Thank Goodness Snow Isn't Really a Biblical Theme

There are many days in the life of a mostly-stay-at-home mom that are challenging. 

Do I even need to describe them?

Full of selfish behavior, selective eaters, indecisive dressers, and fight-pickers.

And that is just me.

And there are the other days when I feel like I am the luckiest person alive and this whole mostly-stay-at-home mom gig is the best ticket in town.

I'm so thankful B loves his job and its many perks. For example: eating out. Today he has breakfast and two (2!) lunches on the calendar. That is some serious eating.

And this is on the heels of happy hour, a fancy schmancy steak dinner, and breakfast and lunch out yesterday.

There is obviously lots of hard work, tough days, and less-than-pleasant people he comes across. But I don't hear B complaining that his lot for the forseeable future is to wake up, head out the door and you know, Sell Stuff.

But my days are far more cluttered with various activities including, but never limited to: cleaning up entire grape slushes from the far reaches of the 'Burb, folding laundry (or at least "doing" laundry...the folding is questionable), and policing bike etiquette and related injuries from the front lawn.

(I'm seriously considering purchasing an orange, vintage "Safety Patrol" belt/sash.)

But back to today.

It's been great.

It's 2:13.

And it's only going to get better.

After picking up Jackson from school, a friend offered to let the cherubs hang out at her house while I went for a quick run.

I literally got teary as I watched them pedal down the street together, lunch boxes dangling from their bikes.

I've dreamed about their independence for SO INCREDIBLY LONG but now that it's here? I'm crying. And wishing that for a few moments (or seconds) they would be fat, immobile infants again.

Jackson wanted Lilly to ride ahead so he could help her if anything happened. Precious. The wind blew Lilly's ponytail to the side while Jackson casually pedaled backwards and shouted encouragement to his sister.

They turned the corner, riding uphill to see friends and I headed out the door for my run.

The solitude of running is always incomparable, but today it was extra-amazing.

As I left the house, the wind was blowing, the sky was grey, and teeny raindrops were occasionally falling. Probably just a handful of jagged splatters per sidewalk square.

I debated sneaking back in for a mug of hot chocolate and a long shower, but then thought of a late-afternoon lunch date and book group tonight (and look at me! I read the book!), then decided that the calorie-burn combined with the mental relaxation factor was too strong.

I grabbed my iPod and without scrolling through my playlists, I hit play, ready to hear whatever randomness awaited.

And let me tell you, God is in the small things.

It was the most divinely orchestrated playlist I've heard.

Once my iPod switches on, I usually roll my thumb around to a workout playlist full of 80's rock or some up-tempo worship.

But not today.

Perfect rainy-day songs kept me running just to hear what God had next. None of the music quickened my feet, but the mellow worship made my heart race and reflect on the one who brings the rain.

Sandwiched in the middle of the run were four songs that talked about "letting mercy rain." As the actual rain intensified, I let the full meaning of that word picture fall on me. (Sorry. Had to.)

To see mercy and to actually feel mercy are completely different. 

It was powerful to picture each raindrop (which were growing significantly in size and number at this point) as a literal, tactile reminders of God's many mercies in my life.

This wasn't the general mercies I've read about in the Word.

This was the Creator who reigns in heaven, causing rainfall that actually landed on my skin.

Despite the fact that the sky never downpoured and thunder failed to sound, by the end of the run I was soaking.

Covered in mercy.

Tired, wet, and joyful.

Somehow I think that's exactly what He had in mind when I went out for a run today.

And then back around the corner rode two of the sweetest mercies my life will ever know.

"You're the overflow,

You're the fountain of my heart,

So let your mercy rain,

let your mercy rain on us.

You're the Faithful One,

When the world's falling apart,

So let your mercy rain,

let your mercy rain on us."

--Chris Tomlin, "Let Your Mercy Rain"

I've Spared You the Pictures of Me Belly-Dancing

I have a tendency to take myself a little too seriously.

Especially in the area of running.

In the name of challenging myself, I am constantly pushing to go farther or faster (which I recognize is a relative term) and just wanting to do "better."

