"It was not about me. It was not about the run...."

"Here's a secret about running. The feeling you get after a new PR, the satisfaction from a tough workout well done, and the disappointment from a bad performance all feel the same no matter how fast you are. That's the beauty of our sport.

There is no difference between the runner who breaks 30 minutes for the 5K for the first time and the one that breaks 16 minutes. Both worked hard, sacrificed to achieve their goal, and experienced the same challenges.

That means all runners can relate to each other, no matter their speed."

There are runs where you want to quit, but you don’t.

Runs where you want to quit, and you do.

Runs where you push yourself so hard, you puke your guts out.

Runs where you puke your guts out because you’re pregnant and don’t know it.

Runs where you go faster than you ever have before, and it feels amazing.

Runs where you’re so sore from a previous workout that you can barely move.

Runs where you’re injured, but you don’t want to admit it.

Runs when you’re coming back from an injury and you’re scared to hurt it.

Runs when you have to pee with every single step

Runs when you start off angry and end happy.

Runs when you watch every single second tick by.

Runs when you finish before you realize you even started.

Runs where you make new friends.

Runs where you figure crap out.

Runs where great ideas come to you.

Runs where not so great ideas come to you.

Runs when you realize what you really want to do with your life.

Runs where you realize you’re not doing what you want to do.

Runs where you are just plain sad the entire time.

Runs where you are so hot, you fantasize about diving into an icy cold pool the entire time.

Runs where you know you’re getting brutally chafed, but you keep on keepin’ on.

Runs where you are with thousands of other people.

Runs by yourself

Runs when you cry the entire time.

Runs where you cry when you’re finished

.

Runs that earn you a medal.

Runs where the wind is blowing so hard, you feel as if you’re going backwards.

Runs that are so effortless, you’re not even sure they happened.

Runs where you’ve gone 20 miles, and don’t possibly think you could 6.2 more. And then you do.

Runs where you’re exploring a whole new place, in a way you never would if you weren’t a runner.

Runs where you have a cold, and your nose leaks the whole time.

Runs when the rain is pouring.

Runs when the sun is shining.

Runs when your Garmin dies halfway through, and you have to do it blindly.

Runs where you get so confused as to how far you’ve gone (math is hard, especially when you’re 

tired) that you say screw it and just give up counting.

Runs that are “stolen” when you should be doing something else.

Runs where you make your to-do list.

Runs where you have to stop and take a phone call.

Runs where you have to stop and go back to work.

Runs where you should stop and go back to work, but you don’t.

And if you are lucky....You will get a run that makes you fall in love with running all over again.

On Saturday, at seven in the morning, over 30,000 people gathered in the center of downtown Nashville,  ready to take part in possibly one of the most fatiguing, rigorous, and demanding days of their lives- both physically and mentally.

Before the day of my race arrived I had many expectations. The physical part never made me think twice, I was, and still am, confident that after your legs can tolerate two hours of running, the remaining distance you wish to achieve is your minds doing.

Friday night I was eager for the sun to rise on Saturday morning, and as the sun rose on Saturday, I was just as eager for it to set.

 I wanted to start this day, walk to the start line with 2 of the most influential people in my life….and do what we do…..Run. I wanted them to have the best experience possible in running their first marathon. I stood there and wondered about my best friends. 20 corrals behind us…..getting ready to run their first half marathon. Knowing the nerves and the anticipation that was setting in on all these runners. How do I know? Because I feel it every single time I step to the start line.

I often wonder what I will feel like afterwards, and perhaps during the race, and I often think pride. A selfish pride, one that was only about me- how hard I worked, how I did not give up, how I did something not many other people can say they accomplished.

However, this run for me was not about what I could say “I” did. I ran this race with my Mom and Uncle. Many people will not know what I mean when I say these 2 saved me from me. When I was at my lowest point in life…..They believed in me. Never once gave up on me. This truly wasn’t about the run….it was about the journey for me.

I could not ignore the energy in the air. Like electricity, it was plausible, and the undeniable thrill, and anticipation, and support ran like currents from runner to runner- I didn’t dread this run, because as a team, we were all ready.

The race began, and I was pleasantly surprised to internally acknowledge how happy I felt. Of course, this was only the beginning, and I was sure this feeling would be fleeting. Even still, I enjoyed myself.

I enjoyed myself by reading the often clever shirts of everyone ahead of me.

