Running 50

RACE RE-CAP

I'm not exactly sure when I decided to run 50 miles. It was somewhere between "I want to run my age" and "I want to do an impossible thing." It was probably more on edge of the impossible.

People ask me why, I think they fear I'm running from something. Part of it is the training. It's time to be outside, to process through things and let them run out my feet, and to listen to books, which is a luxury small children don't afford you often. Part of it is that I love it. Part of it is that I always want to push myself, but one of the largest parts is that I want the two little humans who call me mom to know they can do anything they want to. Even the impossible thing if they're willing to work for it.

The week before the ultra I spent in backwoods Maine with 23 teenagers, lack of sleep, and 25 miles paddling on a river. Several of the kids were sick and I tried my best to keep up my immune system to no avail. Come Thursday I had a seriously sore throat and sinus congestion. The night before the ultra I couldn't breath. But...I didn't train hours on end and push myself this far to be stopped by a sinus infection. I was running. So I shot my nose up with spray and attempted to sleep. I always tell my cross country kids not to make excuses. Better practice what I preach.

Sunday morning was freezing. Our tech meeting was at 5:30 am and the ultra runners were huddled around bum barrels outside the main tent waiting for the waves of bikers to go. In so many regards I'm not an ultra runner. These people intimidate me. They know all the most trendy gear and have stories of epic 100 milers...here's me. Nothing but my own two legs, some trail runners purchased online, and an attempt at something over 32 miles. Everyone at the pit had done it before. The seasoned veterans. I ask about hydration. My plan was to rely on the aid stations and not carry anything...but there isn't another soul that I can see with that strategy. Great.

People are talking about the trail. This is really the first time I've heard much about it. I know everyone has their style. Dustan loves to analyze things. It makes him happy. He feels prepared and ready with a clear picture of what he has to tackle. I like to blindly come out swinging. Dustan has already analyzed this trial. He knows all the stats I'm sure, but when he asks me if I want to know I tell him not to tell me. I don't want to know. The logic is that I don't want to get into my own head and psych myself out. I just want to take it as it comes. It's "hilly" I've heard. Cool, change in terrain. Makes it interesting. Wow. I had no clue.

Finally our wave is called. No order of placement, I'm just eager to begin so I'm on the front. Not sure what I feel. Excitement yes, focus...well. I'm not really sure where that is. I'm not thinking about running 50 miles. In my head I'm saying. "Let's go for a run Heather." Like its a weekend run through my hometown or something. But it calms me. Anyway, I've got some time to figure out how I feel about this whole thing...I'll just run it out and find my focus. A veteran eases my fears. "Here's the secret to the 50" he says. Like there's only one 50 and its this 50. "Everybody is slow and no one knows a -— about pace" Good to know.

I've written 1-50 on a post it. It's crumpled in my hand. 50 prayers for each mile. Kids I love, people I love, situations that need attention. That'll keep me going too I think. In the other hand a paper towel to blow my nose into and release the constant pressure. Usually I breath through my nose on my long runs after my heart rate settles. Ain't happening today.

In case of failure, I've set myself some micro goals. Run my age and be positive and encouraging to as many people as I can.

It's a 1, 2, 3 go! Seems sort of anti climatic. Hurry up and go...for like...ever.

First few miles I'm listening to the people around me. It almost immediately becomes hilly and I want to know if they are breathing hard or if they have super human oxygen intake. Most of them are breathing hard so that's good.

I'm into it now....Ok, maybe I should have looked at some of the stats. This is not hilly...it MOUNTAINOUS. No really it is. I will find out later that it has 9,000 ft elevation gain. That would be one thing. But it's also technical. Roots, rocks, tiny little snaky dirt tracks.  Some places are really not practical to run, its more like a scramble. My eyes are watching my feet. I keep reminding myself to pick my feet up. But for all the struggle the views are amazing. The verdant mountains of Vermont. Farms, fields, woods. Rich beauty.

The first few aid stations are well stocked and enthusiastic. Mile 15 I see Dustan which is great. I strike up conversations with the people I pass. One man is probably 65 years old with white hair and a Viking red beard. He runs with a bow legged gait and an exaggerated arm swing almost as if he'd had a stroke. He says he has run two 100 milers, three 50 milers, and several 50ks just in this year. "I may be over doing it" he says. Really!? I'm impressed.

Kim hears me tell someone I have twins and she tells me her daughter has three month twins. We swap observations and stories for a while. She did the Vermont 100 back in July. I'm in awe. That's the thing about ultra running. It levels the playing field. Females can beat males, age is not an issue...its something more than that. It's endurance and grit. There aren't any flashy attention seekers out here. It's not a glamorous sport. You've got to be very ok with being alone with yourself for hours on end. No cheering sidelines. Just grueling miles of arguing with your head that you can indeed do one more step.