My times and distances leave plenty of room for improvement, so I keep building on those to see how hard I can force my body to work.

There are, however, limits.

A couple of summers ago, Brad and I did our first triathlon. We trained a bit, borrowed bikes, and swam when we could. I loved the idea of trying something new, but realized my intensity had gotten the best of me when I was disappointed after the race.

After crunching numbers and looking at the results, I was frustrated with my ranking in the age-group division. Instead of celebrating a new accomplishment, I moaned that I should've trained harder, swam more, ran more trails, etc. I looked for upcoming races where I could really train harder, put in more time, and place where I felt I should.

Sounds fun, huh?

So that's when I put my stopwatch away. I started running again just for fun. I focused on worship through music, feeling good, and running because I was thankful God blessed me with two strong lungs.

Well victory came full circle today.

A group of friends entered a local 10K along with 50,000 other people who decided to burn off the first-day-of-summer barbeque calories the hard way.

Instead of drawing up a training plan and plotting to surpass my 2006 time, I took it easy. No training, no strategizing, no speed work. I just ran.

And best of all--it was fun!

I'd long marveled at the runners along race courses who took the time to dance with the bands, stop and savor a drink, or go for a quick dip in an inflatable pool.

And today? That was me! (Except the pool. I was all ready for the many slip n' slides on the course, but hypothermia was a serious threat between the rain and cold temps.)

Let me recount the journey for you with the high, high quality photojournalism you've come to know and love.

This is Karen and I feeling fresh and invigorated at the start:

Our energy came from Gatorade's sister sport drink: Grande Mocha No Whip. Actually, Karen's came from a King Size Snickers, but that is why we are revered for our knowledge of health and nutrition.

Here is some of our group (Brad in the orange visor) running in the rain.

And no, those aren't people walking in jeans and sweatshirts to our right. They are serious athletes like us.

My friends, Mandie and April, are true competitors. They ran through injuries and looked mighty cute doing it. I didn't get their memo that this race was occasion for a chic and sporty running ensemble. Bummer!
Brad got hot in the 50 degree weather around mile 2:
A mob of teenage girls quickly surrounded him and asked to sign his chest, but he humbly (and politely) declined. 

Also, they loved Brad's tan.

Karen and I (both huge Elvis fans) heard the King long before we saw him. And we knew what we must do:
Elvis told us we were the fastest runners he'd seen all day, then serenaded us with "Love Me, Tender" (or was it "Can't Help Falling in Love"?) It made me feel good to know that two middle-aged girls can still have that affect on someone.

This was my favorite part of the race:

We actually had to run a short-distance in the wrong direction to get these divine cupcakes, but it was worth it. A little frosting at Mile 4 did wonders.

One of the many fun aspects of the 10K is that it ends in the Buffs stadium where the runners circle three-fourths of the track to wildly screaming fans before crossing the finish.

Apparently Karen and I finished with a representative from Nike. Hopefully he saw our determination and will be calling us with a lucrative shoe contract very soon.

Clearly after six drizzly miles my mascara needed some significant attention. I will definitely remember to pack a mirror and wear a waterproof variety next time.

This is the whole posse:
Everyone who had a goal ran the times or distances they aimed for. Whoo hoo! And everyone who set out to have fun and belly dance also accomplished their mission.

So here's the deal: Will I set goals for myself and race for time again? Yes. But will I also run races where I can just have some good ol' fun? Heck yeah.

Because cupcakes taste better on the run.

Which Gives a Whole New Meaning to Shameless

I have a very dedicated running posse that includes a bunch of guys I've never met.

Chris Tomlin, Jeremy Camp, Mac Powell, Aaron Shust, and Phillips, Craig and Dean, to name a few.

There are the days where I need Jon Bon Jovi and Steven Tyler to keep me rockin' along, but that was not today.

It's no secret that the music blares through the miracle of the iPod while I run. If I can actually hear myself breathe, I'm tend to think I'm dying rather than working out, which is just an ugly thought. So instead, I crank up the tunes and keep going.