I enjoyed myself by looking at the historical, beautiful, world famous monuments we passed, as we steadily ran through the entirety of Nashville.

I enjoyed myself by the endless support- the strangers, and children on the side of the roads, giving the runners high fives as we passed. The volunteers lining the street, handing us water, each and every one of them encouraging us along the way.

I enjoyed myself by realizing the amazing thing I was doing, but not the way in which I envisioned myself feeling- that selfish pride.

It really was no longer about me or the run. It was about the 30,000 people- who were from different countries, and backgrounds. Who were men and women, who had children, or were single. Who were different skin colors, and sexual orientations, and who held different political beliefs. Who were young, and old.

All of these people, you knew nothing about them.  Yet, in this moment, we were all the same. All you knew is the amount of hard work they put into this day, you knew it, because you had done the very same. You knew that today, they would give it all they had- they would ignore that voice in their head telling them they were tired, or they needed a break, or that they could not do it- you knew they would ignore that voice, and overcome that voice- but only if we did it together.

It was not about me or the run. It was about the community- a community of people you knew nothing about, but who supported each other nonetheless. Who had a common goal, an extremely challenging one, but who would exert every ounce of discipline, and strength, and courage in order to achieve it.

It was not about me or the run.

It was watching, with a smile on my face, as a man who looked almost 80 years old, jogged around the rest of us. Hearing him cheer us on and chant “Come on Mother & Daughter…and uncle. Ya’ll can do it!!”  It was watching, with a smile on my face, as runners cheered him on, all along the way.

It was not about me or the run. It was about watching the young man run the entire race with an American flag waving in the wind behind him.

It was not about me or the run. It was about the woman I saw in a wheelchair….smiling. Wheeling past runners on 2 feet and cheering them on. Never once letting the fact that she was in a wheelchair stop her from accomplishing a goal she set for herself.

It was not about me or the run. It was about the women, and the men, it was about all of us coming together to watch as we made ourselves proud. But, I will say again, it was not a selfish pride.

This day- it was not something that could be passed down to you. It did not matter who your parents were, and it was not a gift that could be bought in the store. It was a result of one thing, and one thing only, an unwavering work ethic. A ruthless and relentless mind- that would push you when your body said stop.

 This day, it was not about me. It was not about the run.

It was about realizing we must not all be competitive with one another, but ourselves. It is not about beating the person next to you, or being better than them. It is about encouraging them to be their best, and pushing them, and pushing yourself, in an effort to better one another. Not bringing another down to lift yourself up, but by using each other as support beams, allowing the both of you to rise like smoke, together.

It was not about me. It was not about the run. It was about stepping up to the start line and praying to our almighty God to give protection to the 30,000 runners that were about to push their body to the limit. It was about stopping at mile 11 and praying once again for a layer of healing over my uncle’s knee who in excruciating pain. It was about having that same faith at mile 19 when we stopped and held hands in prayer for a third time. For him to ease the stomach cramps of my Mom. For him to just lay his hand upon them both. To give them the strength to push on. To guide them.

We asked in prayer…..and our faithful God answered.

It was about watching Gere stop and bend over in pain….I saw it written all over his face as he grabbed his knee…then recomposed himself and forced himself to put one foot in front of the other….and keep moving.

It was about hearing Gina say out loud on mile 24…..”Dear God, please just give me the strength.” And 15 minutes later I heard her whisper “I can do this”….when she didn’t think I could hear her.

It was about receiving updating text messages saying that my friend crossed the finish line of her first half marathon UNDER her time limit she set for herself.

It was about receiving that second text message from another friend stating she crossed the finish line under her time as well. Both of these girls always underestimating what they are capable of...and this was a defining moment in their life. It was a hurdle that they will always remember.

It was about watching my cousin walk up to me after crossing the finish line of that brutal 26.2 miles and giving me a hug....a hug that said more than he could have said to me. It simply said “Thank you for believing in me.”

On that day, while my resolve was trailed during the final hour, and my legs begged me to stop, and I wondered why the last two miles felt like eight, it was among one of the best of my life. It was something that was my own, but somehow, managed to be about way more than myself. It was an unselfish pride. One without jealously, or hate, or competition- ironic enough given the fact it was a race. It was the vital thing, so often overlooked, the strength of support and family….and community.

Today, I am sore. But my heart is proud.

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"You are my heart...."