Mike and I are running similar paces. He's an ironman and has a daughter that runs marathons with him now. This is his first 50. We keep tagging each other and than moving on or behind to find each other again.

The first half is insane. Mountains...more then one. Up and down...technical and grueling. I'm in pain from every bone in my foot, to my quads, and persistent re-accruing hip injury. My body at mile 30 is starting to shut down. I don't think there was ever a time I was close to quitting. But there was a time when I couldn't see the end in my mind. I could only see that I was barely making my feet move. I pop out of the woods on a ski run and look down hill. There at the bottom I see two little people in overalls. I can hear them screaming...I know who they are. They are my reasons. The woman besides me asks why I'm crying. I laugh/sob that I see my babies and I have to get the tears out now. I'm not sure why I'm crying. Perhaps fatigue, perhaps it's because I know they'll be my saving grace at this wall...in ultras there is not one wall. There are several. They are jumping and screaming and holding signs that say, "run mom run!" And "go mom go!" It's kisses and hugs and quick greetings. I'm stocking up in the aid station and realize I'll need to run out of this thing because these little blue eyed beauties are watching me. My mom, the ever watchful worrier wants to know if I want pain killers. She'll get some for the next station. Great idea! I ask the people at this aid station and they give me some. That will end up making a huge difference in a few miles. I turn to start my muscles...and I hear my girls cheering. I don't know how exactly I did it , but I started those legs and ran up out of that station. That was it for me. My wall. The second half went faster than the first and I felt strong.

Mile 40 I meet my pacer Adelita...she was waiting for me and I felt like she was made of sparkling precious gold. She kept me moving. Period. She talked to me and made those miles pass like a Sunday jog. Ok, maybe not quite like that. Mile 46 I see Dustan and the girls again...at this point it's starting to dawn on me that I'm going to run 50 miles today. I come into the aid station and say "it's a good day to run 50 miles!!" It sure is. Kim is there. She's peeling off her shirt to run into the finish with an insane sports bra six pack. Grammy six-pack. I tell her she's a beast. She beams.

Three miles out I hear someone say. "Is that Heather?" It's Mikes pacer and apparently Mikes been telling him they had to catch me. They did. Mike hollers..."I think you're going to make it Heather!" I think so too Mike. "You are too!" He passes me. I slap him on the back, you gain a connection with people out here.

They start counting down the miles on cardboard signs. I'm starting to hear the finish line. Something asks me in my head if I could do more. I decide my body could do another 20 or so if someone was holding a gun to my head before I'd collapse...but no one is, so I'll be collapsing on that finish line.

It opens up in a ski slope for the last half mile. A bit of a back and forth till the end. I see Mike. I open up my legs....I let them run. I'm passing people, I'm closing in. I come up behind Mike and say, "I'm really sorry about this Mike, but I'm gonna pass you!" And I fly by him. All I hear is "are you kidding me!". I laugh, yell, and cry a little as I go over that finish line. I did it. I ran 50 miles.

 It's hugs all around, a metal on my neck. But it's those two little humans jumping up and down squealing and clapping. They get it. Mommy just did an impossible thing. If only they knew, it's all for them. Mike is coming up behind me. I give him a hug and tell him. "We did a thing Mike. We did a thing" he smiles, we know something...and it's a thing. And it's running the Vermont 50. He tells the girls that their mommy kicked his butt. They giggle.

20 mins later and slightly chilled I attempt to get myself upstairs to the shower at the lovely air bnb we are staying at. All the endorphins and adrenaline has abandoned me and my body goes into shock. I'm locked down and convulsing. I can't open a bottle to take pain killers. I can't make myself do anything. I'm in incredible pain. Dustan has to put me in a hot bath, it's only then I stop shaking. I don't sleep well...to much pain...but I'm satisfied. I wasn't fast. 11 hours. I averaged 12-13 min miles when you figure in the aid stations. I'm ok with that. I did it.

Next morning at breakfast our host comes down to say goodbye. She says that she told her husband I had run 50 miles and he didn't believe her. Said that it must have been 15 miles because that's impossible, especially for a girl. Emmie and Ellie's eyes widen and they look at me. I laugh and say..."you tell your husband...(and they don't know it but I'm talking to the two little hearts I grew under my own)...that girls can do whatever they want to do."

