All My Life, In All I Do, Soli Deo Gloria

For Your Sacrifice, I Thank You

When I lived in D.C., I had a steady stream of visitors who came for the 'exclusive' tour of the White House granted to Presidential appointees and to see the history that so defines that city.I can't begin to count how many times I've walked the mall with friends or ran the 6 mile loop between the Capitol and the Lincoln Monument, yet everytime I took a moment to pause at the War Memorials, I always fought back tears.

As a child of a Vietnam Vet, who got to come home, I realize that I am fortunate that my father made it home to participate in every happy and painful aspect of the last 30 some odd years of my life.

One July 4th weekend, a teenager I had discipled at my home church in Texas came to visit me, and as we stood silently at the Korean War Memorial, she turned to me and repeated the words engraved there "freedom is not free." She paused, looked back at the plaque and told me she'd never thought of her liberties that way.

When we crossed in front of the reflecting pool to The Wall, I promised myself that this time, I would not cry. I silently followed her as she slowly walked the crescendo/decrescendo that personifies The Wall. Trailing behind her, I watched a couple further down the wall, the female, tissue paper and charcoal in hand searching for a name, she kept saying, "I can't find it, I can't find it." Then she paused, craned her head and pointed to almost the highest point of the crescendo of The Wall and her companion, possibly 6 ft. 4 in. stooped down so she could mount his shoulders.

Carefully he stood up elevating her reach as she stretched her arms over her head, placed the tissue paper on the wall and used the charcoal to rub the name onto the tissue paper. As if in reluctance, she slowly lowered her arms, gently kissed one hand and laid it back on The Wall, where the name she had just shaded onto her flimsy piece of paper was eternally etched. And she sat there, atop her companion's shoulders unmoving.

I fought back tears, ashamed I had intruded on such an intimate moment.

My teenage friend had moved on down the wall while I had watched the discovery of another loved ones name. Wiping at my tears with my t-shirt, I quietly walked down the path to stand beside her where she had stopped, tears running down her face. Without looking at me, she reached out and gently intertwined her fingers with mine. In the space between the wall and the path someone had wedged a small Texas flag. She turned to me and told me that somehow seeing the flag of our home state, made it real, made all the names real.

One afternoon, I found myself back at the wall with my parents. My mom had wanted to see it, but hadn't wanted to suggest it to dad wanting to protect the emotions he still carried from his return from Vietnam so long ago. While he read the various historical postings at the Lincoln Monument, we snuck away to see The Wall.

I was stoic. She was quiet. We walked the monument without speaking, and as we turned to return to the Lincoln Monument to join my father, my tears could be dammed no longer, for my father, who knew some of the engraved names, stood a few feet away, hand on the wall.

I know that I am fortunate that each time I walked away from that wall, I walked away without a charcoal etching of my father's name. But for those whose names are there, and whose names aren't there. I say thank you.

For those watchman on our borders at night who stand guard so that I may sleep unafraid, I say thank you.

For those who have walked roads I fear to tread so that my freedom may continue unhindered, I say thank you.

For those who have paid with their lives, the ransom for me to enjoy unhindered life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, I say thank you.

For those who leave these hallowed shores to bring the hope of "freedom" to so many oppressed peoples, on behalf of those that cannot speak, I say thank you.

Freedom is truly not free, thank you for paying what I cannot.

Finding My Voice, Learning to Fly

I never really fancied myself an overachiever.  I tend to go right up to "hard" and then back off (wouldn't want to break a nail, or scrape my knee).  But something about the training process as a triathlete has given voice to a determinaton I never bothered to muster a nod toward, for I never knew it existed.

Last year, I heard a yoga instructor (speaking of how a pose was uncomfortable) say, "you have two choices, you can either come out of the pose, or you can choose to settle into the discomfort and work out how you will make your way through it."  I'm a 'come out of the pose' kinda gal.  I'm lazy, and have a strong aversion toward discomfort.  I see pain and I'll take the 20-mile loop around it (as opposed to the 1-mile straight line thru it) to avoid discomfort.