"You are my heart....When you succeed, I succeed....when you fail, I fail....when you step, I step with you. You are my heart...You have to know that...." 

Dear Son,

It dawned on me the other day that you are getting dangerously close to the age I was when I gave birth to you.  I’m not going to lie, that knowledge terrifies me a bit.  Not simply because I don’t want you to become a teenage parent (which I don’t- at all), but because it means that you’ve reached a point in your life where the choices you make can and will impact you for years to come, if not forever.  How well you do in school, the types of people you associate with, and how you divvy up the pie chart that is your life between family, friends, girls, school, sports, etc., matters NOW. (For the record, it should go like this: school, family, sports, friends, girls.  I realize, however, that you probably want to do things in the exact opposite order.)

As much as I would love to keep you a baby forever, I can no longer deny the fact that you are becoming a young man, right before my eyes.  Which means that I have to make some changes, too.  I have to learn how to be the mother of a teenager, as opposed to a teenage mother. I'm going to be honest, I am struggling. Bad. I have to learn that I can’t fight your battles for you or hold your hand during every step of your journey into manhood.  I have to allow you to make mistakes and learn things the hard way.  And I have to learn how to become your friend. I have to learn how to juggle the two. 

Make no mistake, I will always be your mother before your friend.  I will still discipline you when it’s warranted and try to impart my “mom wisdom” on you when I can, no matter how stupid you think it is.  (Or how stupid you think I am.)  But I also have to start allowing you to make your own choices, to be who you are.  I need to stand back and watch as the things I’ve taught you about the world, about life, and about how to treat others, take hold on their own, without my reminders and lectures and constant nagging.  I need to learn how to enjoy the young man that you’ve become, and take pride in the part I’ve played in that.

In just five short years, you’ll be a legal adult.  You’ll be the same age I was when I gave birth to a beautiful brown-eyed baby boy.  The age I was when I met the love of my life.  (Yes, I’m talking about you.)  While teenage parenthood is not ideal (and again, not something I want you to experience- EVER), I wouldn’t change a thing, even if I could.  Just as I’ve watched you grow over the past thirteen years, you’ve done the same with me.  You’ve watched me make mistakes, have my heart broken, and fall down (literally and figuratively) more times than I can count.  You’ve seen and heard and been through things that I never wanted you to have to experience.  But the thing I hope you’ll take from it all, more than anything else, is that I always got back up.  I admitted when I was wrong, apologized when I should (usually), and didn’t let anything stop me.

I may not have been the one to teach you to play baseball, or wrestle, or even ride a bike, but hopefully I did teach you what it means to be a fighter.  To always follow your heart and your dreams, and to never give up, no matter how many setbacks you face.  I’m far from perfect.  You know that because you see my flaws firsthand.  And I’m sure that sometimes it must seem like I’m a hypocrite for disciplining you when I see you following in some of my more unfavorable footsteps.  If it seems like I expect more from you than I myself gave at your age, it’s because I do. 

I tell you all the time that we’re a lot alike, and it’s true.  Sometimes I feel that we’re too much alike.  (Which is probably why we argue as often as we do.)  But here’s where we differ: you’re better than me.  I know, because you are the best part of me.  And because you’ve seen the worst part of me.  I never tried to put myself on a pedestal for you, and maybe that’s in part because I was afraid of falling.  But I don’t regret it.  Growing up alongside you was a lot more fun anyway. You see baby boy, you are my heart. You are the one that gave me the strength I needed it. You are the one that I got out of the bed for each and every day. Your face is the one I saw when I was in the darkest part of my life and suicide crossed my mind. You are my heart. 

I’m writing you this letter in a moment of clarity, but I’m sure that tomorrow, or next week, or the week after that, I’ll try to pick out your school clothes, or stick my nose in “your business,” or let my hurt feelings show when you choose to spend your evening talking on the phone to your friends instead of  watching movies with me.  It will happen.  I promise.  But when it does, please try to have a little patience with me.  Because as hard as it was becoming a teen mom, I’m finding it a lot harder learning how to be the mom of a teenager.

I'll love you forever,

I'll like you for always,

As long as I'm living

my baby you'll be.

Love, 

Mom 

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"But I do hope. And I know hope can make a world of difference."

“Alice came to a fork in the road. 'Which road do I take?' she asked.
'Where do you want to go?' responded the Cheshire Cat.
'I don't know,' Alice answered.
'Then,' said the Cat, 'it doesn't matter.” 