To Dance With Pain

I felt it come around mile 19...sure and steady, I knew it would...hello old friend.With every foot strike I felt jarring blunt pain shoot up my leg. With every uneven grass patch the tendons in my ankles screamed in utter fatigue. My hips felt deeply torn. My thighs screaming for rest, for oxygen...my whole body was making more lactic acid then it could expel and I felt it build inside and threaten me. Hello old friend.

So I took its hand and danced a little tango with pain...we after all, have a deep relationship. I've sat silently with it in hospital rooms, its arm draped around my shoulders. I've walked beside it as I sought to hold on to expectations stolen from me and lost to circumstances. It's knelt with me in tears as I tried to pick up shattered pieces of my heart and make them into something, anything worthwhile. It has held me in helplessness, and been my companion in silence...pain and I, we know each other well...and I have much to thank you for old friend...it has given me this day, the ability to run this race, and run well.

I never realized as clearly as I did in this last race, how much heart is in my running. Maybe because there never has been so much reason to run. To live, to move. I'm 30 years old, young, but sometimes my heart feels old...pain has done that to me. But pain has also given me something I must thank it for. Endurance, fearlessness. You see, pain has never killed me...it has come, I have met it, looked it in the eyes, and moved on. It's through pain that I have learned a deeper love, a clearer priority, and reason to live. I have nothing to show for peace. We learn so little from comfort. So now, when the siren call for rest and comfort rings deep in my ears, I smile. I'd rather dance with pain, run with it, learn what it has to teach me...then lie in comfort. I do not fear it...I let it grow me.

I've seen it grow others too. It's done its powerful work of conditioning in my childhood companion Courtney. I won't try to pretend that I could ever understand the way pain must have lived his everyday as he watched his infant son fight for life and as he laid him to rest before his second birthday. Pain is a cruel teacher...but in the following year, I've watched Courtney run...13, 13's, in 2013 for his son...and he ran, not just ran...won. Because when you meet pain like that, when you feel it so deeply and you make it out alive...when you let it grow you and you live life open. It gives you something...strength. To battle to the end. To meet it and not fear it. To keep moving because in moving we live, we grow, we learn, we endure, we overcome.

So in the end if I go painfully and slow...don't worry about me. It's just my old friend and I in a slow dance...we might take it a few times around the room for old times sake, I might hold on to it a little longer before I go, to feel it again, to learn what I can...because you see...it'll be our very last dance.

The Misfit Mudder

His shirt said, “Misfit Mudder” and he certainly fit the bill. Probably 300 pounds with excess skin hanging on his under arms and chin that showed he had recently been heavier, slightly balding, and totally alone. No other misfit mudders around him, no cheering squad on the sidelines. Alone. Misfit.

In an event that touts itself as one of the toughest events on the planet, one where you promise to put your team mate before your course time, the infamous "Tough Mudder".  I had to wonder how he had got there? The second to the last obstacle, finish line in sight without a team in an incredibly physically draining event, even for the most endurance seasoned. 

I watched casually at first as he tried to run up the half pipe slicked down with water and mud at an incline that aimed to decelerate. A group of shirtless fitness junkies had spotted him and stopped to reach for his hands as he threw himself up. But his feet lost traction and the dead weight of his body was to much to hoist even for them. He fell without even the strength to catch himself face down in the mud. Un-moving, arms and legs splayed out. He finally would move again, drag his massive body to standing and back up to try again. The run, the fall, the hit and roll. The crowd started to notice, they moved in closer to cheer him on, the men on the top started concentrating their efforts in new and creative ways…but on the third fall I saw something in his face that was more dangerous than fatigue, it was hopelessness. And something inside me felt it too.

It is the human story it seems, at times, the fight to hard, the handicap to great, the fatigue too much, you surface only long enough to see the next wave of overwhelming proportions cresting for the kill, you’re going under and the giving up seems welcome relief from the struggle…and he was giving up. His head going under for the last time… and something in me rose up. 

How many times had I felt my own demons of naysayers? How many times have I depended on another hand, on hope, on my deep seeded innate belief in the power of the human spirit? How many times have I been saved from my own failures by a God that believes in turning weakness into strength? How many times has that same God sent the help, sent the words, sent a hand to pull me out?  

In my mind came clarity of purpose. Get him over the obstacle. There was no other option. He hit the mud again at the base of the ramp and I hurdled myself over the boundary flags and hit it too. I got down in his face. Put my hand on his back and said, “you’ve got this, you’re an inspiration to so many people here, you can’t give up.” He slowly raised his head…silent and unspeaking, emotions raw on his mud smeared face and stared at me. He looked done, but I wasn’t done. I knew if he was here, he had to have fight. I knew he wanted it. I knew he had it inside of him. And I knew he couldn’t give up.