However, during this journey toward my first triathlon, I have found myself, 9 times out of 10, settling into the discomfort, working through it and in conjunction with it.  Those 9 out of 10 times are when the determination finds voice to work out the logistics of getting through the discomfort while grasping bits of strength to use in the future from the process.  It tweaks and adjusts my swim stroke, my cadence in the water.  Adjustments to my down stroke and subsequent uptake on the pedals on a hill as others pass me.  Adjustments to heavy feet and weary legs when I hit the ground running after I come out of the bike saddle for my post ride run.

I'm exhasuted and probably will be for a long time as my body adapts.  But its an exhaustion fueled by accomplishment and fortitude.  I pause to look over the last five weeks, where I came from and where I am now, I realize that this triathlon was never about 'facing my fears' as I've so often retorted.  Rather, all along, it's been about finding my real voice, birthing my inner fortitude. I came to conquer my fears, I'm walking away having found my voice which has given me wings to fly...and fly I shall, see you at the start line.

Audience of One

Slowly shuffle/limping from the gym floor to the locker room last night, I was so proud, so excited that I had overcome me.  But I was a little sadden that I had no one to share my butt-kicking accomplishment with.  Well, I have friends, I could've texted.  I could've emailed my trainer, she would've been proud.  But no one would have understood how tired I was when I got to the gym.  No one would've understood the long pep talk I had to give myself just to go to the gym as opposed to going home after a mentally draining 12-hour day.  No one would be able to relate to the three times I almost walked out of the gym, abandoning my workout, but continued anyway.  No one would be able to understand the mental mountain I climbed to do what I did.

So I didn't make any calls or shoot out any emails.  I blogged about my workout, but what I wrote could not capture the depth of persistent fortitude that I had to mine.  Although I fancy myself a creative wordsmith, even I, in my vast vocabulary could not communicate the personal meaning of my accomplishment.  But all that doesn't matter to me, because I know what I've accomplished.

I once heard a speaker talk about how he doesn't care what others think, because he plays for an audience of one.  God.  His life, his ministry, his words, his every breath is orchestrated that he would please only one, The One, God. 

It doesn't matter if no one ever knows how hard I work on a daily basis to prepare myself to compete.  It doesn't matter if no one ever congratulates me on a workout well endured or a personal goal obtained and surpassed.  All that matters, to me at least, is that I know, and MY audience of One, The One knows.  For He is ever with me encouraging me,  emboldening me on, ever closer to my goals. 

Return

I used to have a pet roadrunner. No really, I’m serious!

The first three springs I lived in Dallas, he usually showed up around the beginning of May and disappears around mid-November when the temps dip closer to freezing. He hung out around the house in the early morning and then again around dusk. During the day, he roamed the neighborhood, and returned to his nest close to the side yard at dusk.

I don’t know why, but I’d become attached to the roadrunner. One Spring, I’d watched for him to no avail.  When he didn’t show around the normal time in the season, I became a bit concerned that maybe he had died during the winter because I hadn’t seen him.

Then one afternoon in May, as I drove the last 100 yards to my driveway, WHOOSH the roadrunner ran in front of my car! He’s back! He’d returned!!!

I honestly wanted to slam on the brakes, jump out of my car and run after him and hug him and tell him “welcome back, welcome home!”…but I didn’t, only because he can run considerably faster than me, and that particular day wasn’t my day to be a ‘spectacle’ for my neighbors to mine their entertainment from.

My excitement to see the roadrunner indeed had returned for another season got me thinking about how God must feel when one of His lost returns home.

Outside of my block of the neighborhood, no one was aware that that roadrunner existed. And I’m quite comfortable in saying that no one was as happy as me to see his return year after year. I’m sure no one held such a diligent vigil in anticipation of his return as I did yearly, peeping out my windows checking the top of my car and the deck every evening around dusk.

Think about the millions of people who think that God doesn’t care about what they do or where they are.

I wish they could feel just a pinch of the excitement I felt when I saw the roadrunner. Then maybe they’d understand on a small scale what their Creator is feeling on a magnanimous scale when He thinks about them.

I wish they could’ve held vigil with me every year in May searching for something, like them, that has no idea that it had been missed. Then possibly they’d know the anticipation their Father has felt for as long as they’ve drawn breath. The vigil He’s posted for them and them alone since the beginning of time.