With so many doubts swirling in my head — sometimes loud and shouting, sometimes sneaky and whispering, sometimes more of an image of a word following by a question mark than actual thoughts —  I am reduced to acknowledging: I JUST DON’T KNOW.

I don’t know.

I don’t have all the answers.  I don’t know how it all fits.  How everything is supposed to fit. How everything works. How to have a cleaner house....be more creative...be a better mom...a better wife...a better friend. To be quite honest with you, most times I feel like I am a kid playing house....and sometimes, just like a child, I flip a coin or play eeny meeny miny moe....and still, I am unsure of what I am doing.  I’m coming to see there are just some things I don’t know in this life. 

Everyday as a mom, I am faced with things I don't know. I don't know if what I am doing is right...if what is right in this moment will be right 1 year down the road. I want to believe that I am raising my children with morals...with compassion....with the ability to choose right from wrong....to listen very closely to the heart....but also to be smart. Every choice I make....every situation I am faced with allows me to be an example to these 2 little beings....and I pray....Lord, I pray....that I am being the best example I can be. 

I don't know what tomorrow holds....or next week...next year. 

I simply just....don't know. 

And I think I’m coming to see that that’s okay....Or maybe not so much okay with that, as coming to an understanding of it and thinking that maybe it’s a better place to be. Maybe being in a state of questioning allows me to sit in a position of learning and listening.

There are some things I do know — at least for now:

I love compassion.  And mercy.  And empathy for the suffering of others.  I know kindness is a good thing.  Respect for the dignity of others is so rare, but so much more valuable for its rarity.  I know a listening ear gains much more ground than a shouting mouth.  Humility is so attractive.  I know we could all use a hand up sometimes, and while it’s far more blessed to be the one extending that hand than to be the one needing it, we all have to take our turn on the receiving end.

I know life is precious, beauty is there for those who seek it, and sometimes life and its hidden beauty are enough to see us through one more day.

I know I need my people more than I realize.  I know they need me, maybe more than I realize.  I have a sneaking suspicion that the things we think we hold dear are probably not the things we would first rescue if our house was on fire.  I also know I sometimes need the reminder that we all need rescued.

I know love is so critically important.  I know we are all lonely and looking for someone who sees us as we really are.  I know that being seen for who I really am scares the pants off me, that it’s both what I want and what I’m terrified of...and that I am thankful for the very few people that do....and love me regardless. 

I know each of us is inherently gifted, that we all have something to offer, and the world is a much poorer place without our contribution.  The skills we have are given in order to bless others, and they also represent some of the most difficult areas to share, these places of our vulnerability.

I know labels hurt and pride isolates and words can injure.  I know my position of “being right” removes me from having any real impact.  I know that when I smugly sit in a seat of judgment I alienate those who seem to need help the most, when in reality it is I, myself, who needs the most help.

I know second chances, and grace, change everything.  I know an apology sinks in deeper than an excuse; that a soft word of encouragement echoes more loudly than a yell of correction; that the two extra seconds required to smile at a stranger just may make all the difference in their day.

I know there are those who are hungry and cold and alone and lonely and desperate and sick and oppressed and imprisoned, and I don’t know why I am not.  (I guess that one belongs in the “I don’t know” column).  I know I can live with strength and courage and integrity and gratitude, and I’m afraid all that won’t change the lives of those who are hungry and cold and lonely and desperate and sick and oppressed and imprisoned.  Or maybe it will…

Because it will change my life.  And that might change the lives of those in direct contact with me.  And it might even, in a ripple effect, slowly, one wave at a time, reach them (the hungry and cold and lonely…) eventually.  In living with passion, intentionality, and purpose; in resolving to be compassionate; to be the hand who reaches to help; to be the one who offers food and shelter and comfort; to have a word of encouragement on my lips and an eye out for the good in others; in admitting that “I don’t know”… maybe that can change some things about this place so those who are hungry and cold and alone and in all those sad conditions will be a little fewer in number than they were before.  Maybe if each one of us knew enough to know that, our children and the generations coming on behind us will be able to make even more of a difference.

I don’t know.

But I do hope.  And I know hope can make a world of difference.

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"Listen to MUSTN’TS, child..."

“The whole point of taking pictures is so that you don’t have to explain things with words.” 

