.

But instead, I went on with my busy morning, rushing around, hoping not to be late or forget something. And when I had a moment, I called you, but there was no answer.

When you called me back, I was so happy to hear your voice. And when you wondered if we had plans for tonight, I wanted to tell you that we had plans for you, to entice you back home for the weekend so that I could relieve my mother-guilt of not being with her eldest son on his eighteenth birthday. And yes, we did have plans, but they weren't birthday plans. And now I feel terrible. I should have had birthday plans for you.

So what can I do, my son who is officially an adult but still so much my boy, to commemorate this day, the first day of a new phase of your life? What could I possibly do to mark this occasion well, give it the attention it deserves?

There isn't anything, really, I'm afraid. My attempts would be inadequate.

Tonight, as we sat in Leslie's garden, I missed you so much I could have cried, but, out of fear of embarrassment, I told the tears to mind their own business, to leave me alone. I don't think I've ever been away from any of the other kids on their birthdays. Why does that bother me so much? I was so convinced that I should be with you today that when I saw that tall teenaged boy wander into Leslie's yard, and when I heard someone shout out to him--he shared your name, I was sure it was you, against all logic. And when I realized that it wasn't you, that it couldn't possibly be, I felt something akin to homesickness. All I wanted was to hear your laugh, to see you swing the younger kids by their arms or play hide-and-seek with the big kids. I wanted to hear you play Ben Folds and The Beatles and Muse on Martin and Leslie's new Baldwin, hear you sing along with Tosca's eclectic playlist. And only part of it was that I was worried that you were spending your birthday alone at camp, the rest of the staff gone for the weekend, home with their families or hanging out with their friends. The other part was me.

I really missed you.

I really miss you.

There's so much I wish I could change about our story, you know? I think I could have been a much better mom if I'd just have known that you would be alright. You have no idea how much advice you get as a mother, and most of it is a bunch of bull. People who have their heads full of their own ideals seem to think they have the best answers for you, for your parenting and your child. Why didn't I just listen to us? Wouldn't it have been so much better to shut off those voices and trust you and me?

Maybe it's not too late. Can we start again? Can you believe me when I say I'm proud of who you are, of who you've been, who you're becoming? How about if we set aside the blame and set free the love? I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

Tomorrow morning, you'll run a 5K, and I'll be there to see you. And you won't believe the hug I'm preparing.

Happy eighteenth, Houdin. Let's move forward.

Love,

Mom

Good things

So, there are good things and there are bad things. Good thing: I finally got my tomatoes, peppers and eggplants planted. Bad thing: There were flea beetles on my eggplants the minute I put them in the ground and I can't remember where I put my floating row cover. Good thing: We just had a delicious lunch of charcoal-broiled chuckburgers with grilled buns, homemade redskin potato salad and corn. Bad thing: I'm so stuffed from eating that I really need a nap, and it's just too beautiful to spend the day sleeping. Good thing: It's nice enough to have all of the doors and windows open. Bad thing: the flies have decided that today is a good day to multiply and conquer.

Still, the good stuff is just too good to pass up, eh?

Now, I'm off to nap off those chuckburgers.

Psalm 51

Things I Love Right Now

That the dryer is running.
Homemade hot fudge sauce.
My son's recent amazing change in behavior.
My daughter being home from college for the summer.
My daughter scoring a job at a local greenhouse.
The This American Life podcast.
My vegetable and flower gardens.
My fruit trees.
My ASPARAGUS! I'm totally digging that!
That The Baby is missing her front tooth.
That the family has a music studio set up in our gathering room and intermittently jams together throughout the day (video soon to follow!)
The four little kitties we have that the girls and Monet are totally in love with. I do not, however, love their poop.
Seeing Rejoice laugh.
God's amazing provision in my life, even when I totally screw things up.
The chapter "Blink of an Eye" in Anne Lamott's book, Grace, Eventually.
Facebook. Totally. I know.
Mike Birbiglia.
Greenhouses. Yet spending money in them--not so much.
Sweetheart's piano playing.
Houdin's piano playing.
Rejoice's piano playing.
Monet's drumming.
Bard's guitar-playing.
Sweetheart's fiddling.
Working vehicles.
Twitter.
Life in general.

How about you? What do you love right now?

Today...

I miss my mom.

Dance, boy.

It didn't seem all that long ago that I was stuffing the squirming toddler Houdin, a Hot Wheels car tightly gripped in his fist, into a miniature black suit so that he could saunter down the aisle at my sister-in-law's wedding and wiggle his little-boy dances at the reception. That's been about fourteen years ago, and now that little boy, who had to have his diaper changed right before the ceremony, has grown into some guy I barely recognize, a guy who bangs out Ben Folds and The Beatles on the piano, sings songs I sang when I was his age, and dances whenever the mood strikes, and today, he is wearing a glossy size 13 dress shoe and snazzy black tuxedo. In a few minutes, Bo and I will climb into the car and journey with our soon-t0-be eighteen-year-old spiffed-up, showered, shaved and shined son to his girlfriend's house, almost two hours away, and he'll go to his first prom.

We've had a rough time of it, Houdin and I. He's so much like I was at that age, and probably still am today--stubborn, opinionated, indignant and mouthy. But I can't even begin to tell you how much love fills to overflowing in this heart of mine when I see what a young man he has become. In the end, it doesn't really matter if he keeps his room clean, or if he passes algebra, or if he wears white dress shirts and khaki pants. What matters is that we have a relationship, that he knows I love him so deeply that I would give my very life for him.

I'm not proud of all of the mistakes I've made in raising a son. I wish I would have been less critical, less impatient, less demanding. I wish I would have known more, read more, prayed more, loved more. I'm so grateful for a God who can heal brokenness, can turn our mourning into dancing.