This morning I needed some serious worship. I mean, SERIOUS. I wasn't in the mood to be introspective, heart-searching, and all that.

I needed to fully absorb God's truth, strength, and power.

The gym I go to is a not-so-swanky, strip-mall-small, and very "intimate" little joint in the sense that I can smell the breath and armpits of the runners on the treadmills next to me.

So I find it kind of embarrassing that I occasionally get so lost in the music that I close my eyes, only to open them and find myself with my hands raised. So far, no one has shut off my treadmill or thought I was volunteering to stay after and wipe down the machines.

Today, however, I rocked out in rare form. Losing all sense of time and most certainly, location, I even found myself clapping through a chorus or two.

My high (or low, depending on if you were on the elliptical behind me) was when I think I actually shook an imaginary tambourine against my thigh during "My Redeemer Lives." I felt that was what the song required at the moment, and just couldn't hold it in.

Apparently I envisioned myself on an exercise segment of the "Sonny and Cher Show" in the 70's sharing Jesus love with the runners around me and felt the need to play some pretend percussion.

Perhaps I've missed my calling.

To add to this already embarrassing picture, the tears started flowing during "In Christ Alone." And warning y'all: CRYING AND RUNNING MOST CERTAINLY DO NOT MIX. Talk about hyperventilation...

But I would like to add that anything that gives praise to Jesus and allows me to eat an extra chocolate peanut butter cup cookie can't be half bad.

Glory.

Which Is Why I Must Stop Eating Barbeque

This morning I drove to Honeybaked Ham, ordered two 16-pound hams, strapped them to my butt with bungee cords, and then went for a run.

At least that's how it felt.

Until Now I Never Had Much in Common With Sylvestor Stallone

This morning the tempture was about half-past freezing, so I thought it might be perfect for an early run.

Shocking, I know, because I am the one who refuses to take my children to the pool when it's below 85 and I don't even break a good sweat until the mercury hits the mid 90's. I may have determined the location of my college education in part due to the climate and have never once complained about heat on our many trips to Phoenix.

What I'm saying is: I like it hot. Really hot. Not cold. Ever. Not balmy. Not cool. Not refreshing. And brisk only in the month of October. HOT.

So I am baffling even myself with this new/sudden desire to pile on the clothes and voluntarily run outside in the snow.

This morning, I had no less than five layers of clothing on my upper half alone. My hands didn't warm up until 20 minutes out (when I could no longer feel them anyway) and I spent three or four minutes of the run trying to determine if my toes were still attached to the greater part of my foot. (I am happy to report that they were.)

Yet there is a serenity so rare that only the sharp bite of cold and glimmer of snow create. Crunching ground brings monotony that is rhythmic and calming. So quiet was the neighborhood that I heard with amazing clarity each pick of the guitar strings through the miracle of my iPod.

Just when I determined that I didn't need to turn back to avoid accidentally and prematurely freezing my organs for science, I realized that I was actually ok. The uphill climb forced warmth through my blood vessels while working in tandem with all my gloriously synthetic clothing. This formed a haven of sorts for me to focus on the Creator who scattered the snow, froze the earth, and originated the idea of fire for warmth. (And Gore-Tex, too, but I do not believe that was available to the early church.)

The simplicity and beauty of it all was just perfect. Simple strides in snow, heavenly harmonies through the earbuds, and a body blessed with the ability to run and push itself harder and farther.

So I couldn't help but wonder if that's exactly what Rocky Balboa thought while he tranied in Russia to prepare for the big fight. Running in the cold and racing the clydesdales certainly bolstered his fortitude. After today, I know there certainly is a precious strength that comes from facing the elements and feeling victorious.

There is also probably a strength that comes from knocking out Ivan Drago after fifteen rounds when even the Russian Polit Bureau begins to chant "U-S-A! U-S-A!", but I will stick with the chilly wintery running.

Apparently Blogging Takes Us To New Lows

"BRAD! WHAT IN THE HECK ARE YOU DOING?"

"You claim to be the "Colorado Runner Mom" so I thought I'd get some pictures of you in your running gear for the blog."