Among the many mementos in my house are a collection of family baby photos. My Daddy, as a teenager with his bell bottoms.....his hair swept to the side long before Justin Beiber thought about doing it. My grandmother lounging outdoors, perfectly made up, lifting my tiny smiling brother into the air. My Step mom and little brother, skating in the old rink that has long been gone. A little brown headed boy–my husband–tanned and happy, playing in the dirt with his tractors.....which he still does as an adult, his sandbox has just gotten quite a bit bigger. My sweet baby boy when he had a head full of blonde hair with a few curls, his big eyes peeking out from  his favorite little hiding place in the kitchen. I can remember that day so clearly....As soon as I found him her erupted into a fit of giggles and I tickled him until his face turned red. Little did I know that time would go so fast...I would have tried to memorize that sound so I would never forget how it sounded.  My beautiful Bailey....sitting in her swing that her daddy put up for her...with the last remnants of of a rare snow fall on the ground behind her and the sunshine beaming off her sweet little face.

Looking at these photos never fails to make me smile. They contain miniaturized versions of the faces I know so well–the same expression, the eyes. It’s as though all of the things I love about them are reduced to their most basic elements and crystallized there. Certain characteristics are frozen in time.

When my husband does something that makes me so mad I could spit nails, passing by his childhood photo on the refrigerator  brings my temper down a few notches. I see the impulsive boy in him and know that he will be sorry, just as I am, that we said those stupid things....or reacted the way we did. When Khristian gets a rise out of me....because quite frankly, he is acting exactly like me....when he can't seem to keep his mouth shut. During those moments that I have to walk away from him because I know I can't respond to him the way I should....I will go in my room and look at that sweet little face smiling back at me in that photo...and remember that this is just a stage. 

As I’ve been (sporadically) cleaning out my storage room because I hate clutter and love organization, I’ve been going through boxes of old albums, scanning baby photos for safekeeping. It’s been a while since I really sat down and relived my own childhood through photos. Doing so used to remind me of lost things: my parents before the divorce, forgotten friends from 20+ years ago, the addition of a whole new family, loved ones who are long gone. But, as in so many aspects of my life, I find that, here too, there’s been an emphasis shift.

As I flipped through the plastic sleeves and removed smudged Polaroids and musty prints, I saw my small face, my big green eyes and messy blonde head and I smiled. One or two photos even made me laugh out loud. Who was this precocious little thing who looked just like me, only tinier?

She is light years away from me, and yet she is the essence of me: curious, unselfconscious, naughty, fun. For her, life is full of discoveries: sugar! and salt water, baby birds and bright colors. There is no place yet for jadedness or criticism, expectations or regret. The field is wide open, the score set to zero.

Gazing down at those photos, I experienced that same wave of affection I feel every time I pass my bellbottom wearing dad or my beautiful blonde headed children as babies.

Unapologetic, all-consuming love.

Ahh, how heartbreakingly easy it can be to see the light in others but not see it in yourself. How hard we can be on ourselves for not earning enough or not being nice enough or successful enough or thin enough. It can become a white noise soundtrack that we don’t even realize is playing in the background. Looking through my baby pictures reminded me that the very best part of me is the part that embraces life openly, without expectations or preconceptions or guilt. The me that accepts the world as a gift.

So, I’ve decided to print this photo and place it among those other tiny faces I love so well.

Thirty-one years.....an ocean really, of happiness and heartache, experience and expectations lie between us....the stress of everyday life and the days of carefree innocence. ....But she beckons me back to that place of unknowing anticipation, the joy of everyday life....to step outside of my box....reminding me of the Shel Silverstein poem I once loved and read so many times:

Listen to MUSTN’TS, child,
Listen to the DON’TS
Listen to the SHOULDN’TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WONT’S
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me–
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.....

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"Mirrors are perpetually deceitful..."

“Mirrors are perpetually deceitful. They lie and steal your true self. They reveal only what your mind believes it sees” 

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my obsession with my body.  To be clear, I am ALWAYS thinking about my body, but lately I’ve been thinking about that thinking. Oh, how I exhaust myself....

However, this thinking was different.  My usual negative thought patterns were abruptly interrupted with a new thought. What if I’m actually perfect?

What?!  What if all those things I’ve told myself all these years were untrue?  Well, that stopped me in my proverbial tracks.

