Stepping into 2021 (Megan)

“When you have no vision from God, no enthusiasm left in your life, and no one watching and encouraging you, it requires the grace of Almighty God to take the next step in your devotion to Him, in the reading and studying of His Word, in your family life, or in your duty to Him.  It takes much more of the grace of God, and a much greater awareness of drawing on Him, to take that next step, than it does to preach the gospel.”  (Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest)

These words, lovingly framed and presented to me by my sister, have followed me in every one of my moves and held a perpetual place of honor over my kitchen sink.  Morning, noon, and night my eyes lift to this quote, and I am strengthened to tackle sink after sink of dirty dishes.  The other day I was startled to realize that my frame was missing, and my heart sank to learn that it had taken a sudsy plunge and was beyond repair.  More than ever I needed this promised grace to take the next step…

Time and time again, the year 2020 has been referred to in bleak terms as “a marathon, not a sprint.”  Or, worse yet, “a marathon without a finish line.”  This startling analogy has made me consider the marathon I ran a couple of years ago with my son and the euphoria of spectators and volunteers who cheered us through the toughest miles and celebrated our finish.  As an introvert and creature of habit who was transplanted 1200 miles from my New England home, I really had to step out of my comfort zone to find community for my family when we moved to Alabama.  For the first year and a half, I was blown away by the warm, southern hospitality we received, even from strangers.  Yet all of this changed with the arrival of the coronavirus pandemic.  Sunny smiles were shadowed with dark masks, and anxious eyes darted in critical disapproval of my children who broke the rules of social distancing.  Suddenly I no longer felt welcome in this unfamiliar place, and running “home” to New Hampshire wasn’t an option.  In a new and startling way, I felt trapped in circumstances outside of my control.  There was no forging ahead to finish this race, and I was forced to take each uncertain step with only flimsy faith in a nebulous finish line. 

“…We lose interest and give up when we have no vision, no encouragement, and no improvement, but only experience our everyday life with its trivial tasks”  (Chambers)

A few months into the pandemic, I felt overwhelmed by the transitions and disappointments that had redefined the rhythm of our lives.  My younger children were restricted from their favorite activities and time with friends.  My college students were banned from their campus community.  My littlest one passed through babyhood without meeting his loving grandparents.  The repetition and drudgery of everyday life, caring for 10 equally frustrated and disappointed people, began to feel oppressive.  One evening I just burrowed into the laundry mountain on my bed, too weary and heartsick to take another step…

“The thing that really testifies for God and for the people of God in the long run is steady perseverance, even when the work cannot be seen by others.  And the only way to live an undefeated life is to live looking to God” (Chambers).

By God’s grace my feet hit the floor the next morning, and I resumed my race.  I knew that, if I was going to finish this “marathon,” I would need to nourish my spirit, mind and body with life-giving fuel.  I’d have to shut off the voice in my head that told me that my race was pointless, that the menial tasks I completed every day didn’t matter to anyone, that the hours I poured into teaching my children were fruitless…  As I’ve done countless other times, when the needs of perpetually hungry and fussy children, the hopeless negativity of social media, and the despair of my own heart became more than I could handle, I headed out for an early morning run.  This hour of exercise and reflection before the house stirs has become so precious to me.  It is a time where I am conscious of my union with Christ, who retreated to His own solitary place to pray before spending long days meeting His children’s needs.  During the first few miles, I listen to His Word and expose every dark corner of my heart in prayer.  Next I feed my mind with edifying news podcasts or living books that stretch my imagination or make me laugh without restraint or indulge in healing tears.  Inevitably my heart is refreshed.  Slowly, steadily, the miles unravel the knotted tension inside of me, and I am strengthened for my course.

