I talk a lot about the beautiful trail next to my house. But I feel like I should finally share with you that not every bit of the beautiful trail is exactly...well...beautiful.
Some of it runs beside a sparkling lake and some of it goes under a highway overpass.
Some of it is beautifully shaded by fern bluffs and live oaks and some of it has the sun beating down on you because people can't stop building subdivisions everywhere.
Some of it is sweetly scented by wildflowers and grasses and some of it smells like an animal came upon its unfortunate demise.
Some of it runs along creeks and waterfalls and some of it takes you by a drainage ditch.
Don't get me wrong. It's the best public trail I've ever seen. It's well kept and feels safe and is such a fun, unexpected bit of nature in the city. I use it all the time, because I really do enjoy it.
But even lovely things have some rougher edges.
Today my run training was done largely on my least favorite part of the trail. A busier-than-it-should-be country road is largely visible on one side of it. There is almost no shade. (It was absolutely horrible today since we are already pushing triple digits in Texas.) It is the one and only part of the trail where I have to cross through street traffic. There's a large subdivision that leveled off what should have been a beautiful, tree-covered hill. There is always something that smells rotten in this one section where the two-lane road curves a little too quickly. (Poor critters.)
You might be wondering why, if I dislike this part so much, I would choose to run here today---and I am with you, friend. Most of the time I will go out of my way to run on the parts that I find more enjoyable. Too easy.
But the thing about my least favorite part of the trail is that it *just so happens* to be the closest access point to the trail from my house. Therefore, it will be both the very first 1.5 miles and the very last 1.5 miles of my 13.1 mile run. (This is how luck often works out for me, y'all.)
I've found that a lot of things in life work out like that, though.
We will have a drive and a dream, and so much of following that dream will take us through something lovely and good. We will see and experience so many unexpected delights along the way. But, the two roughest parts of that journey will almost always be at the start and the finish.
Starting is hard. I get it. I can almost always tell how a run is going to go after the first mile. Sometimes everything just clicks and I'm able to settle in and just coast for a while. But sometimes I burn too hot out of the gate and I struggle to correct my pacing. Sometimes the run ahead seems too daunting and it makes me hesitant to go all in. Sometimes you know that the good stuff is around the bend, but first you have to go through something all hot and stinky and unpleasant to look at.
And the end...don't even get me started on the end. Some of you are strong finishers so you might not relate, but I can find endings very discouraging. You've heard me talk about grace through perseverance enough that it should not surprise you even a little bit to hear that I finish sloppy. It's a "struggle bus" situation almost every time. Endings are where body parts are numb and almost always aching. There is almost always a hill. It's a hundred degrees at nine o'clock in the morning and there is no shade for the last 1.5 miles, so I'm almost always chaffing somewhere unfortunate. And I'm tired. So very, very tired.
***
This stinkin' Army move has put me at the start and finish line at the same time. We're at the end of our time in Texas. Chaffed by dealing with landlords, aching from dealing with strong kid emotions, feeling like we're at the uphill part of getting everything squared away on time, numb to all of the sweet kiddos' end-of-the-school-year activities (because they still have TWO MORE WEEKS! GAH!) and so very, very tired of waiting for it all to just be complete.
But then, I'm also approaching the starting line of our time in Alaska. I'm worried over whether or not we're prepared enough. Our 4,000 mile trip seems daunting to say the least. I'm anxious to see what the first leg of our road trip says about how we should do the rest of our "pacing." And if I'm being honest, I'm a bit hesitant because I don't know exactly what I'm getting myself into.
But I'm all in--for ALL of it--because I know this journey will lead me somewhere lovely and good. I'm sure there will be stinky parts along the way that are not altogether beautiful. But even so, I'm going in fully anticipating to be delighted. We'll push through the hard stuff so we won't miss out on the beautiful parts. We know that beautiful things can handle some rough edges.
And we also know that those are the kinds of things worth seeing through from beginning to end.
***
Today I trained on my least favorite part of the trail. Do you know why I practice going through the hard stuff, friend?
To teach myself that I can overcome rough edges in pursuit of lovely things.
Cheering you on, whatever leg of the race you're in.
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
Tuesday, May 22, 2018
Cloud of Witnesses
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. (Hebrews 12:1 NIV)
I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I tend to be a pretty competitive person. It's just in my nature. When I do things, I want to do them well. I don't really have a good middle ground here.
I don't necessarily see my competitive nature as a bad thing, because I know I am mostly competing against myself and my own self doubt. I've actually come to appreciate the scrappy grit that this competitive spirit has cultivated in me. Part of me thinks that I was built this way so I wouldn't just up and quit when things started getting hard--especially because I also seem to have been built to make things more difficult for myself than necessary.
Case in point:
Trying to run 13.1 miles just because. In Texas. In May. While simultaneously planning a move outside of the continental U.S. that's happening in less than 30 days. And while trying to get the kids through this school year that just.will.not.ever.end.
Or...
