Do It Scared

It’s been two and a half weeks since my fall. Two and a half weeks since I struggled through completing that half marathon challenge on a bad ankle. Two and a half weeks since I have really done any running at all.

I’ve had a lot going through my mind, a lot of processing, a lot of resting. I am not always so good at process, I am even worse at resting.

Long before that fall, long before that injury, long before that disappointment, we had a family vacation booked to Minneapolis, MN and I had registered my eleven year old and myself to run a 5k race while we were there. The Wednesday night, of the random week we had picked for vacation, one block from our hotel entrance, was going to be the start of a 5k race and huge night parade to follow. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Crazy? Absolutely. Was I excited? You have no idea!

Oh I had been so excited for that portion of the vacation. The shirts were my favorite color, the medals were said to glow in the dark, and I would get to run it with my son.

In my mind it all looked so perfect. I would run hard and be able to keep up with my son. We would cross that finish line together, and the hubs would be there waiting, waving, and taking great photos of it all. Later he would also get us safely back to the hotel, all of us sweaty and full of smiles.

Yeah that was not exactly how it went down. Like not at all. Curses yet again to my damn expectations and visions of sugar plums.

I’ve run a few other local small 5k’s with my son over the past two years, each having a few hundred runners and all in the small rural town we live in and are totally familiar with. The last 5k we ran together, he started at the back behind me with some of my other family, and at mile two was tapping me on the shoulder and giving me a little “well hello!” wave and a big grin. He stayed by me for maybe a block, and then… he was gone, and I honestly was not able to keep up with him. I watched him finish maybe a block or two in front of me… and I ended up breaking my fastest 5k PR (personal time record) when I finally crossed the finish line.

What can I say, the kid is fast :-)

I did have a tiny bit of initial anxiety about doing a larger 5k in the city with him, but I honestly didn’t give it much thought. Until I fell. And then I didn’t know what in the world to think. Or what to do.

I knew the race was two and a half weeks out, so I did my best to rest, heal, ice, keep it braced, baby it along, and not allow myself to run. A few days before the race I did finally head out for a slow, short run just to see how it felt. It was a bit tender and swollen after, but overall the short run had felt pretty good. I decided I would do the 5k, hopefully be able to run it, but was open to the reality that I may need to walk it.

I was in a mental crisis about my son. It was rumored there was going to be over five thousand other runners registered. The end of the race did not end where it started, my husband was not going to register to walk it with us, and I knew my son was probably going to be able to run it much faster than I was. I was hoping that perhaps the large size of the crowd might keep him close to my side throughout the race and we would end together. He knew my ankle was bad, and I assumed he would be ok with it all.

When it came time to get dressed and head outside, he was more busy playing with his new logos than getting ready and getting something to eat, and was not showing the overall excitement I was, or as I was hoping he would. It’s all a bit of a delicate dance with him with things like this, and I was praying we wouldn’t end up with a meltdown. This was my moment, my part of the vacation, and I didn’t want anyone or anything to ruin that vision I had in my head on how I wanted it to all go.

My husband did walk with us to the starting corrals (mostly because I made him since I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find the start line on my own. It ended up literally starting out the front door of the hotel and a half block to the left!) He got us to the starting corral and hung out until we had taken off. He was slightly irritable and looked extremely bored as he leaned against the brick building nearby.

I was honestly hoping he would find a way to get to the finish and be there waiting for us, but that was not going to be the case. I’m not sure if I was more disappointed that he wasn’t there to see it because he didn’t quite get how big of a deal this actually was to me, or if I was more scared because it would mean I was the one solely in charge of getting us back to the hotel.

I knew neither my husband or son realized the brevity and size of what this race was actually going to be (it’s just not something you can fathom until you experience it). I was getting anxious, which was making me snappy and grumpy, and we were all let’s just say, not the happiest of campers.

We had hiked several miles earlier that morning (my only request was to NOT hike the same day as the race, which fell on deaf ears) and my ankle was already bothering me. We got in the street and placed ourselves in the pacing section I was hoping I would be able to maintain.

As the start time got closer and closer, the mob of people got thicker and thicker. The majority of the crowd was all wearing the same exact race shirts, it was an endless sea of aqua. The starting corral was packed tight and there was so much energy and excitement bubbling all around us. I was attempting to explain the timed starts of different pacing groups, how the chipped bibs worked, and when to hit the start button on his stopwatch and when to hit stop.