I put out my hand and braced myself as he leaned heavily into it. And as we rose the crowed rose too, the collective battle cry of all of us who have been a misfit mudder, his fight was all our fight and we each had a part to play in it. I squared his shoulders with both hands and pulled myself up on my tiptoes to look him in the eyes and told him he had it in him. Told him everyone here wanted him to do this, everyone was cheering him on, they believed in him.

We backed up to the starting, I told him I’d run with him, told him to get his feet up high trust the hands…and we ran. Somehow, this man moved his huge body forward, he really put his heart into it, I ran with him and the crowed accelerated with energy, we willed him up, willed him forward. He hit the incline grabbed the hands and lost his footing. Smashing his head against the wall in the process, I think it stunned him a bit and he let go, rolling brutally down into the mud again. The whole crowed groaned with him and then was very silent. I think they were wondering if he’d get up, but I wasn’t wondering. Of course he was getting up.

He silently shook his head as I knelt beside him. And to his wordless negative I answered, “no, you’re going to do it, try again, you’ve got this in you”. He came to his knees and by how the crowd responded you’d think a man just rose from the dead. And honestly in that moment I think I did see him rise from the dead, I saw a spark come alive, he believed me. We backed up again, we ran again, and he fell again. But this time, this time I knew we had already won, because he was quicker in rising and his eyes had hope.

As a young child I remember watching Apollo 13 and thinking that the fight of the human spirit makes men do the impossible, it tints everything with hope. It settled in me and drives me to this day; it fuels my own endeavors and fills my ministry. My battle cry is, and always will be…HOPE.  

Six times he fell. Six times he failed. Six times. On the sixth time I washed down his hands and arms with a water bottle someone handed me. The mud was making it hard for the shirtless junkies to grasp. I told him he had to only get one leg high enough for someone to grab it. I told him to pull back on the hands that held him and just get his leg higher. The crew at the top had thickened and grouped into a mass of hands and hearts ready to help. The crowed at the bottom had thickened and grouped into a pulsating mass of heartfelt encouragement. I told him this was it. I asked him his name but it was lost in the den of screaming and chanting. No matter, his name is mine, his name is yours, his name is all of us who have faced our own wall.

I screamed, “GO, GO, GO!!” and we ran. He hit the incline, he grabbed the hands that reached for him  and this time he leaned back and got that foot, that one foot, two feet higher…Two feet, that’s all he needed. Someone had his knee, another man flung his torso over the edged his legs pinned down by another man to grab the second leg, and through human spirit, muscle power, and deafening cheering…he did it. We did it.

There hasn’t been many times I’ve cried from joy, but a choked sob broke my scream, and I felt the waves of pride, and gratefulness, and relief wash me. It was simply,  one of the purest emotions of sheer joy I have ever felt. And I realized I was standing alone at the bottom of a ramp with probably 300 people around me… sobbing. I quickly pulled down my sunglasses and hopped the boundary flags because crying at the Tough Mudder is against the rules. But I didn’t get far. A woman with as many tears as I stopped me, “did you know him?” I shook my head no, but somehow felt that that wasn’t entirely true. I did know him, because I knew his struggle.  She said, “that was incredible and I can’t stop crying”. I glanced around me and realized that no one was untouched, many were crying, most were still jumping up and down and still screaming, the men on the ramp were gorilla thumping their chests, butt slapping our misfit mudder, and high fiving each other… And in that moment, I saw Heaven. Heaven on earth, were everyone was equal, united by a common love, defined by the power of hope, and rejoicing in the battle won.

“Weeping may come for a night, but joy comes in the morning” Psalms 30:5

Heavy with the Joy of It

Tomorrow I turn thirty. It's not like I think that is old...because I know in 30 years I'll look back and laugh at that...and it's not that I think I'm wise, because honestly it seems the older I get the less I know. But sometimes, like tonight, on the eve of my thirtieth birthday I feel heavy with life, heavy with the speed of it, heavy with the weight of it, heavy with what I haven't done. But mostly, heavy with the joy of it.

I remember my sixth birthday when the large cardboard box in the garage moved and I tore into it to find the most perfect woolly lamb with a lavender collar who I named Heidi. What a birthday that was. My tenth birthday was the traveling birthday, a celebration in every relatives home from Montana to California...my brothers were jealous. My thirteenth birthday I asked for bed sheets, there was a Laura Ashley set I had had my eyes on. For my sixteenth birthday we camped in Glacier by Lake McDonald, and my girlfriend Kim and I went skinny dipping at midnight and ate Cheetos in our tent until our tongues went numb with whatever chemicals they put in those things. I spent my twenty-second birthday on my honeymoon, and my twenty-seventh throwing up from pregnancy. On my twenty-eight I ran a marathon and pushed my six month old twins across the finish line in the stroller. And tomorrow, I turn thirty.