Trying to write a super-insightful blog once a week with my regularly-insightful brain.
I will tell you right now, friends. I would totally skip out on this week's entry except for the fact that I had to be all big and brave and make a public page---and then I had to be all cute and clever with my hashtags and make #TuesdayNEWsday be a thing---and so now I feel like people will notice and judge if I didn't post today.
And if they do judge me, then it will mean that I've come up short--which I have definitely already done a time or two before in this blogging business.
(Sometimes I worry if the fastest way to fail is to get a bunch of people to watch me.)
I don't want to be a quitter. I don't want to be a failure. And I'm tired of feeling like I'm crashing and burning in front of my "cloud of witnesses."
***
Only, here's the thing. I realized I might be confusing the job assignment of "my cloud."
God didn't surround us with a cloud of witnesses to point their fingers and laugh at us when we fall down, or to shame us when we come up short, or to put pressure on us when we're struggling.
That is what the Accuser does. Not the cloud.
I have a cloud of witnesses to root for me when I'm down. To encourage me when I'm tired. To celebrate wildly when I'm knocking it out of the park. To show up and cheer for me every leg of the race.
(And I've been blessed with a better "cloud" than I deserve.)
So here are the things from my regularly-insightful brain that I'm cheering over all of us today:
That we would be careful to listen for the cheers and not the jeers.
That we would race toward the prize and not against one another.
That we all run the race with perseverance ...where "scrappy grit" gets the job done just fine.
Tuesday, May 15, 2018
The Purge
I don't think that I've mentioned it officially on this blog yet, so it would probably be worth stating outright that my family is moving this summer.
...from the Great State of TEXAS to ALASKA!!!
I should also mention that we are planning to do the 4000+ move in 14 days, riding together in a diesel truck with our two dogs, hauling a 16ft trailer with our other vehicle loaded on the back of it, all through Canada on the Alcan Highway. Y'all, if I haven't earned the title of "Crazy Woman Driver" by now, then I don't know how I ever will.
(We are less than 30 days away from moving day, and I *might* only have a half of my sanity left as I write this post. Just so you know.)
There's so much to do and to plan for any move, regardless of distance or destination.
Cancelling services, scheduling all of the necessary dentist/doctor/vet/haircut-with-the-lady-who-finally-knows-what-I-want appointments, scheduling movers, planning going away parties with kids' friends and last dinners with our friends, reserving hotels, researching a whole new city, finding a suitable home, registering kiddos in new schools...
But none of these things stress me out as much as sorting through all the stuff in our house and deciding what is moving on with us and what is going away.
I would like to think that this past decade as a military spouse has made me pretty good at filtering through our stuff, but I know that I'm not. Maybe it's because we started out with absolutely nothing, or maybe I'm just overly sentimental, but I remember the who's and how's and why's almost every single thing in my house--and that always makes it really hard to let any of those things go.
The frugal person in me doesn't want to throw out that thing that I spent x amount of dollars on and only used one time.
The resourceful person in me doesn't want to get rid of anything that might not be exactly right for the space, but could probably still work okay if I tweaked it a bit or just made due.
The practical person in me dreads getting rid of anything that I know would immediately need to be replaced.
The anxious person in me doesn't want to throw out anything that may be useful even one time in my new home.
The deeply emotional person in me can't bear to part with the sweet gift a friend/family member gave me but I can't use anymore...
And the wanderer in me wants to get rid of absolutely everything and start fresh.
So basically, I'm a mess.
A couple weeks ago my mind was becoming overwhelmed by all the unknowns of this upcoming move and all of the figuring out I still had to do when this verse brought me back:
Now, I'm not saying this verse was written to help choose the things that need to stay and go inside of our homes, but it is helping me sort through my stuff just the same.
First of all, these things that I keep stressing over...it's all just stuff. And better yet, it's all permissible. It's all already been counted and approved by the moving company. Even if I can't sort through it all before it's moving day, it will be okay. It can all come.
But as I do my sorting, I ask myself these questions:
Is it beneficial?
Does it help build me up?
If it is not useful or edifying, then I don't need to take it.
Sometimes the things that I need to get rid of are very clear. I always have a pile of old magazines tucked away somewhere that were fun to look at once, but I know don't need to come along. There are clothes that don't fit or flatter me anymore. There are sheer curtains that helped me enjoy the sunny days in Texas, but are not going to do me a lick of good in the never-ending summer days in Alaska. These things won't benefit me at all in my new home. They might have been nice for a season, but now are only going to choke out pounds of our family's weight allowance.
Sometimes getting rid of things takes more careful consideration. There are the kitchen tools that would probably be nice to have, but I don't know how to use. There are kid toys and trinkets that are fully functional (and perhaps even valuable) but serve absolutely no real purpose for us anymore. There was a beautiful guitar that I carried around with me for eight whole years before I could finally admit to myself that I would never play it enough to justify bringing it along. I can keep carrying these things around with me to store them in cabinets where they will sit and collect dust, or I can release them to people who might truly benefit from them.