And then I said to him that if we would happen to get separated during the race, I wanted him to cross the finish line, go to the left, and then wait right there for me. And if they told him he needed to move, that he needed to just move over but tell them he was waiting for him mom to finish. He rolled his eyes and acted like this was all boring, annoying information and to just stop talking to him already. I got a little grumpy (because you know, that anxiety thing). I asked him to look me in the eye and repeat to me what side to stand and wait on, just in case.

“Yes mom, I already know!!!” Eye roll. (Did I mention he also get a little cranky when he gets anxious?)

And then it was our turn to start slowly moving forward, and then it was our corral pace’s countdown, and then the torches were blasting fire and we were off. It was a small mob of people, and it was quite congested as everyone was attempting to get spread out and get going. He stayed by my side for about a block, and we were behind a group running together and he was starting to get antsy. Suddenly he zipped over to the right, and then to the left, and then he was about three people in front of me. I attempted to zip over to the right and bumped into someone coming up behind me. Sorry sorry sorry I stammered… my eyes glued on the tan neck of the child in front of me.

He dodged to the far right, then a little to the left, back to the far right, slowly getting further and further away. I again tried to dodge and weave and get caught up to him, my right ankle and left hip already screaming at me, and in that moment I knew I would not be able to keep up with him at the pace he was at. And we were only in the middle of block two.

There were people everywhere around us running, people lining the street waiting for the parade to start and cheering us all on. There were huge sky scrapers looming straight up on the left and right sides of the street. This was downtown Minneapolis, in a 5k, with thousands of other runners, most wearing the exact same thing.

And in that moment, my anxiety really kicked in. The panic, the fear, the knowing I needed to make a split second decision right then and there. I needed to either sprint ahead hollering out his name and make him slow down and stay by me… or I needed to let him go… let him run this race at his pace and his way. I desperately wanted to make him stay by me so I could see him, make sure he was safe, make sure he was ok, be sure I was there if he got a muscle cramp or a bloody nose that needed tending (this happened in one of the races and luckily my parents were on the race route and had some tissues I could grab and help him get it somewhat stopped until the end of the race). I wanted to make sure we ended together at the same time. But, I knew his nature, his personality, his determination, his drive… and I knew the state of my current physical inablitliy to run and compete was no where at the level of what it was when I wasn’t injured — and I was not going to be able to keep up with him.

My heart was racing, from the heat, from the pace, from the lack of running over the last several week, from the large amount of people around me, and mostly from fear and anxiety.

I was so scared in that moment to let him out of my sight. And I was so scared in the moment to not let him out of my sight, not let him go all out and give it his all, and not have to settle with having to merely tag along with me while I was trying to give it my all.

I’m forty-four and injured. He’s eleven and healthy and competitive, and obviously his drive to go was greater than his fear of staying by me.

So I closed my eyes for the briefest of seconds, took one deep breath and just had to let him go. I just had to let him go and I had no idea if that was the best decision, or worst decision of my life. I just know I was scared to death to allow it to happen. But I did.

I spent most of the race fighting pain, fighting fear, and warring with the demons trying to persuade me to cancel my October Crazy Horse half marathon race trip.

It was hot, and I ran hard, and much of the last half was all uphill. I hadn’t run in weeks and everything hurt. I so wanted to walk, but I forced myself to keep going. I finally had to give up straining and looking and desperately trying to get a glimpse of the back of him weaving in and out ahead of me. I knew he was probably beyond my line of sight.

I knew I needed to hold on to my fear and just do it scared.

I needed to attempt to feel and act like an in charge responsible adult and mother, while listening to the screaming in my head telling me I was a total idiot and horrible mother and I was never going to see him again and surely someone was going to snatch him at the finish line. What rational and responsible mother allows her child out of her sight amid a crowd this size in a city this large?!?

It was a fight physically against my own body to keep myself going and get to the finish, on top of the mental insanity reel that was on continuous repeat in my head.

Finally, finally… up the hill, over the bridge, around another corner, I saw the finish banner. I was frantically trying to get myself over to the left and not run into everyone around me. My eyes were darting and straining to see the people standing on the other side of the finish banner.

To the left… looking to the left… I did not see him. The finish corral was suddenly full and bottlenecked and hot, sweaty, panting people were quickly bunching up and being slowly herded forward. I was watching for water, watching for my child, and finding neither. I kept walking slowly forward all bunched up with other finishers and my heart was just racing, my fear and my anxiety building with every step forward I continued to take and continued to not see him.