The next thirty years are an untold story...they will be full of the joys and struggles, the blindsides and dreams, the discoveries and losses that define life. But these next thirty years, I hope to slow it down, or if I can't do that, at least name more of it. Acknowledge all of it's wonder, make sure I articulate it's gifts, live in the present and not push the future.

I will look my children in the eye. I will let my guard down. I will love reckless. I will breath deeply and notice it. I will never say never. I will learn. I will see things I've never seen. I will create. I will make beauty. I will tell those I love that I love them more often. I will be thankful. I will acknowledge God. I will love. I will love. I will love...

And in thirty years I'm sure I won't feel wise, and hopefully I won't feel old...but I'm sure that I'll feel heavy with life. Heavy with the speed of it, heavy with the weight of it, heavy with what I haven't done. But mostly, heavy with the joy of it.

Hope Springs

I love the seasons...and New England does them well. Today I ran and it felt like for the first time in a long time that we'd shaken the cold and grey, we finally shrugged the last icy morning and that life had sprung. Blooming brambles cascaded over  broken rock wall...birds sang and busied themselves. And I took out my earphones as I ran past a marsh because the frog song was better then my music. 

I suppose the reason why spring feels so incredible here is because of the severity of winter. We feel on some level like we've earned it. We paid our dues of deep bundling, of bent heads in humid chill, of locked in stuffy days where the frost on the window pane was the only growing life outside. Of runny noses, and cold floors and early nights and dark mornings. 

And I suppose that's why it feels so good to open the windows and let out months of stale air. To totally abandon layers and let the girls run naked in the backyard. To notice the kiss of sunshine on lily white skin with a hint of romance...like a body going a very long time without the touch of a loved one. It feels like over night hope grew in the crocus and the tulips and the whole world is celebrating and my hair catches flower petals like confetti at a wedding. 

And hope does spring. Last week Dustan took the last of his chemo pills which marked the end of constant treatment since his July brain surgery. and this week feels a bit like spring. And in a way it feels like we earned it. Days of nausea, of patience running low. Of weight loss and sleepless nights, of frustrated demoralizing struggle against some unseen foe...of marking our lives by the swing of the effects that chemo brings and living under the weight of knowing there is more. 

But as I scheduled this month, I didn't mark the days he would be on chemo, and I guess I just hadn't realized how much we'd been living in our own winter until I felt the freedom of our spring. Unencumbered and hopeful that life begins again, that beauty comes from struggle.

There will be other seasons to come. Each with their own beauty and each with their own struggle. But today, for the first time in a long time I opened the cupboard by my stove where Dustan's mini pharmacy has rested and I put away our spare mugs on an empty shelf. And I smiled to myself...because sometimes it only takes a blooming branch or an empty cupboard to remember that...hope...does...spring. 

Wild heart

I have a reckless, wild heart. In vain did my parents warn me of boundaries, and control, and steady steps to love. In vain did they counsel me in the importance of objective decisions and practical choices. In vain have I sought in life and especially love to hold myself back and measure out slowly, safely. I have a reckless, wild heart...and oh, how I have hurt. Those brutal mile long, helicopter rescue, debris strewn heart breaks that leave you shattered, and battered, and bleeding. Those tightness in the chest, sharp pain in the core, grasping for air kind of train wrecks. And yet, when the smoke clears and the dust settles, that heart gathers again and impulsively  foolishly, recklessly begins again. Oh, how it betrays me, always leaving me more vulnerable  with more invested, always the one out on the limb, looking foolish with my heart in my hands, and my foot in my mouth.

And it is ridiculous because often I don't see it coming...well, if I did, I didn't admit it until I'm all in, hands up, ready to go for broke. You'd think I'd have learned, you think I'd have slowed down, you think I'd have nothing left.

But lately...it's gone and done it again on me, twice over and this one...this one I know it's a dosey. You see, there are two little blondes with vivid blue eyes that have just captured it and tottered away with it. And they don't even know how far gone I am, they don't even know what they've done to me. How that reckless heart feels for them, something more powerful then human articulation can name. How when they giggle and smile it does flip-flops in my rib cage and catapults in my stomach. How when little hands cup my face and quizzical eyes peer deep into me, I feel as if they are somehow myself, just in another body, with goodness and innocence. And my heart feels bare and vulnerable because I know that they will always carry it with them. Someday it will be taken from this place when they leave me, they will walk away with it like another article in their suitcase...and I close my eyes tight and draw in the sharpness of pain that I already feel for that moment.