One day, as I was returning from a run, my eyes were drawn to a bare patch in my flowerbeds, where a sick rose bush had been uprooted.  I knew that this bush, which had been crushed in a recent storm, was beyond hope, but it still broke my heart to let it go.  Roses have always brought me great pleasure, and this particular bush with its multicolored blossoms was a beautiful  gift from the Master Gardener to welcome me to my new home in Alabama.  For weeks I had felt a morbid empathy with the sad remains of this bush – just a few roots being choked by neglected weeds.  Yet, on this particular morning, I noticed something remarkable.  There, growing up out of the ugly tendrils, was a beautiful, solitary rose.  Against all odds, my bush was making a tenacious comeback and refusing to stop blooming.  My heart took comfort in the reassurance that I would survive this season and that even this uprooted New England girl could thrive so far from home. 

December arrived, and it seemed fitting to celebrate my birthday by running a solitary marathon.  Early on that rainy morning, I mapped my course, loaded my energy drinks and an audio book on the topic of loneliness, and started the most difficult yet personally significant race I have ever run.  This time there were no spectators to cheer me on or hand me electrolytes when my legs threatened to give out.  Yet, even in my misery, I was able to view these 26.2 miles as a gift.  In the midst of a pandemic where so many people were relying on ventilators to keep them alive,  I thanked God for my healthy lungs.  I thanked Him for the suffering He had ordained that year, that (no matter where the finish line might be) had given me endurance, character, and hope which would not put me to shame (Romans 5:3-5). 

“Every Christian must experience the essence of the incarnation by bringing the next step down into flesh-and-blood reality and by working it out with his hands…  Ask God to keep the eyes of your spirit open to the risen Christ, and it will be impossible for drudgery to discourage you.  Never allow yourself to think that some tasks are beneath your dignity or too insignificant for you to do, and remind yourself of the example of Christ…” (Chambers).

Hound Dog Half Marathon (Aidan)

Just found these pictures and wanted to brag about Stephen and Aidan completing their second half marathon this year.  I've tried to convince them that "two halves equals a whole."  :)  

Rocket City Marathon (Megan)

 For my 40th birthday, my family gave me the gift of a marathon. Ethan woke up before dawn to train with me. Braving the elements, fighting off nasty dogs, and dodging dead armadillos and coyotes on our long runs was par for the course. I'm so thankful for a family who indulges my crazy whims and loves me unconditionally.

Reflections on Mater's First Marathon, October 4, 2014

Dividing a freshly baked pie into 7 even pieces is messy business. I vividly remember the last time I pulled a piping apple pie out of the oven, and my kids descended on it like vultures. First, I had to satisfy the sharp-eyed ones who knew their fractions and expected their fair share.  Next I had to contend with the grabbers and whiners who weren't getting served quickly enough and, after burning their tongues on spicy, hot apples, began complaining that the chocolate was missing.  I made sure that the prize piece was hidden in a Tupperware for Stephen before I served the baby.  He promptly threw my perfect, flaky crust on the floor and smeared the rest in his hair.  The pie and the children had all vanished by the time I got to lick the spoon and squirt a blob of whipped cream in my mouth, trying to convince myself that I didn't feel deprived. While I wiped up messy dishes and milk spills, I began to wonder if my whole life was turning into a blown up, sticky picture of this pie fiasco.

A couple of years ago, I came frighteningly close to a full blown mommy meltdown.  Don't get me wrong.  I am no stranger to the rigors of motherhood, and I consider myself insanely blessed to spend each day teaching and raising and having adventures with my houseful of precious, unique children.  All I know is that my children's relentless needs and my tireless output caught up with me, and I began feeling depressed.  My sensitive husband noticed that I was losing heart and made a wild suggestion.  Since he knew jogging helped me recharge, he told me that I should join a racing team.  I argued for a while that there was no way a grown up mommy could justify such a frivolous outlet, yet I agreed to give it a try.  I dragged myself to the first meeting, hanging on the sidelines and feeling like a misfit.  After 4 1/2 years of pregnancy and a dozen years of breastfeeding, I had long ago relinquished ownership of my body.  My self-consciousness was slipping into a dark self-loathing.  I felt ashamed of my sags and stretch marks, my damaged stomach muscles, and the extra weight I carried.  It took a while for me to let go of this distraction and hold my head high among this group of dedicated runners. 