I tried to send a text message to his watch and my hands were shaking so badly what I finally got sent didn’t even make any sense. Then I got a text from my husband, he wasn’t at the finish, he was back at the hotel, and he had screenshots of both of our final times and paces.

Ok… he had crossed the finish line, I at least knew that much. I looked closer, he was over a minute per mile faster than me, so I was attempting to grasp the fact that really he was only about three minutes ahead of me and trying to talk myself off the absolute panic ledge.

Finally we reached the people handing out bottles of water. I couldn't even open it my hands are shaking so bad. My husband continues texting and asking how it went, and I’m too afraid to tell him I let us get separated and I hadn’t found him back yet.

Although he obviously can see from the results that we did not end together.

I attempt to keep taking deep breaths as my body tries to catch up with the oxygen it needs, and my mind attempts to self regulate (as we’ve learned how to do in our all therapy sessions). I keep slowing moving forward, still frantically looking to the left, turning around trying to see if I had missed him somehow, standing on my tiptoes to see if maybe he went to the right side…

A few more steps forward, and I tell myself that we haven’t gotten to the medals yet, no one else next to me has their medals yet, so we’re maybe not to the end of the finish shoot yet… oh my gosh this is thee longest slowest finish line I have ever experienced!!!!

And then I see movement to my left, a dark arm and tan face leaning over the coral wall waving, his medal proudly around his neck already.

Dear Lord Almighty - Come Lord Jesus! I thrust one hand toward him while the other clutches my heart, attempting to keep it in my chest. Finally! Finally I have located him, and finally I am getting my medal and finishers bag and able to get around the corner to get to him.

He doesn’t know about pacing, he doesn’t know about mile markers, he hadn’t done any training, and I could tell he had pushed it hard and was trying just to figure out what was all going on — with both his body and with all the commotion around him. We found a spot by the corral wall and sat down. He said his leg hurt and he was still processing and regulating and was coming off a little grumpy and wanting to immediately just go home. We sat a while longer, and he got busy looking at all the items in the finishers bag and checking out all the recovery gummies and high protein bars and pouring his gatorade into his new water bottle. Pretty soon all the packets of food were gone (he also took all of mine) as well as the gatorade.

Slowly he started to perk up a little and began talking about it all. My favorite part was hearing him saying that a guy had come up behind him and told him “You got this little man!” Oh bless that strangers soul!

He pulled up his watch and had me take a picture of his time, and then take a picture of my watch displaying my time. We took some pictures of us together with our medals, and then decided to go find the food line and check out the live music.

All runners had a tear off from their bibs for a free food item… and the line was crazy long. But he waited better than I expected, and before long we were getting little boxes of personal peppepperoni pizzas. He opened his box and inhaled it, and then asked if I was going to eat mine. I immediately handed it over with a smile. We walked and he ate and he was happy and open to taking photos and selfies at various places. The sun was setting and we decided to head back.

It was just me in charge of getting us back to the hotel. And I had no idea where to go or what to do. I am horrible with directions, I have no idea how to read a map (if I’m not going due north) and I am sooo not from a big city (I grew up on a farm in a town that had a population of less people that number of runners in this race). But I took a breath and said “I think I saw a sign for the city bus shuttles that way…” and away we walked.

He followed without a second thought, munching away on my piece of pizza, and I continued walking forward acting like I knew exactly what I was doing, because well you know, I’m the mom. I had no idea what I was doing, I was completely winging it and just acting like I had it all together.

I needed to hold on to my fear and just keep on doing it scared.

Somehow, this directionally challenged farm girl got both of us onto a city bus and back to the general starting area. I figured out how to ask Seri for walking directions to our hotel and got us back to the front door of the hotel, in our matching race shirts, our race bibs still pinned on, and our glow in the dark medals proudly hanging from our necks. #lawdhavemercy

As I look back now and reflect on it all, I can’t help but smile, grateful that it all worked out well and was overall an amazing experience for the both of us. Granted, it was an amazing experience in different ways for the both of us I’m sure, but I have to believe that we were both out there doing something we were excited to do, and we would both allow ourselves to simply go out and do it scared.

Whether right or wrong, whether smart or stupid, I stand behind the split second decisions I had to make out there in the middle of that busy street.

I chose to do it, I chose to let him do it, and I chose to let us both go on and run that race at our own personal levels, paces, and finishes. I’m sure my son will tell you he had no fear or anxiety, but I have to believe that somewhere amid all that weaving in and out and waiting at the finish for me, he had to have experienced at least just a little fear amid all his pumping adrenaline and dripping beads of sweat.