"Babe..."

(deep breath for patience)

"I, NEVER, in my wildest dreams thought I would have to articulate this seemingly obvious guideline to you: Please do not surprise me by taking pictures of me in our closet that you plan to post on the internet.

EVER.

Thank you."

Prince Charming

Have you met him? I had a date with the sweetest 5 year-old boy EVER.


Being as we both like sporty things, we went on a joint bike ride/run along the Cherry Creek trail.

He rode, I ran.

He stopped to stuff leaves in his plastic bag and throw rocks in the creek. I stopped to gasp for air and give him high fives.

Have you seen how big he is? (But he still wears a Finding Nemo bike helmet.)

Have you heard him laugh? The smallest joke or silliest voice makes him grab his tummy and wobble on his bike with an infectious giggle.

Have you seen him read? Every sign along the way.

Jackson means, "God is gracious." Understatement of the year!

Humble Hill

Daniel 4:37
Now I, Nebuchadnezzar, praise and exalt and glorify the King of heaven, because everything he does is right and all his ways are just. And those who walk in pride he is able to humble.

Lately, I've been praying a lot about pride and humility. Study Daniel for just a little while and you will be begging for every inch of pride to be brought to the surface and destroyed. Watching the king live like a wild animal was enough for me.

Yesterday while I was running, I thought a lot about this.

Our house is on a hill, and this being a hilly area, there is no such thing as "flat land." You are either running uphill or down--it's that simple. The first mile or so of each run is downhill. Cruising along, feeling good.

But somehow, on those downhill segments I always get a swell of pride. Even though I know I will again face the Uphill Monster of Death. My stride lengthens and I imagine the people passing me in their cars saying things like, "That girl is so incredibly fast. I bet we'll see her at the Olympic Trials." (I also envision them saying "girl" instead of "exhausted-looking, 30-something, mother of two.")

Then it's about 2 miles uphill. Pain, torture, begging for the hill to end. Major ouch.

On the looooong uphills, it's a different story. I hope passersby notice I am actually running. A wave of sympathy probably washes over them as they see my slow cadence and think, "Well, at least she's trying. Maybe she's injured. Should we call 9-1-1?"

My favorite segment to run is a stretch south of all the housing developments where its just me and some stray cows. The landscape is sloping downward and after challenging my lung capacity for miles, I finally let loose and really enjoy the run without much effort.

And there's the rub: Without much effort, it feels good and easy, but my sense of accomplishment is so minimal. Going downhill is refreshing, but not defining. It's relaxing, but not always memorable. It's easy to get lost in fantasies about the Olympics and running a 3 hour marathon and how my jeans will probably fall off me next time I try to put them on.

Then there's the tougher segments. These are times when I am in prayer (between gasps for precious oxygen) just to get up the dang hill! If I'm not focused on my goal, it's not happening. To keep my body in motion, to overcome the pain in my legs and lungs, takes concentrated effort. It takes a strength greater than my own. But when I reach the top, the sense of satisfaction is unsurpassed.

As you know, what goes down, must eventually go up. And that's where the reminder of pride comes in. Just when I feel so good, like running is so easy, like I am an athletic phenomenom, the uphill confronts me. My pride shatters, and not more than ten steps into the next mountain I am effectively humbled.

Sometimes God humbles us with hills in our lives. Sometimes he allows us to search out our pride and offer it up before he lays down the law. I would rather learn from King Neb and humble myself.

"God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble." I Peter 5:5

Have you Ever

Run outside off the beaten path on a clear, cool autumn afternoon in Denver? Running uphill, you feel your heart pounding, but you can't hear your breathless panting over the surround sound of "Everlasting God" blasting into your ears and your heart.

You are the everlasting God
The everlasting God
You do not faint
You won't grow weary
You're the defender of the weak
You comfort those in need
You lift us up on wings like eagles

You run to the peak of the hill and suddenly before you are the snow-capped Rockies. You involuntarily throw up your arms in praise, clutching these promises as your lift up close friends who are weary, weak, and need His comfort.