The dogged vigilance of my “roadrunner watch” those three years is an anemic parallel to the perverse tenacity the Creator exhibits in His bid to draw each of us believer and non, to the calming certainty of an eternal relationship with Him.

Think of it, every time someone lets go, capitulating their reins to Abba, every time they drop their arms, standing aside, to allow the towers they’ve built to topple, every time they trade in their aspirations, their castles in the air for a concrete foundation of truth, every time they return, I betcha God slams both feet on the brakes, stops whatever He’s doing and runs after them giddy with excitement to welcome them home. And I feel pretty safe in saying that creating a spectacle is not on His list of concerns!

If It Takes All Night

I was so tired, I fought back tears.  I wanted to give up and call it a night.  Halfway through my workout, I was spent.  This workout, much more challenging than last week's.  I could give up.  The only one who'd know would be me. 

But I can't.  I didn't.  I pressed on.

Each rep, each set, I completed as she'd instructed.  Each plyo jump, each sprint, each lunge with 25 pound plates in each hand, I fought through.  My body going on pure will alone.  My mind fatigued, screamed, begged, bargained for a reprieve.

I paused, doubled over.  Sweat dive bombing from my brow, my chin, my chest, hitting the black padded weight room floor.  I stood, next set, endeavoring on. 

The seconds between sets grew longer, the muscles in my legs and arms spasmed uncontrollably.  I breathed deeply and whispered to myself "I don't care if it takes all night, I will do every rep and every set." 

I wonder how many times God has whispered to himself as I drug my feet whining and complaining my proclamations that I could go no further.  How many times has he whispered to me, "If it takes the rest of your life, you WILL get this."

An hour and five minutes later, as I sit on my couch digesting my high protein dinner, and trying to find the strength to shower and crawl into bed, I, with unabashed pride, applaud my efforts this evening.  I didn't want to do my workout.  I wanted to quit halfway through because it was too hard.  But.  I.  Kept.  Going.  And I finished.  All of it.  Everything I was told to do. 

It didn't take all night, more like an hour and 15 mintues.  But who cares?  I finished.  I ran through the tape.  Every step.   Every rep.  Every set.

Lord, there's a lot you're working on in my world right now.  Some of it is hard.  Having to break life-long behavioral patterns isn't even in nodding acquaintace with 'easy'.  However, despite the tears, sweat, quivering muscles, fatigue, nausea and a lot of empty excuses, I promise I'll finish every step, every change, every character building exercise.  All of it.  Everything you tell me to do. 

Even if it takes all night or the rest of my life.  

Rest

I am so very tired.  As my training ramps up in preparation for triathlon training in a month, I continue to tear down my body and build it up, tear it down and build it up.  I make sure every night to be in bed by 9:30 and lights out by 10:30, yet still struggle to get out of bed before 7:30 every morning. 

I've pushed hard and cajoled myself through workout after workout and am proud of how far I've come.  Today is a well deserved day off and as much as I want to at least go walk or ride a bike thus 'actively' recovering, I'm fighting the urge and just sitting still, on the couch.

Tomorrow training will pick up again bright and early at 6AM.  But for right now, I'm enjoying my rest, from working out, from blogging, from even moving. 

I Hate Push-Ups

I hate push-ups.  The title says it all.  As I was typing the title, my mom's voice was in my head saying "Novia Renee, we do not hate anything, that's an awful strong word."  Not strong enough mom, not strong enough!  In the thirteen months I've worked with my personal trainer, there's yet to be a week where she hasn't inserted push-ups in my workouts.  It's like they're in cahoots.  Deb and push-ups.  Push-ups and Deb.

And what's even more maddening is that as soon as I get good at one kind of push-up, she changes it up and gives me a harder version.  If you think there's only a few version of push-ups, hang out with my trainer for 55 weeks...'cuz she's come up with more than 55 different ways to do them.  This week's work out, I get to pump out 90...yeah that's right you read it correctly NINETY push-ups six sets of 15, but they're not consecutive, they're in between other upper body scorchers...I wanna cheat, I wanna only do some of them or none of them at all.  But I do everyone...all 90 of 'em 'cuz I know she can tell.  She's clairvoyant like that. 