And not just sometimes, but every single time, I am shocked by the amount of straight-up garbage that gets collected in my home throughout the years. These are things that I broke and I meant to fix, but didn't--or maybe decided wasn't worth the effort. These are things that I didn't feel like sorting through in the moment and then just left to keep piling up in the nooks and crannies of my home. These are even things that at one point in my life I believed were worth an actual investment of my time, and money, and space, but are now just plain old, useless junk. These are the things that nobody wants or needs, and I just watch in horror as they pile up in my garbage can, wondering, "How did I ever let all of this sneak in??"
It's tiresome work going through the rooms in my house, sorting through items one by one, and deciding their fate. Probably the hardest part of motivating myself to do it is that I know I don't really have to. Like I said--it's all permissible. It's all been accounted for, whether I sort it or not.
But *I know* not all of it is beneficial. Not all of it builds up.
I have to keep sorting, because whatever I take with me has to have a place to go in my new house. If I bring it with me, then I have to figure out somewhere to put it. One of the lessons I've learned is that our "stuff" takes up valuable space--whether it's valuable or not. The worst thing to put in a new home is your old junk.
So friends, this is me rooting for you as you hunt out the good stuff and purge all the rest.
(And celebration that one day this wanderer really will get rid of everything and start fresh.)
Pray for me as I keep plugging away at my junk. And for the 4000 mile journey ahead. And that this Texas girl survives Alaskan winters---Because y'all. Heaven, help me.
...from the Great State of TEXAS to ALASKA!!!
I should also mention that we are planning to do the 4000+ move in 14 days, riding together in a diesel truck with our two dogs, hauling a 16ft trailer with our other vehicle loaded on the back of it, all through Canada on the Alcan Highway. Y'all, if I haven't earned the title of "Crazy Woman Driver" by now, then I don't know how I ever will.
(We are less than 30 days away from moving day, and I *might* only have a half of my sanity left as I write this post. Just so you know.)
There's so much to do and to plan for any move, regardless of distance or destination.
Cancelling services, scheduling all of the necessary dentist/doctor/vet/haircut-with-the-lady-who-finally-knows-what-I-want appointments, scheduling movers, planning going away parties with kids' friends and last dinners with our friends, reserving hotels, researching a whole new city, finding a suitable home, registering kiddos in new schools...
But none of these things stress me out as much as sorting through all the stuff in our house and deciding what is moving on with us and what is going away.
I would like to think that this past decade as a military spouse has made me pretty good at filtering through our stuff, but I know that I'm not. Maybe it's because we started out with absolutely nothing, or maybe I'm just overly sentimental, but I remember the who's and how's and why's almost every single thing in my house--and that always makes it really hard to let any of those things go.
The frugal person in me doesn't want to throw out that thing that I spent x amount of dollars on and only used one time.
The resourceful person in me doesn't want to get rid of anything that might not be exactly right for the space, but could probably still work okay if I tweaked it a bit or just made due.
The practical person in me dreads getting rid of anything that I know would immediately need to be replaced.
The anxious person in me doesn't want to throw out anything that may be useful even one time in my new home.
The deeply emotional person in me can't bear to part with the sweet gift a friend/family member gave me but I can't use anymore...
And the wanderer in me wants to get rid of absolutely everything and start fresh.
So basically, I'm a mess.
A couple weeks ago my mind was becoming overwhelmed by all the unknowns of this upcoming move and all of the figuring out I still had to do when this verse brought me back:
"Everything is permissible," but not everything is beneficial. "Everything is permissible," but not everything builds up." (1 Corinthians 10:23 CSB)
Now, I'm not saying this verse was written to help choose the things that need to stay and go inside of our homes, but it is helping me sort through my stuff just the same.
First of all, these things that I keep stressing over...it's all just stuff. And better yet, it's all permissible. It's all already been counted and approved by the moving company. Even if I can't sort through it all before it's moving day, it will be okay. It can all come.
But as I do my sorting, I ask myself these questions:
Is it beneficial?
Does it help build me up?
If it is not useful or edifying, then I don't need to take it.
Sometimes the things that I need to get rid of are very clear. I always have a pile of old magazines tucked away somewhere that were fun to look at once, but I know don't need to come along. There are clothes that don't fit or flatter me anymore. There are sheer curtains that helped me enjoy the sunny days in Texas, but are not going to do me a lick of good in the never-ending summer days in Alaska. These things won't benefit me at all in my new home. They might have been nice for a season, but now are only going to choke out pounds of our family's weight allowance.
Sometimes getting rid of things takes more careful consideration. There are the kitchen tools that would probably be nice to have, but I don't know how to use. There are kid toys and trinkets that are fully functional (and perhaps even valuable) but serve absolutely no real purpose for us anymore. There was a beautiful guitar that I carried around with me for eight whole years before I could finally admit to myself that I would never play it enough to justify bringing it along. I can keep carrying these things around with me to store them in cabinets where they will sit and collect dust, or I can release them to people who might truly benefit from them.