Then you start to cry, making the breathing harder, but they are tears of joy, because through the pain, you have seen His faithfulness and the strength that rises as you wait.

I have.

Death by Double Jogger--Part II

After I narrowly avoided death and pulled the jogging stroller down from the garage, I loaded up the kids and their snacks so we could head out.

I am not sure why I feel compelled to bring snacks for a 45-minute outing. It is not like they are suddenly going to get hunger pangs or something because I feed them on a regular basis. More than anything, it's an activity to keep them occupied and avoid dialogue since I can't talk anyway when my heart rate is in the 170s.

We rolled down our street onto the gravel paths in our neighborhood. Just as we had gotten past the point of no return, I noticed that the back right tire was quite low. Flat is probably a more accurate description. The metal wheel wasn't touching the ground or anything, but almost. And my 45-pound son slumped on that side wasn't exactly helping matters.

This was the perfect time to quit the workout! I can't keep going on a flat! However, I knew that at home I wouldn't be able to use the bike pump to resolve this situation. (I am not super dumb as I know most 8 year-olds can use a bike pump. However, I am married to Tim The-Tool-Man Taylor and he uses an air compressor suitable for a 747 to blow up ducky intertubes, so I would be risking life and limb to hook it up). And Brad and I have a triathlon coming up so I need to be in good shape to avoid drowning in the swim, thus forfeiting the competition (and life).

So, onward we trek. The first 15-20 minutes of the run is decidedly uphill. I am working just to put one foot in front of the other while Lilly is working to make sure we don't see any snakes. When she sees a stick longer than 6 inches, she screams in fear and Jackson is ready to push her out of the jogger because the shrieking noises were 3 inches from his ear. Unfortunately, I couldn't mediate the situation because I couldn't make eye contact with the perps and shouting is out of the question due to reduced lung capacity.

Just as we get near the top of the hill and I'm officially breathing for the whole neighborhood to hear, my cherubs start asking for snacks. I'm using my right arm to singlehandedly support this 105-pound deflating mass while using my teeth to rip open some Mini M&M's and Rescue Hero Snacks earned during room clean up. Passing water bottles and sippy cups to the front of the jogger is throwing me off-balance and cars are slowing because the situation looks like it might end in disaster.

Then it hits me--shouldn't they be handing me, the athlete, some snacks!? Shouldn't there be an aid station with Gu Packs and Gatorade readily available? This is all backwards.

Just like motherhood. There are so many days when I am physically, emotionally, and spiritually spent, but the demands of the kids remain. That's when I am so grateful that I can rely on God's love to fill me when I'm empty and His strength to literally hold me up. I am so limited and He is so limitless. Nothing like physical pain to clearly paint the picture of God's sufficiency despite my weakness.

I realize that sacrifice requires the strength of God. If I am capable of sacrificially giving of myself on my own terms, it is probably less than sacrificial.

I do attribute the remainder of our run home to God's grace. Although my right arm was throbbing and I was fantasizing about Aleve for the last half-mile, I managed to limp the stroller back into the garage. The difficulty of the situation was compounded by my pride demanding that we run the last 200 yards uphill on our street, lest our neighbors think we were out sightseeing or doing something fun.

Due to my weakened condition, the jogger is still sitting, flat tire and all, in the garage. But Brad just got home, so I am leaving the tire inflation to him.

Thought you might like to see a picture of the notorious double jogger, complete with Lilly covered in chocolate ice cream due to her reluctance to hand over the cone before she fell asleep.

Death by Double Jogger--Part I

At the beginning of this blog, I promised to talk about running, my calorie-burner of choice, but haven't gotten back to the subject lately. Actually, as you may have noticed, I haven't blogged at all in many, many, many months, so I thought writing about running would be a good re-entry to my blog.

(Oddly enough, while I am outside running, I think about what I would be writing in my blog that day. There is just a small disconnect between dreaming up witty prose and purposefully sitting down & actually typing something. Maybe that's where the busyness of having two kids comes in. Except that I can't use that excuse for the past 9 months. Anyway.)