Recently, I settled in my spirit how to be kind to someone who I'm not particulary fond of.  So much so that others had complimented me on my graciousness and asked what had changed.  But then, BOOM, another person enters my life who I despise.  To no end.  A lot.  And the cycle has started all over again.  Just when I thought I was doing good loving my neighbor, along comes another troll for me to be kind to. 

That troll, is my push-ups.  This afternoon, I realized (after thirteen months) that my trainer wants me to  be so strong, that no matter how I'm asked to do them, I can pump out push-ups in my sleep, when I'm awake, when I'm tired, at the end of a butt-kicking workout when my arms are quivering with fatigue, with one eye closed, with one hand behind my back, suspended from one foot, you get the point.  She wants me strong no matter the situation, so just when I get good and strong, she changes it up, confusing my muscles and building more strength.

Likewise, this, my new irritation.  God wants me to love my neighbor.  Period.  Doesn't matter where I am, or who it is.  He said, "love your neighbor as I have loved you."  So what? I got good at 'loving' one unlovable person. Go me.  But now it's time for a new variation on unlovable, thus, enter a new person.  And I go right back to the beginning again, flexing that 'love the unlovable' muscle.   My guess is the unlovables will continue to come and invade my space, until I can love my neighbor no matter what, without even thinking about it I just do it.  It's second nature.

Thirteen months in I may be stronger, but I still hate push-ups...I pray that this exercise in character development takes hold quicker than the push-ups have.

Rage Against The Machine

My dad is techno-phobic.  He's afraid of all technology post the huge car phones in Miami Vice.  He thinks email is useless and says texting is ruining the art of modern conversation.  He doesn't like "the Facebook" or "the Twitter" and is sure if a picture of him is posted on either, his house will be robbed and he will be killed in some horribly brutal way.  I'm not using his name in this post, because I don't think he likes "the Blogs" either, and I don't want to test the technology gods by putting his name here. 

He doesn't understand that an iPod is an MP3 player ("it's the original MP3 player," I kept telling him over Christmas break) or that when taking pictures on his brand new digital EOS Rebel, he doesn't have to look thru the viewfinder to see the subjects he's about to take a pciture of, all he needs to do is look at the big screen right below the viewfinder.  And the list goes on.  He's chosen not to shun the neat things technology has spawned over the last three decades for what he's comfortable with.  Because of that, he's missed the amazingly magnificent metaphorsis of scientific knowledge.

My mom, on the other hand, has very gracefully ebbed and flowed with technological advances.  She's been along for the whole glorious journey (even though she's prefered a quiet space in the back seat for the ride).  If she doesn't understand it, she'll call me or my brother and we talk her thru it until she's comfortable with it and she shrieks like a excited little girl because she finally gets it.  Because she works with college athletes, she is masterful at texting (her students' main source of communication with her) and she understands that "i love you" thru a text is just as strong and meaningful as me telling her over the phone.  She has a Facebook page and knows what to put on her page and what not to put on her page.  She knows how to set her privacy settings and is selective who she shares her page with.  Where my father found great frustration with Siri over Christmas, my mother, found great amusement by asking questions such as: "who's your daddy?" of Siri. 

Mom and dad.  Night and day.  One rages against advancement, the other ushers it in, learning and molding it to fit her needs.  As much as my dad's admamant refusal to enter into the new century infuriates me, I must extend a lot of grace when dealing with him and technology in the same breath.  For I think of the many things throughout my life God has called me to change, adapt to, improve, stop doing.  The course directions that have changed drastically mid-race and the absolute knock down, drag out fits I've thrown because that's not what I wanted, what I was used to, what I thought was 'right' for the situation. 

God is ever-changing and never-changing all in the same breath.  When I think I've figured out an aspect of His goodness, or a side of His breath-taking grace, He throws me a curve ball, asks me to flex, asks me to change, to evolve to fit the environment He's dropped me in.  It's hard (so hard that right before typing that, without even thinking about it, I said "it's hard" out loud).  Nine times out of ten, I don't want to adapt, I don't want to change, I fight change, I want to stay where I'm comfortable, where all is familiar, because that's the way it's always been, and I like it.  But that's not what He's called me to do. 

As much as I enjoy my norm, the more time I spend raging against the machine, raging against change, raging against this evolution that is my life with Christ, the less time I'll have walking in peace and trust with God THE most marvelous part of the journey.

