prayer run

I used to think that I didn't know how to pray, I knew I wanted to, but I just didn't know how.  Then it occurred to me one day, while I was sitting and drinking my coffee enjoying the silence of the new day, that God, like an old friend, and I were really talking over coffee--that I'd been praying all along.  Over time, my relationship with God has grown and I pray in the morning over coffee and at night on my knees. An AB and their situation is heavy on my heart today.   Today, I felt that I would continue my prayers into my run.  What better way to get closer to God than by using His body to explore the world He created.

For four miles, I concentrated and prayed.  I prayed for peace.  I prayed for guidance.  I prayed for strength.  I prayed for my AB.  My mama always says that God doesn't give us more than we can handle.  And it occurred to me as I came to the hill that never ends that I earlier this summer, I couldn't run that hill at all.

But what are the hills for?  Who cares if I'm stronger than yesterday?  Sure it makes a pretty picture to stare at in the mirror and can earn lots of shiny medals; but really, a strong body comes from a strong faith that you are doing what is best for your body, a trust that you can push yourself further than you ever thought possible and still live to tell about the journey, the strength to keep pushing when everything seems to be crumbling around you.  And sometimes all of this faith and trust and strength isn't for our own benefit; sometimes its for the benefit of the people whose lives God has brought us into.  Sometimes all of our work provides the calm in the middle of someone else's storm.

God never intended our lives to be easy, I think that's the misconception.  God gave us hills, sometimes so steep and big and arduous, that we think we will never reach the top.  But we do.  God gives us plateaus and valleys too, so that we can appreciate the lessons and catch our breath.  There are times during a run that I concentrate on putting one foot down in front of the other, but really, my body just works.  In fact, it is when I let go of the push and let my body do it's job that I run best, even up those hills.  Isn't that what the Bible tells us to do, let go of the idea that we have any real control and give it to God?  What a beautiful and extraordinarily difficult lesson to remember, let alone apply.  Especially because what I really want is to DO something for my AB, I want to BE there, I want FIX it.  And.  I can't for so many reasons that are beyond my control.  Well.  I can pray.  

visiting

It was a family story that we've told over and over again now for a couple of years.  Of course, it hasn't been passed down from generation to generation, and maybe it never will because, really, the story isn't all that funny if you've never met her.  If you've never seen her bright eyes twinkle when one of her grandkids walk in the room or heard her begin her speech about cutting back on Christmas as early as August, just one breath after asking us grandkids eagerly what we'd like for her to get us.  

One Christmas, I don't remember the hoopla but I'm told there was quite a stir, Grandma waited in line and bought all of the grandkids, there were three girls and one boy at the time, a Cabbage Patch Kid.  I've been told they were quite the rage that year, I was the oldest and I don't remember knowing I was supposed to want one, but I did love that doll.  Every year for the next three, we each got a new one.

But that's not the real story.  The real story has to do with the fact that Grandma was a busy body.  She knew everyone and everyone's business.  I can't recall how many times in my life I would catch myself wondering in awe who all of the kids, neatly framed and arranged on her entertainment center, end tables, and various other spots around her house, belonged to.  Oh, that's so and so's granddaughter from over there, and that's what's her name's daughter's son's niece and nephew, she would explain.  And of course she knew every one of those kids' names, where they lived and the names of their mamas, daddys, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  She loved them all, too.  

Grandma loved being at the center of the action, rarely was she the actual center of attention, she just always knew what was going on.  She thrived on it.  But she was not a gossip, not really.  In fact, I don't remember, except once, hearing her real opinion of anything.  Mostly she expressed sympathy.  "Isn't it just horrible," she would lament.  Maybe and maybe not.  I think that Grandma just genuinely cared.  

Grandma died after complications from several strokes.  She didn't want to be kept alive and we honored her wishes.  In hospice, where everyone did their best to keep her comfortable while she waited to pass into her next life, she twitched her feet to let us know she was still with us.  There was no real medical way that she was really able to move her feet, but she did it.  SHE did it.  We knew it.  She finally let go and went to be with Grandpa, who had passed long before I was ever born and had, therefore, never formally met any of his grandchildren, actually even his youngest daughter's husband.  Of course, that's not the story either.