And not just sometimes, but every single time, I am shocked by the amount of straight-up garbage that gets collected in my home throughout the years. These are things that I broke and I meant to fix, but didn't--or maybe decided wasn't worth the effort. These are things that I didn't feel like sorting through in the moment and then just left to keep piling up in the nooks and crannies of my home. These are even things that at one point in my life I believed were worth an actual investment of my time, and money, and space, but are now just plain old, useless junk. These are the things that nobody wants or needs, and I just watch in horror as they pile up in my garbage can, wondering, "How did I ever let all of this sneak in??"
It's tiresome work going through the rooms in my house, sorting through items one by one, and deciding their fate. Probably the hardest part of motivating myself to do it is that I know I don't really have to. Like I said--it's all permissible. It's all been accounted for, whether I sort it or not.
But *I know* not all of it is beneficial. Not all of it builds up.
I have to keep sorting, because whatever I take with me has to have a place to go in my new house. If I bring it with me, then I have to figure out somewhere to put it. One of the lessons I've learned is that our "stuff" takes up valuable space--whether it's valuable or not. The worst thing to put in a new home is your old junk.
So friends, this is me rooting for you as you hunt out the good stuff and purge all the rest.
(And celebration that one day this wanderer really will get rid of everything and start fresh.)
Pray for me as I keep plugging away at my junk. And for the 4000 mile journey ahead. And that this Texas girl survives Alaskan winters---Because y'all. Heaven, help me.
Tuesday, May 8, 2018
Late Bloomer
About a year and a half ago, I moved to the Austin area and raved about how it could be the best place I have ever lived.
But it wasn't. (And only a tiny portion of that can be blamed on the traffic at I-35.)
No, the let down was largely my fault.
It was so disappointing, because this place had held such promise for me.
So many things about living here were above and beyond my expectations. The family time was unparalleled. The activities were bountiful--we were never without something to do. The schools were phenomenal. The kids' coaches and activities were the best we've had to date. And I was SUPER excited that we were going to be able to spend all of this time in the heart of Texas. (Because it is God's country, of course!)
But I was so, so very lonely here. And it was soul-crushing.
For the record, I just want to say that Texans are famously friendly people for a reason.
You can engage with people all the time here. We are not shy about small talk in any fashion. We make eye contact and nod and wave at everyone. We've been known to hug people upon first introductions. Truly, if you're not careful, a conversation with the grocery store checkout lady can hold up the line for thirty minutes.
Therefore, I knew it wasn't because of the people in a state whose name literally means "Friend" that I was not able to make any.
I had a bunch of theories about why I never connected with the people in my new community:
-They weren't military families, so it was hard to establish a relationship with people who already had solid friend circles/weren't looking to let in the "new kid."
-I was "too different" from the non-military, well-off people in my neighborhood.
-It was too big, so it was hard to make a real connection with people.
-Technology. Because I'm pretty sure it is to blame for everything.
-I wasn't going to be here that long, so I didn't need to invest time in making friends.
-I didn't really need friends, because this was supposed to be dedicated family time.
-I am not nearly as fun as I think I am.
(It pretty much spiraled downward from there.)
The truth is, there was evidence to support almost every theory on my list.
-Sometimes people who have grown up in a community of friends for a long time find it difficult to reach out to the new kid. It doesn't make them bad people. It is just a skill set they don't use as often and are less practiced in.
-I was different from many of the people in my neighborhood. We were tumbleweeds in a land of live oaks with well-established roots. We were making a piece of our lives in a place where generations of families had built the entirety of theirs.
-Everything is bigger in Texas--most of all, acceptable drive times. The kids' elementary school was far. The husband's campus was far. The church was far. The grocery store was further than I was used to. Clubs and activities could be hours away. Traffic here is dumb, so far drives were made long. I was in my car ALL THE TIME here, and that's the pits, because that makes it hard to meet people.
-When I was with people I'd consider peers (soccer moms, swim moms, school moms) it was hard to reach out because everyone was looking at their phones. (Which I also did, so I didn't seem like I was staring at everyone like a weirdo.)
-Eighteen months is not long at all when you're trying to put together a stable life for your family. I needed time to put my home together and figure out all of the places our life would happen, so really the window to make friends was limited. Add to it the fact that I don't work outside of the home, so sometimes my windows for adult interaction can feel (and actually be) microscopic.
-Family time was my highest priority here. In truth, I probably overbooked us trying to make up for lost time. Occasionally I had to remind myself that our family needed to keep weekends open so my kids could have a chance to go to birthday parties or hang out with the kids on the street who would ask them to play. Sometimes I had to remind myself that my husband's favorite thing to do is go hunting alone in the woods and not have me squished right beside him 24/7.
-I have become comfortably lame in my thirties. I like to be able to hear music played at a reasonable volume. I like to beat the restaurant crowds and will eat an earlier dinner to do it. I like not spending $8 on a drink that should cost $2. I like to be home by 9:00. I like my pajamas and my bed. (And I like not being on my phone all the time, so sometimes I catch myself accidentally staring like a weirdo.)