Drop Your Butt and Drive Your Legs

I’m in love with my friend’s dog Tonka.  Which really says a lot because I’m a large dog lover, and not that tolerant of dogs that are smaller than, oh, a border collie.  But Tonka, Tonka is my exception to the rule.  When I visited my friend earlier this year, she let me take Tonka out on his retractable leash.  And because I like Tonka and trust Tonka to make good dog decisions, I let him go to the end of his leash and followed him as he pulled me behind.

But after 10 minutes outside sniffing and burrowing and sampling every blade of grass in the yard, I decided it was time to go in.  I was cold, so potty break was over. 

Me: small tug on the leash “come on Tonka let’s go"

Tonka: continues to sniff around making sure he spread all of his puppy love to all of the fallen acorns

Me: little more of a tug, “Tonka let’s go”

Tonka: pretending to be oblivious to the brown lady on the opposite end of the leash continues to sniff.

Me: walking toward Tonka while simultaneously taking up the slack in the leash, “Tonka, come on”

Tonka: sensing the leash shortening and the space between him and me lessening, drops his butt, digs in his hind legs and pushes off.  He was having none of this, “let’s go inside stuff.”  There was all of nature to commune with and dadgummit, his communing was not to be interrupted.

Me: stunned that the dog had the audacity to act the way that I do, I giggled then slightly tugged at the leash as I continued to close the distance.

Tonka: once again, drops his rear and uses his hips to push himself ever forward.

I LOVE this dog!  He’s me, but ‘cept for he’s a dog!  Too frequently when God asks me to do or stop doing things, I tend to drop my butt and use my hips to push forward, keep going in the opposite direction, straining against the  safety and confines of God’s grace and covering.  I’m not ready, I don’t want to, I’m busy, this is more fun, you name it, I’ve said it as I test the limits of the grace that so tightly binds me.

There are times when God holds a mirror up to my face and it’s not pretty and I’m all kinds of ashamed and embarrassed even humiliated.  Yet there’s other times (like my foray with Tonka) when he holds a mirror to my countenance and with a little humor asks: ‘anything look familiar’ and I bashfully giggle, and say, ‘yes’ and adjust accordingly.

Whatever Happened to: Good Game?

Today, I’m breaking one of my cardinal rules and talking about my take on politics. 

This afternoon, one of the Republican Presidential candidates bowed out of the 2012 American Presidential race.  Much to my chagrin, he endorsed another candidate still in the race, (one who most likely will not win the nomination).  It is not the person that he endorsed that caused my irritation, but rather the endorsement itself.  As someone who’s worked on a national Presidential campaign before, I understand the reason behind the endorsement, it’s political posturing for future ‘favors’ down the road.  And as someone who’s spent time working in a political position in D.C., I also understand that afore mentioned posturing will not be forgotten, and will one day be ‘cashed in’.

When I saw the endorsement, I shook my head and thought “whatever happened to a strong hand shake and a sincere ‘good game’ and then just leaving the playing field with your head held high?”  Does that happen anymore?  Or when we lose must we always announce who we’re realigning ourselves with?  Why not just announce that you’ll support the party’s candidates once he/she has been selected?  I know, I know, dumb question, because it all goes back to that whole political posturing thing.

There’s a reason that after three years in the District I packed my bags and moved back to Texas.  It’s because as self-centered and self-absorbed as I am, my selfishness PALES in comparison to many folks who are in public office or in positions of power in D.C.  Was it ever ‘for the people’, ‘for a stronger, brighter America’ or was it always (and has it always been) just about them?

I espouse all of this not as someone who is sitting on my high horse of ‘judgment’ but rather as someone who struggles daily with pride.  As someone who has turned down great opportunities because I knew I would use the opportunity for my own self-promotion.  I knew that I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to be seen and adored and praised for all of my awesomeness, not ‘for the good of the masses.’  Sadly, I am quite intimate with 'it being all about me'.

Bear Bryant once admonished his players to “act like you’ve been there” when they made touchdowns.  In that same vein, I wish folks would learn how to simply say ‘good game’ with a firm handshake and then turn, walk off the field, head held high, any further self-promoting comments held captive.