Yes, it was the split second decision to believe in my son, believe that there is still good in the world (and good people), and give him the wings to fly and to create his own experiences and to overcome his own #mindovermiles without being held back by someone else’s limitations.
I chose to believe that God would see us both through. And He did.

Hopefully I modeled perseverance through hard things, and grace in my bravery. Hopefully I let enough of my emotions show to let him know I was a little out of my comfort zone, yet not enough to cause him any pause or alarm. I hope he was able to feel the freedom to conquer, and know the pride I had in him for getting out there and getting after it with all his might. I hope I gave him the confidence to go and feel allowed to do his best, to feel believed in, to try his hardest at something without anything holding him back.

He gave me opportunity to just be his mom, the one who would be there for him at the end, to allow him this experience, to believe in me without a doubt or second thought of my ability to come through for him.

We chose to do it, and we chose to do it scared. I pray both of us will continue to conquer both our dreams and our fears single handedly, together, at the same time, over and over again throughout our future days to come.

{ Previous Blog "Not Quite As Planned" HERE }

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Not Quite As Planned

Last week it was finally “race week” for the Half Marathon Challenge I had been planning on, and training for, since the beginning of the year

A four day, “four for the fourth” progressive run over the 4th of July weekend. 5k, 10k, 10 miler, Half Marathon for a total of 32.4 miles in four days. The clothes, the shoes, the routes, the time frames, every possible detail had been studied, mulled over, and strategically planned.

Needless to say, it did not go quite how I had planned, or surely how I had hoped.

I had a great 5k race on Wednesday, and a strong 10k race on Thursday. I went into Friday’s 10 mile race nervous (double digit distances really intimidate me) and I had my typical pre-race anxiety, telling myself over and over that it’s not about the pace and to just go out and do it, push hard, and just do the best that I can. I have to give myself lot of pep talks for my longer runs; training and especially race day ones.

All along this year I have struggled with my pace and my “expectations” of what I want that pace to be. I will always speak the words that my pace doesn’t matter to me. I think it’s my way of trying to convince myself it actually doesn’t… but if I’m totally honest, I am forever chasing a pace in my mind, a very specific pace for a very specific distance… and the honest reality is, is that is a pace I will probably never be able to achieve, accomplish, conquer. Black and white fact of the matter.

Last year I got really close… really close several times. I finished three half marathons last year right around 2:02. That pace I’m chasing… that dream I’m wanting… that goal I’m trying to conquer… I’ve come to believe is that I want to run a sub 2 hour half marathon. I didn’t quite make it last year, and thought surely… surely this year I would finally be able to break that barrier and succeed, with just a little more training and a few more miles.  But you know what, I very very rarely mentioned this hope out loud. If you don’t ever utter the words that are in your mind into the world to hear, no one will ever know if you don’t ever succeed. Your failure can forever stay an inner demon of defeat, but at least it won’t be a public defeat for all to know. That is at least how the “simple logic” in my mind seems to work.

As I’ve continued to run and train this year, I have found I’m actually quite a bit slower than I was last year. My consistent and current pace, is not where it was last year, and nowhere close to where I wish it would be.  But… I was still able to run, I was still healthy, and was still able to get myself up and get out there for the most part. I have been trying to give myself grace for my current pace and working on coming to grips with it all, and just attempting to enjoy each moment as it came, not as I was expecting it to.  I also fully realized that the pace I was chasing and failing at, left me a pace that others would probably love to be able to do. I know I need to be careful in how talk down about myself around others, because the last thing my intent is, is to make anyone feel “less than.” I want to be everyones greatest supporter - I want to see everyone for who they are and where they are in the journey that they are currently in and encourage the heck out of you.  If you’re out there doing something hard, anything hard, boom ~ you are a rockstar baby! Keep that hard shit up!

I was nervous (as usual) the night before the 10 Miler portion of the Half Challenge, and I was fervently watching the radar. It’s been a crazy summer of rain and storms this year, and that morning was looking a bit sketchy in terms of weather. I decided I would just go for it between two rain systems, which put me out just a tiny bit earlier than my usual.

And a tiny bit earlier also means a tiny bit darker. And a little bit darker than pre-dawn, is well… pitch black.

I admit, I am very intentional about the times I go out and run every day, especially at the lake. It’s very important to me to take the time to watch the sunrise, watch nature awaken, listening to it whisper its soft good mornings.