But the last couple of months changed that for me.
I decided to sign up for a Bible study, and since I didn't know anyone there, I locked onto something I knew I liked: the snack table. I sat down next to it and watched the empty seats fill up around me. Many of the women at my table obviously already knew each other, and I began to immediately fear that I had made a mistake. I looked intensely at my plate full of beautiful breakfast casseroles and my new book and welcome packet to guard myself. Basically, I shut down before I even tried to invest.
Introductions around the table were short and sweet. I quickly learned that I had accidentally sat down at the table with many of the ladies on the leadership team. (Which made sense to me because I am consistently awkward like that.) But in spite of my initial hardness and social awkwardness, they were so sweet to me.
As the weeks drew on and I began to feel more comfortable opening up with them, I realized that the Bible study was coming to an end and I began to slip back into a state of disconnect. You see, the church was still far away from my house. I was still getting ready to move further away in a short couple of weeks. And while their kindness and fun conversation had been so good for my heart during this time, I knew any kind of friendship was going to be hard to keep up.
That's when I realized it: Though a lot of things may have been working against me, I had nobody else to blame for this lonely season but myself.
Turns out, if I took a really honest look at myself over the last year and a half, then I would have to add this theory to my list:
-Friendships take a lot of effort, and I had not been doing the work.
Sadly, there was tons and tons of evidence to support this.
The Army has long used the tagline "Bloom Where You're Planted."
It would be easy to view this as a blanket statement to mean "make the best of what you've got" or "find the good in where you are." And these are well and good interpretations, but they can leave something to be desired.
You see, anyone who has ever tried to garden before knows that it can take a lot of work to make things bloom. I can scatter random seeds in the dirt and walk away, and occasionally something might pop up. But I have a better chance of yielding fruit if I till the soil, plant the seed, fertilize it, water it, and tend to it as it grows.
Listen, sometimes you do those things and nothing grows. This happens, unfortunately.
I had some irises outside of my house last spring that produced some promising leaves but then never blossomed. For whatever reason, the conditions just weren't right. But instead of tearing them out, I left them there to see how they'd fare with one more season.
This summer in Texas was an especially wet one. Winter was actually cold. And this spring, as bluebonnets began to dot our landscape, I was greeted with beautiful purple and gold flowers. Now I only got two blossoms out of the sea of leaves I had left the year before, but it was such a beautiful sight.
It made me realize that the late blooms were worth the work and the wait.
Because I told the Bible study ladies I would, I emailed them when I found out that the Army was sending our family to Alaska. I was greeted with messages of encouragement, helpful contacts and connections, requests to see me again before I left, and promises to keep in touch. I can see these beautiful buds forming, and it gives me such hope and a fresh perspective.
It is moving season in our world again. I know that many of my military spouse friends are feeling anxious about starting this whole journey from the beginning. A lot of us are heading somewhere completely foreign to us and are worried about how we'll fare. Some of us are feeling withered because our dear friends are leaving for somewhere new while we stay behind. I know some of us are discouraged because we haven't made the connections that we hoped for after what we were sure would be a promising season. And most of us are just plain tired and wondering if it is worth the work. To dig deep. To establish roots. To weed out. To try to break through and grow. All over again.
Sweet friends, I just want to be an encouragement to you today. Don't ever stop tending the garden.
I promise you the late blooms are just as beautiful.
But it wasn't. (And only a tiny portion of that can be blamed on the traffic at I-35.)
No, the let down was largely my fault.
It was so disappointing, because this place had held such promise for me.
So many things about living here were above and beyond my expectations. The family time was unparalleled. The activities were bountiful--we were never without something to do. The schools were phenomenal. The kids' coaches and activities were the best we've had to date. And I was SUPER excited that we were going to be able to spend all of this time in the heart of Texas. (Because it is God's country, of course!)
But I was so, so very lonely here. And it was soul-crushing.
For the record, I just want to say that Texans are famously friendly people for a reason.
You can engage with people all the time here. We are not shy about small talk in any fashion. We make eye contact and nod and wave at everyone. We've been known to hug people upon first introductions. Truly, if you're not careful, a conversation with the grocery store checkout lady can hold up the line for thirty minutes.
Therefore, I knew it wasn't because of the people in a state whose name literally means "Friend" that I was not able to make any.
I had a bunch of theories about why I never connected with the people in my new community:
-They weren't military families, so it was hard to establish a relationship with people who already had solid friend circles/weren't looking to let in the "new kid."
-I was "too different" from the non-military, well-off people in my neighborhood.
-It was too big, so it was hard to make a real connection with people.
-Technology. Because I'm pretty sure it is to blame for everything.
-I wasn't going to be here that long, so I didn't need to invest time in making friends.
-I didn't really need friends, because this was supposed to be dedicated family time.
-I am not nearly as fun as I think I am.