But that doesn't slow me down. Not even a little. There is no reserve of caution, even though I know of this impending heart break. Its a hundred miles a minute, careening out of control. It's a wild love affair of kisses, and adoration, and discovery, and simplistic trust, and unreserved emotions. It's dancing in the living room....both of them in my arms with their hands in my hair and heads on my shoulders. And I feel my heart falling, flying, wild and I say to it, "love reckless, for before this moment, you only ever dreamed of love."

They Are My Reason

I've been here before. The hospital rooms, the unanswered questions, the calm resolution and clarity of priorities. I've held my husbands hand before as they told us he had a brain tumor...told him before that we would beat this, we'd fight it. Four years ago actually. And we did, we fought and we won. Or this is what we thought. But I'm standing in the ER and the Doctor shows me the cat-scan and tells me it's back. And it is. Bigger, badder. And I lean down to tell Dustan in a choked whisper..."its back babe." And he says, "that's not good". And its not. I know this. I've been here before...but I've never been here before. Because this time, back at home, there are two little girls who call us "mama" and "dada". Because this time, there are innocents. Two little lives that belong to us. This time, it's not just me, or us...its ours. Because this time the stakes are higher. And we know this. And I wonder, how strong can I be?

It's an ambulance transfer, drugs, tests, scans, and a frenzy of Doctors. It's questions, and possible solutions, and the reality that the answers are unknown. It's numbness, and resolutions, and a determination to get through. I've been here before...but I've never been here before. Because tonight instead of staying with Dustan in his room, I will go home. Because there are two more little people that need my care. So I leave him...and wish I could be more then one. Tonight I feed them and dress them and sing them lullabies. Tonight I hold them and tell them I love them and tuck them into their cribs. And tonight little Emmie pulls herself up to grip the bars and expectantly cries. "Dada! Dada! Dada!" and something inside me tears right in two, top to bottom and everywhere in-between. And it hits me so hard it could have been a freight train. This time, it's not about me, it's not about Dustan, its' not about us. This time the reason for fighting this is them. They are my reason. Emmie quiets down and goes to sleep. Yes, she would get used to not having her daddy there to put her down... but I never want her to. Both my babies need their daddy. Both of them adore him and he them. But little Emmie is so much like her father. I want her to know how she is like him, I don't ever want to have to tell her. And little Ellie is my coordinated sportswoman, I just know it. And I need her dads physical talent and ability to nurture that. Yes, this time, they are my reason.

I don't know if I would call it resentment. But this motherhood thing has been slow in coming for me. Slow in taking hold that I am now not my own. I often feel in a blur of functioning, and less of really experiencing. But tonight there is something bigger then myself. Something wholly powerful beyond my own understanding that takes root. THEY ARE YOUR REASON. The reason for everything I choose, I do, I endure.

And so, my strength is gathered around me with a new purpose. Stronger and bigger then I ever knew possible. I put on my boxing gloves and stake down in the corner of the man who my children call "Dada." And I fight, I fight, I fight. I tell him we will beat this, I tell him we will live...really live. I tell him we will simply work this into our extraordinary life. I hold his hand while he vomits. I clean him up when he cannot clean himself. I spend sleepless nights repeating bible promises to him to ease his troubled mind. I answer the same questions over and over because he cannot remember. I help him sit. I help him stand. I help him walk. And we walk, and walk, and walk. I ride the emotional, mental, spiritual, and physical roller-coaster that is brain trauma and cancer. And I fight, I fight, I fight. I am tired. Not tired, more then tired...weary. But I fight, I fight, I fight with him, for him...because they are my reason.

We take each day for what it is...and we live, really live. There is something beautiful about this. Something precious and holy. It is a privilege to see life like this, to understand the clarity of your priorities. To have so much to live and fight for. I do not resent it, I do not fear it. They tell us there is no cure. And then time lines are discussed. And I find myself calculating where the girls will be in life. There is never enough time to love them. To watch them grow and learn. There is never enough time to discover these incredible little humans who God has somehow graced us with. They are my reason. And I fight, I fight, I fight.

Dustan is an incredible man, with incredible spirit. And together we will win again. It may not be forever, but it will be rich. We will live...really live. We will keep growing, keep learning, keep exploring, keep moving until we cannot anymore. Until we have to succumb to our humanity and go where every man most go. We will do this for our children. They are our reason.