There’s something magical, something special about watching the darkness fade into vivid rays of color, about being an enveloped part of the wonder and awakening of God’s nature and glory.

I found myself about a half mile in and I was already nervous and watching my pace on my wrist and waiting for my running app to update me. I was antsy, my anxiety and nerves were trying to hijack my mind and my muscles. I was trying to just breath deep, trying to slow the inner push, reign in the driving demons of unattainable expectation.

I began to pray (with my eyes open of course) and I just simply said the words “Lord, give me grace from the pace today… endurance for the distance… and grace from my pace…” It was words and a mantra amid my breathing and my moving to help slow me down, help calm me down, help settle in to a steadier pace for the long haul, and help keep me from thinking beyond the ten mile distance I was currently in.

I noticed movement to my right, and there was something running along the other side of the road. It was dark, but as I watched I was quite sure it was a skunk. I kept looking over and kept hoping it would just go down into the ditch already. I slowed down, trying to stay behind it, far from it. There was a small drive opening, and it suddenly slipped away out of sight.

Then, just a few steps later, still less than ten minutes to this ten mile run… I felt my right foot on top of something that moved or rolled or gave way beneath me… in a blur I jolted forward, in a stumbling attempt to regain my footing, and immediately and clearly knew… I was going down.

The utter disappointment in myself cut into my inner core before the asphalt even had a chance to mangle my outer flesh.

It was a back rural road that had just been re-black topped that same week. It was dark. I could still smell the tar and I saw myself falling forward, the rest a blur. After inertia had stopped and given its control back to me, I sat there absolutely dazed and confused. I stood up and had no idea what direction I was facing, I had no idea what was hurt or how badly I may have been injured. I sat back down attempting to regain my composure and access the situation.

I knew my ankle was twisted and I knew there was road rash and blood on my left side, especially my hands and shoulder. I messaged my friend that was out also running to support me over in Virginia… she immediately replied. I told her I had fallen, and I had no idea what to do.

Oh my gosh I was so disappointed as I stood there in that moment. Crushed, defeated. I knew going in that this race was going to be about distance, dedication, discipline, determination… but disappointment was not something I had trained for.

You don’t train to fall. You don’t train to deal with injury. You don’t train to not finish. You don’t train to fail.

Those thoughts and fears and what if’s of course are always there in the back of your mind, but you don’t ever actually go into a race expecting something like this to happen. Sure, it’s always a possibility, but at least for me, the second that race starts, the moment that clock starts officially timing… usually that fear turns into hope, into drive, into a straight vision line to simply finish.

The clock was still going… and I had no idea what to do. I finally slowly got up and started just putting one foot in front of the other in attempt to just get back. In the mile back I knew my ankle wasn’t good, I knew as soon as I took that shoe off it was going to balloon up like no other, and I knew I would never finish this race at a pace I would ever be proud to share. (Why?!? Why are we so ridiculously hard on ourselves like this?!?)

The sun was rising, the sky was now becoming an incredible view of beauty and I decided to just keep going… slow and steady. I reached mile three… then four. The sunrise was just breathtaking and I was able to take some fantastic photos. (I never allow myself to stop or slow down for anything, especially photos, during a timed race). Mile five… then six… I realized my running app was no longer giving me any updates (which it on rare occasions decides to do, ugh) and my bluetooth headphones were not keeping a consistent connection to my music (super annoying to me). The blood on my hands was running down my arms by now, the ankle was throbbing, the hips hurting because of my odd gait. The thought of not even being able to start the half marathon race the next morning was attempting to consume me, all while I was consciously trying to just focus on finishing the current ten miles I was in.

In time mile seven turned into mile eight. Mile nine left me with only one more mile to go… and then I was done. I had made it. I had made the distance anyway, I refused to even look at the time and pace, and I had no idea if I could personally really even count this as a “finish” or not.

Oh I was so damn disappointed in myself. Just crushed.

I officially logged everything and took some post race photos and began the process of accessing the damages. I took off the socks and shoes. I watched the ankle immediately swell and start to turn purple. I washed off the blood and tried to get out the asphalt lodged deep inside, and I saw entire pieces of skin missing.

I was so focused on all of these things, and would later realize I hadn’t even allowed myself to see the final distance that I had just finished. Ten miles. One frazzled initial mile and nine slow painful disappointing miles were all overlooked, overtaken, overshadowed by the disappointment I carried across that finish line because it didn’t go quite how I had planned it to go. I didn’t finish in a time I claimed to be personally acceptable for myself.