(It pretty much spiraled downward from there.)
The truth is, there was evidence to support almost every theory on my list.
-Sometimes people who have grown up in a community of friends for a long time find it difficult to reach out to the new kid. It doesn't make them bad people. It is just a skill set they don't use as often and are less practiced in.
-I was different from many of the people in my neighborhood. We were tumbleweeds in a land of live oaks with well-established roots. We were making a piece of our lives in a place where generations of families had built the entirety of theirs.
-Everything is bigger in Texas--most of all, acceptable drive times. The kids' elementary school was far. The husband's campus was far. The church was far. The grocery store was further than I was used to. Clubs and activities could be hours away. Traffic here is dumb, so far drives were made long. I was in my car ALL THE TIME here, and that's the pits, because that makes it hard to meet people.
-When I was with people I'd consider peers (soccer moms, swim moms, school moms) it was hard to reach out because everyone was looking at their phones. (Which I also did, so I didn't seem like I was staring at everyone like a weirdo.)
-Eighteen months is not long at all when you're trying to put together a stable life for your family. I needed time to put my home together and figure out all of the places our life would happen, so really the window to make friends was limited. Add to it the fact that I don't work outside of the home, so sometimes my windows for adult interaction can feel (and actually be) microscopic.
-Family time was my highest priority here. In truth, I probably overbooked us trying to make up for lost time. Occasionally I had to remind myself that our family needed to keep weekends open so my kids could have a chance to go to birthday parties or hang out with the kids on the street who would ask them to play. Sometimes I had to remind myself that my husband's favorite thing to do is go hunting alone in the woods and not have me squished right beside him 24/7.
-I have become comfortably lame in my thirties. I like to be able to hear music played at a reasonable volume. I like to beat the restaurant crowds and will eat an earlier dinner to do it. I like not spending $8 on a drink that should cost $2. I like to be home by 9:00. I like my pajamas and my bed. (And I like not being on my phone all the time, so sometimes I catch myself accidentally staring like a weirdo.)
But the last couple of months changed that for me.
I decided to sign up for a Bible study, and since I didn't know anyone there, I locked onto something I knew I liked: the snack table. I sat down next to it and watched the empty seats fill up around me. Many of the women at my table obviously already knew each other, and I began to immediately fear that I had made a mistake. I looked intensely at my plate full of beautiful breakfast casseroles and my new book and welcome packet to guard myself. Basically, I shut down before I even tried to invest.
Introductions around the table were short and sweet. I quickly learned that I had accidentally sat down at the table with many of the ladies on the leadership team. (Which made sense to me because I am consistently awkward like that.) But in spite of my initial hardness and social awkwardness, they were so sweet to me.
As the weeks drew on and I began to feel more comfortable opening up with them, I realized that the Bible study was coming to an end and I began to slip back into a state of disconnect. You see, the church was still far away from my house. I was still getting ready to move further away in a short couple of weeks. And while their kindness and fun conversation had been so good for my heart during this time, I knew any kind of friendship was going to be hard to keep up.
That's when I realized it: Though a lot of things may have been working against me, I had nobody else to blame for this lonely season but myself.
Turns out, if I took a really honest look at myself over the last year and a half, then I would have to add this theory to my list:
-Friendships take a lot of effort, and I had not been doing the work.
Sadly, there was tons and tons of evidence to support this.
The Army has long used the tagline "Bloom Where You're Planted."
It would be easy to view this as a blanket statement to mean "make the best of what you've got" or "find the good in where you are." And these are well and good interpretations, but they can leave something to be desired.
You see, anyone who has ever tried to garden before knows that it can take a lot of work to make things bloom. I can scatter random seeds in the dirt and walk away, and occasionally something might pop up. But I have a better chance of yielding fruit if I till the soil, plant the seed, fertilize it, water it, and tend to it as it grows.
Listen, sometimes you do those things and nothing grows. This happens, unfortunately.
I had some irises outside of my house last spring that produced some promising leaves but then never blossomed. For whatever reason, the conditions just weren't right. But instead of tearing them out, I left them there to see how they'd fare with one more season.
This summer in Texas was an especially wet one. Winter was actually cold. And this spring, as bluebonnets began to dot our landscape, I was greeted with beautiful purple and gold flowers. Now I only got two blossoms out of the sea of leaves I had left the year before, but it was such a beautiful sight.
It made me realize that the late blooms were worth the work and the wait.
Because I told the Bible study ladies I would, I emailed them when I found out that the Army was sending our family to Alaska. I was greeted with messages of encouragement, helpful contacts and connections, requests to see me again before I left, and promises to keep in touch. I can see these beautiful buds forming, and it gives me such hope and a fresh perspective.
It is moving season in our world again. I know that many of my military spouse friends are feeling anxious about starting this whole journey from the beginning. A lot of us are heading somewhere completely foreign to us and are worried about how we'll fare. Some of us are feeling withered because our dear friends are leaving for somewhere new while we stay behind. I know some of us are discouraged because we haven't made the connections that we hoped for after what we were sure would be a promising season. And most of us are just plain tired and wondering if it is worth the work. To dig deep. To establish roots. To weed out. To try to break through and grow. All over again.