I will not stop. I will do the harder thing. Today I came home from radiation and tried to make amends for a house in chaos while Dustan rested. My girls where restless and demanding at my feet. I wanted nothing more then to put in a movie and zone them out. But my strength gathered round me and I pulled out the finger paints. I stripped them down and put them on the kitchen floor and we painted. Bright splatters of wild color,  hand prints, and feet prints, and chaotic swirls. And at the end there was more paint on them and the floors then the paper. But we lived...really lived. They are my reason.

The Luxury of Beauty

I come from a long line of women who take care of themselves. My great grandmother on my mother's side was a little firecracker of a flirt who wore red lipstick and pretty dresses, and although I never really knew my great grandmother on my fathers side he had a picture on his dresser where she looked like a Cameo in an elegant top knot and lace peter pan collar perfectly pressed in the soft black and white of the photo paper.

 My Grandmother on my mothers side who I affectionately call Gamu, is a a delightful platinum blond piece of work, with designer clothes and tan skin and a remarkably perky figure for a woman in her eighties. She has beautiful soft skin that has hardly aged at all, especially given the fact she has spent most of her life in the sun. She is beautiful...really, and when she was young she was all legs and tiny short shorts and a little bit of rock and roll. My Grandmother on my dads side who I call Granny, is in her nineties and still stunning. I never remember her elegant white hair ever being out of place. She told me once when I was ten, while I sat in front of her vanity on a little white wrought iron chair swinging my legs while she got ready, that a woman should always wear pretty underthings and made sure they matched. She had as a young woman an impossibly tiny waist and fantastic figure. Trying on one of her one of a kind tailor made dresses as a 14 year old, I discovered my waist to large and my body considerably lacking to fill out other areas. She must have been a real knock-out.

 My own mother is a beautiful woman and even in the woods of Montana where there would be no one for days and days. She always got herself fixed up first thing in the morning...a little makeup, hair done. I never have once, seen my mother in jeans. She always wore something just a little bit classy, a little bit nice. She always was active and healthy. I remember as a child some women being jealous of her. Intimidated by her graceful, thin, classic, beauty. But I was proud...still am proud.

 And so, I try to carry it on...I do love beautiful clothes, and shoes, and makeup...I spend considerable amount of energy trying to stay healthy and fit. I try to dress well, and appear put together. But the luxury of beauty is somehow escaping me these days.

 When my twins were first born I felt like my body was a bit of a train wreck...all night sweats and bloated, loose and out of shape. My skin was going crazy with all the shedding hormones and I didn't quite know what to do with the in between stage of regular clothes not fitting me, but the maternity clothes making me look like I was still pregnant. It didn't take that many times of brushing baby puke out of my hair that my long, thick hair got lopped off for a more practical, out of my way, bob. Putting on makeup in the morning became a circus act...shoot even getting dressed became a circus act and I found that these days I'm lucky if I get out of the door with my pants on the right direction. Twins and uninterrupted productivity is really not a common combination. Most days I'll glance down to find some greasy little hand print on my suit, or a mystery stain right on the front of my shirt. I'm always wrinkled, usually from carrying a baby on my hip, and there has been times when I look in the mirror at work to discover I only got one eye of makeup on before I rushed out the door. Blowouts don't wait. Clumsy top heavy toddlers don't wait to crash of the couch. "Sister stole my binki" squabbles don't wait for mommy to finish the other eye.

 My body has changed too. I trained and ran a marathon, a half marathon, and a obstacle endurance event since giving birth. I run and work out like potato chips, often pushing significantly heavy babies with me. Previously this would have afforded me the body I wanted. But still my body protests loosing those last five-ten pounds and stores them in the most frustrating places. Presumably terrified I will put it through the strain of 10 months of making people again. Whatever it is, it's ridiculous how hard it is to make my body what I want it to be since pregnancy.

 I try to make amends in the morning with the dark circles under my eyes when the girls are cutting teeth and fitfully sleep. I try to find the time to keep up with my hair. I try to make sure I at least smell nice and am clean. But I've had to let go of the luxury of beauty as I've known it. I still value it and hope to pass it on to my children, but it isn't what it was. And perhaps this is good. Perhaps it is truer beauty to find that what you do is more important then what you look like. Because I am a mother. That is what I do. And if I have stains on my shirt and oatmeal in my hair...if my clothes are wrinkled and my body defies me in some places its really ok. Because to my little girls I will be beautiful. Just as to me, my mother will always be beautiful.