I had prayed for God to give me grace from the pace. I had prayed that God would just slow me down and simply give me the endurance for those ten miles. And well… He did. And for once He had decided to answer a prayer of mine nearly immediately. He also gave me the most gorgeous sunrise and the ability to allow myself to steal some picts of it.

My initial reaction was to not utter a word about this. I hadn’t shared much about this Half Challenge I was doing with many people (I was going to wait until day four when I was all done and knew I had conquered and completed the entire challenge before saying anything… you know… just in case I didn’t, or couldn’t, actually do it). Again, why do we do this to ourselves?!?

I did decide to post a little something about my disappointment, without a lot of detail, and found the response not at all what I was expecting. Inside I carried this heavy disappointment about it all, this failure mentality, this negative outlook… but many of the responses back weren’t of that mindset, they were of the accomplishment, the distance achieved, the obstacle overcome. My dear friends at the campground surrounded me with support and one of them, who is a coach, even came and taped me all up with some amazing KT support tape that he had (which I had never even heard of). I sat there while he wrapped and taped, while others watched, and I almost felt like a real athlete.

I spent most of the day laying in bed with an elevated and iced ankle. My brain didn’t know whether to try process this reality reasonably and rationally or just totally hijack the entire situation by overruling and overtaking every feasible shred of positivity and self worth.

I didn’t choose and train and go into this challenge for anyone other than myself. I did it to push myself, to mind-over-miles myself, to attempt something out of my comfort zone, something I didn’t feel natural at or at all gifted in, something that I intentional knew wasn’t going to be easy for me.

Night came and I honestly had no idea what I was going to do the next morning for the Half Marathon race. A part of me was ready to not do it and take the personal DNF and big fat failure checkmark. Part of me was wanting to at least go and try, gosh darnit I had put all of this time and training in. But I didn’t want to injury myself worse, and I didn’t know if not trying at all was going to be a worse failure than trying and not being able to finish.

Yea.. this is the crap that my mind battles and deals with all the time. I have no idea why I have been “gifted” with this thing called a “perfectionism complex,” but it’s something real that I have battled all my life, and I know I will continue battle forever until I die. It’s who I am, it’s how I am. It’s what makes me the best that I am and also makes me the worst that I am. It’s my hot and cold, my blessing and curse all at once. (It’s also what requires me to be on prozac, lol)

As I laid there I got a message from a fellow runner friend. It included the words “I think you’ll be able to do it.” And then I pulled up another gal to message, who recently ran a full marathon with a stress fracture in her foot. She went in injured, she still ran it, she still gave it everything she had in her, and I cheered her on every single step she took. I had prayed God grant her the strength to cross the finish line from half a continent away, and she did! I was going to message her and get her thoughts… and then stopped. I already knew what she was going to say - “You gotta at least try it.” That is exactly what she had done, what she had shown the world just weeks earlier.

I set out the final #flatsara outfit and took the photo. I refused to let myself post it in the race group like I had the other three pre-race #flatsaras. I said nothing. I posted nothing. I went to bed hoping to get up and attempt it, but also knowing if the pain was too great, I would have to refuse to let myself try because I could not let myself injure myself any more.

The alarm went off and I got up. The ankle felt surprisingly better than it looked. I said nothing. I dressed, I put in the old corded headphones, I strapped on the garmin watch, I opened the Gu and got it down, I pinned on the race bib. I opened the door, I took a deep breath, and I went outside.

It was a slow start, but that sunrise yet again did not disappoint. The weather was a humid cool (it’s Minnesota people -it’s a real thing, sorry) and quite breezy. I required myself to keep a slow but steady pace… thirteen miles is a long-ass distance on a completely healthy set of legs to complete…

It was a beautiful morning, and it was an extremely long and hard fought morning. Those miles were not easy, my time was nowhere near what I had trained and hoped for. But I remained determined and continued on. Then I heard the ding of a message, and then another, and realized I had forgotten to turn my phone notifications off. (Another timed race requirement.) I allowed myself to unlock my phone and look at it (which I also never allow myself to do during a timed race). Three people had messaged me to keep going, telling me I could do it and just seeing how it was going… It was what I needed to help keep me going.