But, Houdin, I'm proud of who you are. I'm proud of who you're going to be. I'm proud of who you've been.

Now, get out there and dance.

The Swaziland Book Project

We are blessed to have "Rejoice," a young man from Swaziland, living in our home through the end of June. Rejoice has shared with us that access to print media, especially books, is very limited. It's very difficult for a person to get a library card, and libraries are hot, crowded and inadequately supplied. He would like to build a personal library to share with others in his village. We would like to help him by gathering these books and shipping them to his home in Swaziland.

Below, you'll find a list of specific books that Rejoice would like to own as well as a few suggestions from me.

If you would like to help Rejoice build a library, there are several ways you can help:

• You can send any extra copies of these or other appropriate books that you might have;
• You can locate any of these books through Amazon or some other book dealer and have them sent to Rejoice here at our home so that we can compile batches and send them to Swaziland;
• You can donate money to help others locate and purchase these books for Rejoice as well as postage to ship the books;
• You can donate or suggest other books that you feel would be of interest to Rejoice. If there are books that you feel are important for a person to have in their personal library and you have additional copies of those books, donations of those would also be appreciated.
• Once monetary donations have been made, you can help locate copies of the books Rejoice has requested.

If you would like to help in any of these ways, please contact me at books4thoksATgmailDOTcom (replacing the words with the appropriate symbols). If you would like to donate specific titles, please send me those titles so they're not duplicated by others.

Thank you for helping with this project, and I welcome you to spread the word to others you think might be able to help.

My suggestions:

Anything by C.S. Lewis
Pilgrim's Progress
Hind's Feet on High Places
A Wrinkle in Time
Anything by George McDonald
Anything by Max Lucado

Rejoice's List, according to his priorities:

1. Christian books

• Spiritual Disciplines for the Christian Life - Donald S. Whitney
• Spiritual Leadership - Oswald J. Sanders
• Spiritual Discipleship - Oswald Sanders
• A Biblical Theology of the Holy Spirit
• Planting and Growing Churches for the 21st Century- Aubrey Malphurs
• What everyone Should Know about Leadership and Church Structure- Denis Moses
• The Power of Prayer and Fasting
• The Spiritual Keys to Spiritual Growth
• Launch: Starting a New Church from Scratch

2. Business related.

• The Bankable business plan
• Start your own business 4th edition
• Bankable business plans for entrepreneurial ventures
• Everything start your own business
• small business start up kit
• excel for dummies 2007 or 08
• marketing for dummies
• public relations for dummies
• marketing tool kit
• competitive strategy- Michael E. porter
• strategic marketing management - Richard M.S. Wilson
• Financial accounting
• book keeping basics- Debra Rueqq
• starting and building a non profit- peri Pakroo
• cash flow for non profits - Murray Propkin
• quick books

3. Miscellaneous

• The 25 best time management tools and techniques- Pamela and Doug Sunhedem
• any book about writing resumes e.g. Expert resumes for managers and executives
• Job searching
• career guidance
• Beef and dairy cattle - Heather Smith Thomas
• Raising milk goats
• raising poultry

Note from Rejoice: "Please be informed that I would like to have any other suggested book that you think could be helpful in developing young adults and some teens into matured people who are well established in their faith in Christ Jesus. May God bless you as you are working on this book hunting process."

Good Day, Sunshine!

Remember those gorgeous Spring days when the sun was shining, and you'd drag the record player to the other room and stick the speakers in the windows, find your favorite Beatles record, and play "Good Day, Sunshine" while your mom pulled weeds and you raked the crass clippings into a wheelbarrow that would be hauled up to the vegetable garden and thrown down between the rows of onions, carrots, peas and lettuce?

Remember how the wind would blow ever so gently, just enough to cool the sweat on your brow, but not so wild as to toss around the piles of clippings you'd worked so hard to rake? If you did a good job, there might be a trip to the ice cream shop in your future, or a few dollars in your pocket to use at that summer's festival. Every once in a while, you'd stop for a drink of ice water or fresh mint tea, and you'd linger a bit too long, and your mom would shout out a reminder to get back to work, and you'd haul yourself back in from the roof to go back to the sunshine and grass and dandelion fluff and bickering with your sisters or brothers. And if no one was looking, you could lay back in the cool grass under the tree or stretch out in the hammock until someone noticed and cried "no fair!" And then you'd grudgingly pick up a rake and get back to work. At least until you could sneak away long enough to take a peek into the bluebird box and see that there's a mama bird sitting on her tiny sky blue eggs.

Yeah.

That's what my kids' day is like today, right down to the record player in the window. Since their sister sent her Beatles vinyls home from college yesterday, they've been spinnin' the tunes, and it's a soundtrack custom-made for a day like today. "Here Comes the Sun" and "Good Day, Sunshine" are in rotation.

"I need to laugh, and when the sun is out
I've got something I can laugh about
I feel good, in a special way
I'm in love and it's a sunny day."

I'm telling you, there could barely be a better day, unless I had a maid to clean my house and a cook to make dinner while I'm outside digging in the dirt, spreading manure and sowing seeds.

I have work to do inside, filling out forms and finishing video projects, but I just can't tear myself away from the beauty of this day. I absolutely want to soak up every minute of this paradise.

Always Learning

"The parent who sees his way––that is, the exact force of method––to educate his child, will make use of every circumstance of the child's life almost without intention on his own part, so easy and spontaneous is a method of education based upon Natural Law. Does the child eat or drink, does he come, or go, or play––all the time he is being educated, though he is as little aware of it as he is of the act of breathing."

~Charlotte Mason