Sweet friends, I just want to be an encouragement to you today. Don't ever stop tending the garden.
I promise you the late blooms are just as beautiful.
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
Win the Prize
Nearly five years ago I ran my first half marathon.
And just like those ladies in Pitch Perfect, I crushed it.
I loved running. Finishing the hard work of a long run felt so satisfying--not to say that I wasn't doing hard work elsewhere. As a stay-at-home-mom and a housewife, I was pouring myself out every day for the needs of the people in my home. But I could never make the work feel big enough. I needed something that gave me an immediate sense of accomplishment; I needed something tangible that made me feel like I had seen something through until it was complete. Running was that outlet for me.
Almost immediately after I finished the first race, I planned to run another one. I even toyed with the idea of training for a full marathon. But five years later, those plans have never materialized. My work that "didn't feel big enough" started filling up all of my days, and my first race became my only race.
My solo performance did not keep me from the trail, though. I still loved to run. Half of the time I couldn't figure out if I liked it more for the challenge or the quiet meditation. Running is where I did my best thinking--probably because I was always too winded to talk.
Being outside, mind clear, music on, body moving...It was my happy place.
(Also, I got to eat more nachos and still fit into my pants. So yeah, running was all kinds of winning for me.)
I decided that I didn't need to make an investment in race fees, because I believed running was a worthy investment all on its own. I didn't need any medals, because running in and of itself was the prize. For a while, that's all it took to keep me moving.
And it worked really well...
Until it didn't.
It started with a move.
All of my trusty trails that I had mapped out for me were gone, and I had to find new places to run. I found plenty of trails that satisfied the need for shorter distances, but nothing over a couple miles. I was not confident enough to run the unfamiliar areas on my own, and my ability to finish long runs suffered.
Then there was an injury.
We're still not exactly sure what caused it...anxiety? illness? carrying a 60lb girl and her crutches on my back like a rucksack for a mile that one time we were running late to a soccer game and couldn't find parking? Whatever the reason, I couldn't feel my feet. Then I couldn't feel my left arm. Then the left side of my face went numb. This led us to discover a slight compression in my back, which then sent me to physical therapy twice a week for two months. I wasn't released to run again until after I completed my treatment.
Then it was just too hard on my pride.
I ran that very first day after my release, but it was really, really difficult. I don't know why I thought it wouldn't be, but it took me by surprise all the same. I had kept up other forms of exercise during my therapy thinking that it would help me keep a strong aerobic threshold, but there was something specifically about the run training that my body was lacking, and my performance suffered without it. I kept trying for a while, but when I couldn't achieve as much as I thought I should, running didn't feel as fulfilling. When my effort didn't give me the result I desired, I didn't think those runs were worth the investment of my time. When it didn't feel like a prize, I didn't want to chase it. If I had to start my runs like I did all the way back in the beginning, then I didn't want to do them anymore.
***
It has taken me a really long time to learn that loving something doesn't make it easy to do. The things we love the very most are usually the ones that require the most effort to sustain. They take constant training, claim most of our waking hours, and make us lose most of our sleep. Our faith, our marriages, our children, our careers, our homes, our dreams for the future...our silly running hobbies...only grow and get better if we never finish them. You have to work on them. Always.
It took me even longer to learn that struggling at something doesn't mean that you weren't built to do it. If I thought that setbacks weren't part of growth, then I was just fooling myself. If ease were the only thing I ever invested in, my life would be shallow and my achievements would be bland at best. If I always lived in this space where I let go of the things that "didn't feel worth it" for even the slightest moment, I would never do anything worthwhile. If I never humbled myself enough to start all over, I would be forsaking piles of experience and the pathway to something even greater.
But it has taken me longer still to learn that there is no magic number of achievements that will make you feel fulfilled. There is no amount of medals on your wall that will make you feel like you've done good enough. There is no amount of accolades for your work that will make you feel secure in your mastery. There is no amount of recognition, no professional title, no amount of money, no amount of miles ran...
And it's dangerous to think so, because that's not where fulfillment comes from!
It comes from Christ alone. The One who has already done all the work for us. The One who has already said "It is finished." The One who doesn't need you to impress Him, because He already loved you first.--before you ever did anything at all.
Works cannot fill you because He is already the full prize.
***
After we moved to the Austin area, I started running again--not because I was altogether resolved to do so, but because a beautiful trail was already here for me. I started running faster, not because I was immediately strong, but because the trail was so easy to get to and so nice that I began training on it more frequently. I started running farther, because the frequency of training helped my body remember that it could. I scheduled to run another half marathon, because I remembered I told myself I was going to. And in actually training for the half marathon, I have rediscovered the joy of it all.
It's not going to be easy, but that doesn't mean I won't love it.