I will never forget my "ugly duckling" moment when I realized that there was a lovely alternative to the cookie cutter standard of beauty.  Here I was surrounded by women who showed up in team shirts and running shoes with pony tails and no makeup.  They weren't driven by a need to feel sexy, yet they carried their fit bodies with confidence and ran with a focus and grace that was beautiful to behold. 

The duckling had never seen any like them before. They were swans, and they curved their graceful necks, while their soft plumage shown with dazzling whiteness. They uttered a singular cry, as they spread their glorious wings and flew away from those cold regions to warmer countries across the sea. As they mounted higher and higher in the air, the ugly little duckling felt quite a strange sensation as he watched them. He whirled himself in the water like a wheel, stretched out his neck towards them, and uttered a cry so strange that it frightened himself. Could he ever forget those beautiful, happy birds; and when at last they were out of his sight, he dived under the water, and rose again almost beside himself with excitement. He knew not the names of these birds, nor where they had flown, but he felt towards them as he had never felt for any other bird in the world. He was not envious of these beautiful creatures..."

My progress was slow. Running took the back burner to 9 sweet months of carrying my little Brandan, delivering another baby, and managing postpartum recovery, but my passion for the sport never died.  I walked every day of my pregnancy and, following my baby's birth, shed 30 pounds and got back into my spandex. I ran my heart out all winter and returned to the racing team in even better shape. This time I had graduated to the "middle of the pack" and was proud to introduce Siobhan, my favorite running partner, to the rest of the team.  I no longer felt like a newbie and was growing in confidence and speed.

 [The ugly duckling was so happy, and yet not at all proud. He had been persecuted and despised for his ugliness, and now he heard them say he was the most beautiful of all the birds. Even the elder-tree bent down its bows into the water before him, and the sun shone warm and bright. Then he rustled his feathers, curved his slender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, “I never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling...”

Granite State Racing Team

 

Perhaps the greatest relinquishment of motherhood has been that of my mind.  Stephen and my newlywed days were consumed with multiple jobs and pregnancies, and my academic dreams were laid aside.  I had graduated valedictorian of my college class and had such lofty goals of pursuing more education.  My book list grew longer, but I couldn't find more than a few minutes to read without a grabby nursling or babbling toddler interrupting me.  These disruptions fed resentment in me, so I gave up on reading altogether. Occasionally I'd peruse a cooking magazine, but the delightful escape of literature was out of reach. I consoled myself with the reminder that my homeschooled children would one day read grown up stuff and I could progress with them beyond children's classics.  When my daughter began her Omnibus curriculum which included a reading list of 26 classics each year, my heart soared in anticipation.  Starving for such great literature, I determined to read through the summers, evenings, and every spare moment to keep up with her so I could revive my bleary mind and teach her with confidence.  Not surprisingly, my reading goals proved as futile with 6 children as they had with 2 babies. I still had a houseful of little ones who claimed all of my spare time and preferred Dr. Seuss over Shakespeare.  My frustration and sense of inadequacy knew no bounds. 

One day my mom told me that she had a surprise.  Realizing that I was buried under the load of homeschooling multiple grades, she prayed that God would show her how to help me.  "And His answer is in this gift bag!" she announced.  I opened the bag and found a little black device on which she had recorded an encouraging book she read aloud for me.  "You can use one of the ear buds while you do laundry or jog or wash the dishes," she explained.  And I'll read as many books as you give me!"  I was thrilled and presented her with a dusty stack of books I had accumulated over the past several years.  Theology books, fun novels, classics, books on mothering and dieting and everything in between.  Before long we were swapping 3 of these recorders back and forth and beginning to take this quite seriously.  Mom agreed to tackle Siobhan's Omnibus curriculum and patiently plodded through the dreariest academic histories and challenging epics.  And she mixed up the heavier stuff with fascinating Henty novels, Frankenstein, and Gulliver's Travels.  These recorders and the countless hours of reading are a tangible reminder of my mom's love for me (and God's, since He gave her the idea in the first place).  I have brought Mom's recordings on almost all of my runs and simultaneously refreshed my body and mind.