I dove in.  What did this thought mean?  “What if I’m perfect?” Now before you jump on ship and say "No one is perfect"...keep reading and allow me to explain. As soon as I allowed the thought to settle into my being and sink in for a bit.... I felt an immediate sense of relief followed by a sadness at a lifetime of energy spent on believing the opposite.  I felt like I owed myself a deep apology.

I wanted to explore this so I sat down to start a list of all the “perfect” things about my body.  I sat there.  And I sat there.  I stared at the blank page tapping my pen. I got up, walked to the mirror in my bathroom and stripped down...and looked.  I still couldn’t seem to write anything.  In fact, all my insecurities started screaming and reared its ugly head. In the past 8 years, my body has been through some pretty extreme changes. I lost the weight but the insecurities remained.... I could feel my mind chasing the original thought, trying to hold onto it before it slipped away and was replaced by this same tired refrain.

Most of us could list the positive traits of others with relative ease, but when asked to list positive qualities about our own bodies we might embarrassingly list a couple of things (maybe things we’ve been told by others) and then quit the game.  What a shame. Think about it....

We have learned that we are good or bad, likable or not, worthy or unworthy based on our appearance since we were in diapers. We entered into a game where we (or at least many of us) constantly compared the “worst” in ourselves to the “best” in others.  A perpetual cycle of coming up short, reinforcing the lesson. 

The fact that I couldn’t even start a list suddenly felt like total crap (for a lack of a better word).  I put down the first list and began another.  I started by listing all the things I have experienced through my body.  The list was long and glorious and included:

I have danced with abandon and felt the music flowing through my veins and beads of sweat poured down my body. 

I have washed my hair and sat in warm appreciation under the sun as it dried and blew in the wind. I have felt the sun heat up my face as I smile up into it. 

I have kissed and been kissed....I have fallen in love. 

I have felt the dull ache of sore muscles the next day after a 18 mile run and the satisfaction that brings.

I have given birth naturally two times, and breastfed Bailey for an entire year.  An entire year! I can't even begin to tell you how tough that was....

I have touched my children’s heads, transmitting love through my fingers as I caressed their hair...and rocked them to sleep in my arms. 

I have walked barefoot in mud and sand and stone...

I have seen some of the most beautiful sunrises and sunsets....

I have ran mile after mile and even though in my mind I wanted to quit a million times....this body told me to keep going...

I have also experienced pain though my body. And as I began to list some of those experiences, including things I didn’t wish to remember, I realized that I was listing them with a sense of deep gratitude.  I had moved through the beauty to the pain in a state of reverence for what my body was offering me.  An opportunity to learn.  This thought was transformative.  Suddenly the body that I have both loved and despised my entire life was a tool.  And it all began to come together.

My body shows me what I need to know.  Physical pain is often a lesson in listening to intuition.  My body saying, trust me, I know what you need.  The beautiful experiences are teaching the same.  You’ve got this.

Suddenly I felt less shame about the cellulite on the back of my thighs....the stretch marks on my stomach and sides....I wasn’t weak or flawed.  I felt much less like comparing my butt in a pair jeans to her butt in a pair of jeans.   I wouldn’t trade the experiences of this body, so why would I envy the other body at all?  This body created this life I’m living.  And I love my life.  To not the love the body that delivers it to me every day began to feel like a crime that I was no longer willing to commit....

My body is perfect because it is doing exactly what it is meant to do.  It is showing me the way.... My job is merely to listen.  I’m perfect because I am a map of my own journey.  Where I have been and what I have created is written all over my physical being.  Every curve, every wrinkle, every pound, all of me.  My own divine instrument.

 From here I can find a place of quiet grace...and appreciation. 

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"Scars.."

“We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, 'I survived'...” 