Some days I'll struggle to complete my run, but that doesn't mean that I'm not built to do it.
And it might not be an official race that'll "earn me credit" among anyone else, but that doesn't mean it won't come with a prize.
We're all in a race, friends. Press on.
Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. (Philipians 3: 12-14)
I loved running. Finishing the hard work of a long run felt so satisfying--not to say that I wasn't doing hard work elsewhere. As a stay-at-home-mom and a housewife, I was pouring myself out every day for the needs of the people in my home. But I could never make the work feel big enough. I needed something that gave me an immediate sense of accomplishment; I needed something tangible that made me feel like I had seen something through until it was complete. Running was that outlet for me.
Almost immediately after I finished the first race, I planned to run another one. I even toyed with the idea of training for a full marathon. But five years later, those plans have never materialized. My work that "didn't feel big enough" started filling up all of my days, and my first race became my only race.
My solo performance did not keep me from the trail, though. I still loved to run. Half of the time I couldn't figure out if I liked it more for the challenge or the quiet meditation. Running is where I did my best thinking--probably because I was always too winded to talk.
Being outside, mind clear, music on, body moving...It was my happy place.
(Also, I got to eat more nachos and still fit into my pants. So yeah, running was all kinds of winning for me.)
I decided that I didn't need to make an investment in race fees, because I believed running was a worthy investment all on its own. I didn't need any medals, because running in and of itself was the prize. For a while, that's all it took to keep me moving.
And it worked really well...
Until it didn't.
It started with a move.
All of my trusty trails that I had mapped out for me were gone, and I had to find new places to run. I found plenty of trails that satisfied the need for shorter distances, but nothing over a couple miles. I was not confident enough to run the unfamiliar areas on my own, and my ability to finish long runs suffered.
Then there was an injury.
We're still not exactly sure what caused it...anxiety? illness? carrying a 60lb girl and her crutches on my back like a rucksack for a mile that one time we were running late to a soccer game and couldn't find parking? Whatever the reason, I couldn't feel my feet. Then I couldn't feel my left arm. Then the left side of my face went numb. This led us to discover a slight compression in my back, which then sent me to physical therapy twice a week for two months. I wasn't released to run again until after I completed my treatment.
Then it was just too hard on my pride.
I ran that very first day after my release, but it was really, really difficult. I don't know why I thought it wouldn't be, but it took me by surprise all the same. I had kept up other forms of exercise during my therapy thinking that it would help me keep a strong aerobic threshold, but there was something specifically about the run training that my body was lacking, and my performance suffered without it. I kept trying for a while, but when I couldn't achieve as much as I thought I should, running didn't feel as fulfilling. When my effort didn't give me the result I desired, I didn't think those runs were worth the investment of my time. When it didn't feel like a prize, I didn't want to chase it. If I had to start my runs like I did all the way back in the beginning, then I didn't want to do them anymore.
***
It has taken me a really long time to learn that loving something doesn't make it easy to do. The things we love the very most are usually the ones that require the most effort to sustain. They take constant training, claim most of our waking hours, and make us lose most of our sleep. Our faith, our marriages, our children, our careers, our homes, our dreams for the future...our silly running hobbies...only grow and get better if we never finish them. You have to work on them. Always.
It took me even longer to learn that struggling at something doesn't mean that you weren't built to do it. If I thought that setbacks weren't part of growth, then I was just fooling myself. If ease were the only thing I ever invested in, my life would be shallow and my achievements would be bland at best. If I always lived in this space where I let go of the things that "didn't feel worth it" for even the slightest moment, I would never do anything worthwhile. If I never humbled myself enough to start all over, I would be forsaking piles of experience and the pathway to something even greater.
But it has taken me longer still to learn that there is no magic number of achievements that will make you feel fulfilled. There is no amount of medals on your wall that will make you feel like you've done good enough. There is no amount of accolades for your work that will make you feel secure in your mastery. There is no amount of recognition, no professional title, no amount of money, no amount of miles ran...
And it's dangerous to think so, because that's not where fulfillment comes from!
It comes from Christ alone. The One who has already done all the work for us. The One who has already said "It is finished." The One who doesn't need you to impress Him, because He already loved you first.--before you ever did anything at all.
Works cannot fill you because He is already the full prize.
***
After we moved to the Austin area, I started running again--not because I was altogether resolved to do so, but because a beautiful trail was already here for me. I started running faster, not because I was immediately strong, but because the trail was so easy to get to and so nice that I began training on it more frequently. I started running farther, because the frequency of training helped my body remember that it could. I scheduled to run another half marathon, because I remembered I told myself I was going to. And in actually training for the half marathon, I have rediscovered the joy of it all.
It's not going to be easy, but that doesn't mean I won't love it.
Some days I'll struggle to complete my run, but that doesn't mean that I'm not built to do it.
And it might not be an official race that'll "earn me credit" among anyone else, but that doesn't mean it won't come with a prize.
We're all in a race, friends. Press on.
Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. (Philipians 3: 12-14)
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