Grandma died right at the beginning of November, the beginning of her favorite time of year.  The Thanksgiving after she died might have been the last time that all of us, her three kids, their spouses and us grandchildren, were all together and we knew Grandma's eyes must have been twinkling to see us there together,  talking about her, still a little emotionally raw.  It was a nuscience at first, that little fruit fly that wouldn't go away.  We swatted at it and it eluded our efforts only to rejoin the party from another angle.  And then, as sure as turkey  and a healthy dose of football will bring on the naps, that darn fruit fly was gone as soon as the dinner excitement was settled.  

That is, until the next time.  When that little fruit fly, maybe the same one, maybe not, sure did come out of no where and join her two youngest grandsons and all of their friends.  That little fruit fly put on the same show for them and disappeared when the action settled.  Of course this wasn't the last time a single fruit fly made an appearance at a family gathering, in fact, we've grown to expect it.

No one ever plans to come back to this earth as a fruit fly, but we all figure it suits Grandma best.  It allows her to hear all of the conversations going on at once and taste the food that she loved so much.  We don't even second guess it when we see a fruit fly now, because we know it's her, just making sure all is well.  That's the story, so short and seemingly insignificant, like a fruit fly I guess.  But I'll tell you what, I don't think it was an accident that a lone fruit fly landed on my arm today in church right in the middle of the part of the sermon that I knew I had really needed to hear.  She knew it and I knew it.  Then she was gone.

marriage and a baby carriage

Source: simplydiamonds.com.au via Doloritas on Pinterest

I go to a good job every day.  I have a master's degree.  I own my own home and drive a nice car.  I pay my bills on time and have a decent credit score as a reflection of that effort.  I have a strong resume and two generally well-behaved dogs.  I am healthy, active, and happy.  I am absolutely blessed without a doubt, and am thankful for every aspect of my life.

That doesn't mean that there are not things that could enhance it.  I pray every night for someone with whom to share all of these blessings.  I pray for children to awaken my home with laughter.  I pray for the opportuntiy to wake up every morning next to the man I love most.  I pray for the job title of mom, wife,  homemaker, and superwoman.

Maybe it's because I've gotten all of my ambitions out of the way; maybe it's because I know I'm going to be okay, regardless of what the future holds; maybe it's because I can honestly say that I don't need my neighbor to come and cut up the big 'ol tree branch that fell on my house last weekend because I can confidently and successfully do it myself; but honestly, I want to be cared for.

When I wanted to become a teacher, there was a plan in place for that.  When I wanted to buy a house, I followed all of the steps.  Every time I have purchased a car, there has been a familiar routine to follow.  I pay my bills according to the rules and followed a template to write my resume.  The dogs, eh, well, it's a process.  There is no guideline, rule book, or template to meeting my future partner in crime.

Oh.  Wait a minute.  There are plenty.  If I haven't read them all, I've read most of them.

Source: d30opm7hsgivgh.cloudfront.net via Jonesy on Pinterest

Maybe I'll set the plight of feminists back a couple hundred of years, but I've decided that just because I can do the work of a man does not mean that I do not deserve to be treated like a lady.  Fair and equal are not the same things.  And so, I will: paint my nails, write thank you notes on pretty cards, allow a man to pay for my meal and open my door, wear dresses, and get a little teary during sentimental commercials.  I will not apologize for being a woman and I will relish the man who appreciates it.

Sure, I'm super appreciative for all that women in history have done to pave the way for all of the amazing things and experiences that I have been granted or able to earn.  I revel in the knowledge that I have not felt the pressure to settle for less than I deserve on any front.  But I wonder sometimes if I have learned to be too independent, too self-sufficient, too outspoken.  I don't want to be dumb, defenseless, or mute; but I also don't want to be treated like a man, like I'm easy, or like I'm disposable.