Somewhere along the way I got the crazy idea that I'd like to run a marathon.  I mentioned this to my lifelong friend, Crystal (who also happens to be a professional, international racer), half-expecting her to snap me back to reality and remind me that this was not the season of life for such a big dream.  I confessed my insecurity that pretty much everything I'd ever accomplished in life had been done halfway - half the normal years of high school, half the college education I wanted, half a marathon...  Heck, I was only half way through parenting some of my kids, and half the time I was terrified I wouldn't even be able to see that through!  She listened patiently, handed me half of her gluten free peanut butter fudge cookie, and said, "Well, there's nothing half way about the marathon and you should go for it!"  During these past several months, Crystal has been a lifeline of support and encouragement to me.  She has diagnosed my sports injuries, given me nutritional tips, prescribed ice baths and Ibuprofin, mailed me treats and clothes, and convinced me that my dreams were worth holding onto.

About two months into my marathon training program, I started wondering if my life had become an allegory for running, instead of the other way around.  I remember pushing myself harder than usual at a track workout, forcing my aching legs to pick up speed when I wanted to collapse.  Then it occurred to me, "Hey, I've pushed through this kind of timeable pain and exhaustion each time I delivered one of my babies! I experimented with some of my tried and true strategies to get through childbirth - focused breathing, mind games, focal points, and utter relaxation during the rest periods.  On my lowest days, I reminded myself of my elusive goal and pushed ahead, convincing myself  that anything worthwhile I've ever accomplished has been through forcing my feet ahead when my vision was spent and I could barely remember why I had begun in the first place.  I reminded myself of all of the big things I had successfully accomplished in four hours (cooking a week's worth of meals, switching over the kids hand me downs, deep cleaning my house, ordering curriculum for five kids, delivering a baby...) and tried to convince myself that running a marathon would be no exception.

There were times when my enthusiasm waned significantly.  Especially when I injured my hamstring and every step began to hurt.  I asked Crystal how all of the early mornings, long runs, and pain could possibly be worthwhile.  She said, "remember the feelings of empowerment and confidence you described...  And remember the feelings after running a race and the endorphins and excitement from having a personal best?  The delicious feeling of achieving something arduous?  I can hear it in your voice when you talk about your running and the marathon goal.  You love it and it is so GOOD for YOU!!!"

Thankfully I regrouped and pressed through the second half of my training.  I lost a bit of speed with my injury, but Stephen told me I'd be crazy to quit, so I didn't.  He surprised me with a Garmin racing watch (more romantic and meaningful to me than a diamond bracelet!), massaged my legs, and kicked me out the door each Saturday morning.  Even when I would disappear for a few hours on a long run, he never complained about picking up the slack at home and would flirt with me when I most needed it.  It's funny to recall how I'd leave the house plugging my ears and running from the mayhem, yet I would always be eager to return to my entourage of noisy little people who greeted me with kisses in the driveway and showered me with praises when they heard I ran more miles than they can count.

Today I ran my first marathon.  It was the most grueling, satisfying experience of my life (second only to childbirth!).  Before I left, Stephen handed me a new collection of songs he had stayed up late recording for me - the sound track of our early romance.  I hit play and closed my eyes for a few seconds. Instantly I was  nineteen years old, jogging on Nantucket Island with so many big dreams just within reach.  I ran with all of my heart and crossed the finish line to be greeted in the rain by everyone who loves me most - my mom and dad who can't imagine why I would run so much but support me anyway, the beautiful children who drove me crazy enough to pursue this dream and cheered the loudest when I succeeded, and my loving, attentive husband who gave me the gift of my first marathon. 

Somewhere during this journey, I decided to scrap weepy, messy pies. I make apple dumplings instead.  The dough divides beautifully into eight pieces so I can turn the kids' prize apples into culinary masterpieces.  There's no dividing, grabbing, whining or skimpy rationing, and the best two are always set aside to relish in the peaceful company of my husband when the little ones are settled for the night.