Mile after mile. Hour after hour. When I hit mile ten I allowed myself to push the pace just a little tiny bit more. Same with mile eleven, pushed just a little harder. I reached mile twelve and knew I had one point one miles left. One point one miles. My typical sub two hour pace mindset, was now in a full on sub three hour push, it was time to dig in even deeper.

I made it to mile thirteen point one, and I made there in just under a sub three hour time, and I have to honestly say when I finally finished, it was the same feeling as what I’m assuming a sub two hour finish would be. Oh Lord I was ecstatic, I was DONE. I had made the entire distance, I had completed the challenge. It was the longest half marathon I have completed time wise, and it was the hardest marathon I have ever completed determination wise.

Yes, I carried a huge disappointment that overall it had not gone as I had planned, but I also did feel a huge accomplishment in merely getting up, attempting it, and actually completing it.

I know without a doubt God is in this to teach me to listen, to slow down, to honestly open my hands and release that pace and perfection expectation I cannot seem to let go of. He’s wanting me to stop looking so intently forward, to stop following and comparing myself to those amazing paces and distances and toned bodies all over the social media feeds. I’m always so busy looking ahead, looking at where I think I could be, or want to be, or should be, that I rarely allow myself to stop and look at the me in the right here and the right now. To see the actual me that God created me to be, in the body God gave me, and be ok with it.

I have a long road of healing and recovery in front of me, and slow is hard for me. Rest is really hard for me. This is going to be a hard journey, and I have to realize that that half might have been my last half marathon. At this point I honestly don’t know, but I’m quite certain that God’s answer to my “healing prayers” are going to be much slower coming than his initial answer to my “slowing down via immediate injury” prayer.

There are so many others out there just like me… looking ahead to what they think and hope and wish for, while rarely allowing to fully see themselves as the gift and beauty that they already are. We’re all at different paces and different journeys and races in our lives. We’re all dealing with different dreams and hopes and goals and setbacks and disappointments.

We’re all impatient and dreaming big.

We’re all full speed ahead to the next bigger, better, latest, greatest. We’re all in dire need of just slowing down, allowing ourselves the grace from life’s crazy pace. Lord knows I don’t have the answers to any of this, but I can tell you first hand that I think we need to try listen closer to that little whisper to slow down, to let go and let God… We aren’t in control, we don’t get to call all the shots, and if we don’t answer on our own, He just might grant it to us anyway, and not in a way we are going to probably be happy with.

Once upon a time I was full speed ahead and God granted me the “gift” of sickness and loss. I was forced to slow down, forced to stop, to hurt, and then to figure out how to heal, to mend, to somehow move forward again. And in that healing and mending, I found this crazy thing called running… which would, four and half years later bring me to the same (but different) spot of being granted the “gift” of injury and recovery.

These surely have not felt like “gifts” by any means in the moment, but in the short forty-four years of my life thus far, I have come to know that I need to somehow trust the journey, trust the plans God has planned for our lives, and trust the outcome… come what may.

Yea yea, easy peasy words to say I know, living in their reality is a whole different story.

Life is not easy, life is not guaranteed, and life never quite seems to go as planned. I find it a little bit odd that I keep being surprised over and over by this basic concept. Every time I am faced with a disappointment, a hurt, a trial, a hardship, I seem initially surprised that I’m not actually the one in control. And yet in time, in processing, in laying it at the foot of the cross… deep inside I know it’s all part of the plan, the journey, the process… we just need to look at it through the clearer lens of learning vs the cracked blurred lens of failure. Again yes, easier said than done. But maybe we need to continue to say it, in order to see it, in order to attempt to practice it.

So what’s my takeaway from all this you ask? Don’t run in the dark.

HaHaHa! No, seriously. lol.

Ok yes, “do not run in the dark” is the black and white, night and day (pun there, get it?!?!) lesson learned, but in all the shades of grey, in all the vibrant hues in the sunrise between dark and dawn, there are so many things to glean here, top of which is merely taking the time to slow down, to see myself as I am, and to stop comparing. These are hard things for me, hard painful things. And apparently it’s taking some hard painful consequences to help me slow down, help me see myself not as such a failure, and stop comparing myself to all those I perceive as greater and better and faster than me.

We need to love ourselves for who we are, I know it’s not easy, and I know I don’t do it well at all. But maybe if we all try loving ourselves just a tiny bit better, and comparing ourselves just a tiny bit less, we’ll all be able to simply slow down just a tiny bit more and live life just a tiny bit more fully.

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Sassy Pants and Tutus

It’s been four and half years. Most days are ok, some days are even pretty good.