Well, today I loaded up my precious Boy and Girl Bearcubs in our faithful double jogger. Wait, I should go back. I'm feeling compelled to give my opinion on jogging strollers, their usefuleness, what you should pay for them and their lifespan. Then I will tell you about today.

I acquired this Blue Chariot at one of my neighbor's garage sales. I talked her down from $50 to $35, as any earnest garage-saler would do. (She also flattered me by telling me I looked great for just having a baby--never mind that Lilly was 6 months old at the time and I was wearing a large t-shirt. But as you will see, I am the sucker because the I should get paid to push this thing.)

That said, I would still purchase said stroller at a garage sale. The single jogging stroller we bought new is great. (Before those of you with only one child think I am crazy for owning multiple strollers, bear in mind you will own at least 6 varieties during your childbearing years) It was top of the line, brand-spanking new, shipped directly to me after I won an eBay auction. The tires were big, the stroller was light, the ride was easy. However, I only used this over-priced Cadillac of baby joggers for 3 months. Between the time when Jackson could dutifully sit up without risking brain damage and the time I became pregnant with Lilly, therefore excusing myself from exercise for another 9 months, I in no way recovered the full value of this stroller.

So, two children later, I felt a certain savviness when I handed over mere pennies to my neighbor in exchange for a lifetime of torture.

There are certain ironies about double joggers that cannot be escaped. Primarily, the reality that once your children are old enough to sit contentedly for more than 20 minutes, their combined weight (plus the 25-pound jogger) makes it feel like you are pushing a boulder up an endless hill. The stroller companies, of course, do not tell you this, because otherwise no one would buy one. In fact, I read several reviews in "Runner's World" last month that made it seem like buying a stroller made running more fun. The reviewer even claimed to have run with one, but based on personal experience, I highly doubt it.

The biggest ailment of our stroller is that the left tire kind of tilts inward. It has even come off and rolled down the street in mid-run, but that is before I did some pounding on it to make it stay put. Turning, therefore, requires the strength of Hercules and my entire 6-pack that is hiding under a layer of flab.


Running uphill pushing around 100 pounds is painful. No one needs to testify to that. Yet another irony about the double jogger is that running downhill is also incredibly difficult. Bear in mind that I live in Colorado and the term "hill" is relative. This 100 pound beast on wheels virtually pulls me out of control down the hill once we pick up even the smallest amount of speed. My stride increases to unnatural lengths and I try to decide if I should let the kids crash head-on into the dog run or if I should tip them over sideways into the dirt and hope for a skiing-esque wipeout. Neither, I know, are good options, but I am trying to share with you how scary it is to run downhill with this thing.

Moms purchase these joggers, of course, because it is our only chance to work out. I either sit at home and try to get motivated by Gilad or go out and pound the pavement with my entrouage riding in front of me. The problem is that my pace slows so dramatically that I am not sure if it is still a good workout. My heart rate is elevated, but it seems my arms, not legs, are doing all the work. In fact, just yesterday, I had a guy on a unicycle pass me. I did not even make that up for effect. I was barely rolling along and here he comes, just riding around all leisurely while I was straining for every breath.

Jackson always asks me why I breathe so funny while I run. But I cannot explain it to him because I cannot breathe. Irony number three.

Also, most baby jogger manufacturers don't have a suggestion about where you should store your jogger. If you are very lucky, you have a 3-car garage or neighbors who don't mind if you leave things out in the front yard. Otherwise, you will probably have to hang up this beast. Be careful getting it down, though, because my husband hung ours so high that I can barely reach it and I still have a 4-inch scar on my shin bone where it fell on me last summer. Unlikely, I know, but just a word of warning.

So here is my summary of the baby jogger experience: Do not do what I did. The tires were small, the stroller was heavy, and the ride was bumpy. Buy a used single jogger since you might use it for such a short window of time. Save all your Benjamins for the double jogger, because you need all the bells & whistles you can get. And even then, it will still be harder than you ever imagined.



This is taking longer than I thought, so I'll continue the portion about today's actual run, tomorrow.