Anyone that has seen my legs can tell you they are full of scars. Each week I have a new bruise or scratch....or something that will eventually turn into a scar. I have often made the comment that I will never have pretty legs and I am ok with that. I have 3 little dots in a row on my left knee from when I was a little girl and I tripped on a hidden barb wire fence....Granted, I was running from my older brother because I am sure I aggravated him to the point that he wanted to kill me....but its a fun story to tell.  I have a scar all the way down my right shin from when I was pregnant with Bailey and I tripped on a piece of raised concrete...I was 7 months pregnant and wearing heels... no, I shouldn't have been wearing them and gave them up shortly after that but I wore them for as long as I could.  I have a scar all down the right side of my shin from doing Box jumps at the gym....I had already done 79 and was attempting the last one...and it got me. I whimpered and licked my wounds for a few minutes but then I placed myself right in front of that box and got that last one in. The newest addition to my legs are the scars on the inside of my thighs from my latest Marathon in Huntsville...my glide fell out of my runner's belt and around mile 13 I could feel my legs start to chafe. Of course I didn't have the glide to fix this problem so by the time I crossed the finish line at 26 miles....the inside of my legs were so chafed that I had blood running down my legs. It hurt...but I crossed that finish line. There are numerous other marks and I could tell you a story for each of them...... I am sure by the end of my lifetime, these legs could write a book. 

Over the years, people have asked me about certain scars or where I got the latest bruise.  I have never minded telling them what I did to get it....In a weird sense, I am proud of them. I would rather go through this life explaining my latest adventure on how I got it rather than a life of being to afraid to get hurt. These scars mean I have a story. 

We all have scars....Some on the outside.....some on the inside. A scar means you have had something painful happen to you...and you have survived to tell the story. Some scars are still fresh and some have been there for years....Some are physical....and some are more emotional. It cab be caused by a death of someone  you love...a broken heart....or just a really painful experience. Often time you will rub your hands or your mind over it and you might still ask the question as to why it happened...and why you....

I think we all deal with the question of why bad things happen, especially within the Christian faith.  We think that if we live the right way, come from the right family, pray the right prayers, go to the right church, and be involved with the right things, that nothing bad will happen to us.  It’s not something we think consciously, but when something difficult does come our way, we start to search for answers as to what we may have done that caused this awful thing to happen or what we may do to prevent it from happening again in the future.

But perhaps one reason we are given our struggles...our scars.....is so that we can tell our story.

Today marks 1 year since I was told my sweet baby had no heartbeat. In that moment on the table. I prayed. I selfishly prayed that God would produce a miracle, that the ultrasound tech was wrong. Surely, that kind of miracle could be used to glorify God. I wasn't supposed to have gotten pregnant and now that I had gotten used to the idea and was attached to this beautiful being in my stomach....it was being taken away. Why? I couldnt help but to ask. Why? What had I done? Was I too ungrateful?  The truth is....I don't know the answers to those questions. I never will. I will never know why God choose to give me that baby and then take her away.....But if we don’t go through the grief, how can we understand those that do?  After that day, I understood a whole new world of women who have been silently grieving for decades... Being open about my grief and loss allowed others to do the same which strengthened me...I had many people open up and message me about their story....their loss....their heartache...and their recovery. Why aren’t we sharing those stories more often?  Why do we think that having it all together is going to reach those who are falling apart?

We need to fall apart.  We need to have lives that aren’t all together.  We have been editing our lives for so long, and it’s pretty scary to live life unedited.  But see, when we edit our life, we are editing God as well.  God isn’t some pretty cross hanging on the wall of an immaculate home.  He’s a lot bigger and more unpredictable than that.  Sometimes I think we forget that our job here on earth is to point to God.  Not in some put together, simple wave in His direction, but in a desperate clinging to His side.

And you will be judged.  By other Christians, by people of the world.  Remember that Christ was judged with how he handled the Sabbath or who he hung out with.  But if we tell our story, share our struggle, really live in the communities God has given us, then I truly believe that God will take care of the rest.   God is going to use your words to reach that person who forgot that they still have value and worth, no matter what they have done or what they are going through.  Because no matter what society says about how we look or what we accomplish, that doesn’t dictate our worth.  Only God does, and He has given us great value.

That’s why I share my story.  This life is hard.  There are so many things on this earth that can wound us, physically and spiritually.  But God’s love can heal those wounds.  And the scars that remain are a reminder that we lived through it and overcame it....we survived.  It’s a reminder to share that story with others whose wounds are open, others searching for the healing balm to their pain.  Share the beautiful mess, the imperfect path, and the healing strength of a God that walks with us.

 1 year later, I can't tell you I have it all together...I can tell you that it crosses my mind at least 2 or 3 times a week...I can tell you it still hurts...I can also tell you that I have faith that there is a reason...and I am trusting in the good Lord above that in his own time he will show me his purpose.

1 year later, I have a new scar....I have a story....and I survived. 

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"An empty plastic bottle lies on the sidewalk...."