But every once in a while I get an unexpected jolt to my heart, a little zinger deep in my soul that cracks wide open that wound again. The ache returns, the questions, the confusion, the sadness, the touch of anger that will yet again linger just a little too long, which in time I know will give way to an uneasiness of guilt.

It’s the little girl with long ringlets of red hair you catch a glimpse of hanging on to her mamas leg amid the crowd of mourners releasing balloons in the parking lot at a funeral on a sunny Wednesday morning. It’s the photo of a blue eyed red headed little girl with the dimples and precious smile that pops up unexpectedly in my instagram feed. It’s the pink toy aisle at Walmart. It’s the little pair of glittery pink sandals placed neatly on the corner of the cement down by the beach, while its owners little bare feet are down splashing in the water and wiggling in the sand.

It’s the little pink and white Sassy Pants and Tutus outfit hanging on the end of the clearance rack at the local store. The bandages, dog food, and paper plates are all purchased and bagged and in the cart you clank and clatter out the store door as you attempt to both hold open the non electronic door AND push and steer the cart through all at the same time… And then you glance over and see it. You see the little pink glittery outfit and it stops you in your tracks. You stand and look, a little smile, a little catch in your throat, a little snag on the innards all at the same time.

You slowly reach out and allow yourself to touch it, to pick it up, to hold it, to imagine it on the little princess who’s already wearing angel wings and traveling barefoot on Heaven’s streets of gold.

Just yesterday afternoon I found myself in the back corner of our yard with my youngest middle child. We had been gone on vacation and he was busy checking if there were any ripe raspberries on yet. I was hanging laundry on the line and then went back to join him.

There were a few on, and we both had our very first vine ripened, sun warmed, fresh raspberries of the summer. As we were slowly and quietly peeking and poking through the thorny branches in search of the deep red of the ripe berries ready to be slowly plucked, I somehow found myself in conversation with him about Faith.

I’m pretty sure he brought it up, and it started somewhere along the lines that he really wished she was still here, still alive, still on earth. I continued to slowly push away this leaf and then that leaf, occasionally putting a fresh berry in my mouth, and I found myself agreeing with him.

Of course I wish she was still alive and still on this earth with us.

But then I went on and heard myself say that even though I don’t know why it had to happen the way it all did, I do know that she’s actually the lucky one… because she got to go right to Heaven. She never had to experience any of the hardships and hurts and pains and sickness and sadness and disappointments that we have to endure every day here on earth.

I said that at first all she knew was sickness, her body was filled with illness from the very first split of her very first cell. She carried the incorrect number of chromosomes and never in her limited days here, ever knew the comfort and reality of a strong heartbeat, of a healthy umbilical cord, of a head and body not filled with fluid. But… she also got the greatest gift of all ~ she got the gift of absolute health before the world would ever deal their negative hand upon her.

Outside the womb she would never have to know the hurt of harsh words, the pain of bumps, bruises, scratches, cuts, broken bones. She would never have to endure being sick, or sad, or lost, or confused, or scared, or wresting with the general reality of being alive and living within a world filled with sin and sinners.

We talked about how we’re sure she’s playing with miss Autumn and might have even been there to help welcome the arrival last week of dear miss Mya. Oh my heart aches for all the other mamas who have lost children, and often I think about how much more sad it must be for the families who get to take their babies home, make life and memories with their babies, and then lose them much too early. Oh I can’t even imagine. I only get to grieve the what if’s, the should have beens, the could have beens. Although… perhaps they are both, in their own way, equally as sad and just as horribly heartbreaking.  Lord I pray I never have to find out via comparison in my own life.

She was the lucky one I said again. She was the lucky one.

I said it multiple times, trying to actually convince myself of its truth. And I do know it’s true, deep inside I do. Most days I do know that an incredible amount of good has come because of our loss and this journey of faith that we never asked to be placed on.

No, this is not what we wanted, not what we ever imagined, not what we signed up for… but it is what we have been granted none the less… and somewhere deep inside, I do also know that that makes us somehow the lucky ones as well.

She was the lucky one who got to say hello to Jesus before she got to say hello to anyone else.  She was the lucky one who got to skip the sin and pain altogether… and on days like today when my heart hurts and bleeds fresh all over again, I have to somehow also trust we are the lucky ones as well. 

Yes, we are somehow the lucky ones as well, even when I surly don’t feel so lucky, especially when I surely don’t feel so lucky.

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