"When you hear the word ‘disabled,’ people immediately think about people who can’t walk or talk or do everything that people take for granted. Now, I take nothing for granted. But I find the real disability is people who can’t find joy in life and are bitter...."


An empty plastic bottle lies on the sidewalk. The sidewalk isn’t very clean to begin with.... It is strewn with fallen leaves and a couple pieces of trash. A little piece down from where I am standing is occupied by a what looks to be a homeless man lying down, with whatever small possessions he has wrapped in a plastic bag sitting beside him. His clothes are in tatters....and looks like they haven't been washed in days...maybe even weeks. He sits on the cold bare ground and his only companions are the annoying flies, hungry mosquitoes, and the cold that surrounds him. He has no coat on his skinny frame and I shiver for him because even with my thick coat on...I am cold.  He has long hair and a wild unkept beard. Yet he sits with a peaceful look on his face, even though he may be on an empty stomach.

 A few feet away, a couple of guys smoked cigarettes, and when they were done, dropped the half smoked butts not very away from a garbage can and crushed them hurriedly with their feet and walked off.

A number of people walk by....Some give the man a second look, and some ignore him....and some may wish they could do something for the man from their heart, but immediately their brain convinces them that they can’t do anything for him and that there is no possible way to ensure the man gets a better life. Some may blame god or blame the man for his life. And some may call him a drunkard and call him too lazy to work and make baseless judgements.

Everyone has the right to live. But their isn’t anything that says how to live. Some people say you live your life to the fullest by doing what you love, otherwise, you merely exist. But what if we can’t do what we love? Do we not live then? Was that poor man given given an option on how to live? Maybe yes, maybe no. But you definitely cannot say he just exists.
If you’re with a friend who has just lost his/her phone, in the back of your mind you’re thanking your lucky stars that you aren’t in their position, even though you may go out on an extra limb to get your friend’s phone back. Now what if we take that to a higher level? The clothes you wear, the shoes you adore, the shampoo you use, the water you drink, the internet connection you are using to read this, and the chair you’re sitting in, 30% of the world doesn’t have most of the facilities in this list. 

What we call a necessity, some people call it a luxury. Every Friday I spend $4.00 on a coffee at starbucks....I just spend $20.00 on a hair cut that I didn't necessarily need. Now I could give that money to a starving man and he may use the money in such a way that his entire day’s food is adjusted. Do I actually do it? No. 

Appreciating the things we don’t realize, which are existing around us, is something that very few people do. A ceiling fan on a hot day is something you wouldn’t give a second look, because it is supposed to be there. It issupposed to work. The day it stops working, you realize how much comfort the fan brought you....The problem with our generation is that we grew up with everything around us. We don’t realize how lucky we are to have what we have. How many times have you sat back and said, ‘I’m happy with what I have. I don’t require anything else.‘

Both of my parents are from the Birmingham area...As a kid and even now as an adult, one of my favorite things to do while traveling to visit my grandparents was look at the big city lights at night. While everyone was sleeping, my dad would wake me up and tell me to look out the car window at the beautiful glow of the city. My Grandfather (my dad's father) made the absolute best peanut butter pies....I mean it was melt in your mouth good. When he passed away....there were several pies in the freezer that he had made prior...my dad took 2 of those and was bringing them home with us. We were at an intersection at a red light....I am looking out the window when I saw a man approach...Looking very much like the man I described earlier...dirty, tattered clothes...his skin looked like it was worn from many years of hardship. Hardships I will never know about. My dad rolled down the window just a tiny bit and the man asked for money for food. While my dad did not give him money....he reached into the backseat and grabbed one of the pies...and gave it to that man. His eyes filled with tears and he thanked my Dad profusely. The light turned green and we drove off. I protested that we only had 2 pies of Pepaws...and asked why he did that. He looked at me through the rear view mirror and said...."I know what its like to be hungry..." 

As we drove home that night, my dad woke me up to see the lights....and as I sat silently in that back seat and watched those big sky scrapers pass by...I glanced at my dad and caught him wiping a tear from his cheek. My dad, whether he knows it or not, taught me a valuble lesson that day....

We realize the value of things only after we lose them. If we took time to appreciate the things around us, the things people do for us, the little things in life, the state of life we are blessed with, and stop taking things for granted, we can then answer the question on how to live life. No one can define it for you, but you can add value by beginning to appreciate it....

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