 Sure I like to think in time I may be able to get back the stolen moments of luxury. Sometimes I try to create a moment of oasis...like the other night when I drew a hot bubble bath after the girls went down, lit some candles, plugged in the Ipod, and slipped deliciously slowly in, letting out a sigh of content...until something sharp and slimy dug into my spine. Fishing through the bubbles I pulled out a rubber duck with a rather sharp beak, an incredulous smirk frozen on his face...the moment was entirely gone, but I shook my head as I squeezed a liquid squeak out of it and laughed. I am a mother, this is my beauty.

The Cultivation of Character

They say that to grow a character...to really overcome things such as prejudice, dishonesty, and selfishness you have to work it like a garden. Get down and dirty and take hold of those pesky intrusions of fallacy and uproot them. Like weeding...I hate weeding.

As a young child it was my most dreaded job and unfortunately one of my mothers most popular hobbies was to create elaborate English herb gardens and flowerbeds that grew weeds in abundance. Secretly I believed that she gave birth to three strong children simply to use them as serf labor in her grandiose schemes of turning the Montana wilderness into something tamed and "civilized". Which of course in her defense, as an adult, I do understand was not the case.

Weeding is just so un-pleasant. It's boring for one, and infuriating for another, there is nothing more frustrating then laboring hard over a bed of dirt to turn around two days later and have it all for nought. There is something awful about getting dirt jammed under your fingernails, and the feeling of dry dusty dirt drying on your hands is not high on my favorite sensations. Yes, I truly dislike weeding, which may explain why I haven't even attempted a garden in my adult life, which is also because I seem to have a cursed brown thumb that could kill even plastic plants. I have never been successful, not even once. In keeping a small green thing alive. I've even killed African Violets, which my mother assures me is the most hardy and un-killable plant there is, as they are in fact..from Africa and do survive in some of the most inhospitable conditions possible. But that is no match for my plant killing skill apparently. There are no African violets in my house at the moment, if that tells you anything.

So yes, I'm not great at growing things, and I hate weeding. Which is ironic, because in the development of character as a garden plot...I am in great need. More then the average person out there I think. I have always considered myself selfish. More then most. I have had a great knack of getting what a wanted through-out my life for which I am not proud. As well as sometimes being a bit of a bulldozer when I have something in my sights and ashamedly at times have left the wreckage of the ends justifying the means in my wake. Again, I am not proud of this. I could go on with other arguments to substantiate my claims of being more selfish then most, but am also guilty of a fair bit of pride so will stop before it is to embarrassing.But motherhood, doesn't allow much room for selfishness it appears...or if it does, I haven't found out how. I know this because motherhood hurts. It hurts in the selfishness department and by this I know I've got to weed.

I have always feared that somewhere I've missed some "goodness" gene, or at least a natural mothering gene. I felt this first during pregnancy when, I heard other expecting mothers profess love for their unborn children in glowing terms of endearment and express that whatever discomfort they may be experiencing, be it vomiting, back pain, leg cramps, loss of sanity, loss of sleep, loss of memory...whatever it was, would in fact all be worth it once they saw that little child. I'll be honest, I wasn't so sure. I felt like a host planet to aliens and resented the invasion of my body. Which of course I felt guilty about. And I feel guilty now, when young new mothers talk about the joys of motherhood and how life is so much better now that they came along, and how did they ever live with out them. I'll be honest, I remember how I did. Life was easier then...Dustan and I actually knew how to communicate fairly well, I got a lot more sleep, I didn't feel like I was on a hair trigger of insanity, and it was fairly easy to complete everyday tasks. I actually felt like I knew what I was doing most days, and was a dependable, reliable, on time kind of person, who's house was respectable at most points, and appearance was mostly professional. Not any more! And guess what, it hurts a bit. It hurts to be knocked down to size, actually to feel like you've been knocked down to miro-size. It's painful to feel like you are divided and lacking on all fronts and failing miserably in some. I hate to say this because I don't hear it often from other mothers so I feel a bit like a chicken with its neck out...but I've got to say it just in case there is a mother anywhere in the world who feels like me and needs to know she isn't insane. Or if she is, that she isn't the only one.

And to encourage her to hang on, just do the next thing, keep working hard, and praying harder...and to hold so tight, to the precious little moments that slip in during those insane days. The moments of a little hand squeezing your finger, the calm that ensues in a hysterical child from your touch and yours alone, for the little imp smile that makes them so hard to be mad at when you find them putting all their toys in the toilet bowl, and for the beautiful face that is a part of you. These are God's gift to remind you, you were in fact...made to be a mother.

I am angry

Today I am angry.

I've taken a keen interest in the recent news frenzy of doomsday coming on May 21rst. Not because I believe it, but because my job surrounds me with wide eyed teenagers who live on the computer and look to me for some spiritual input.

I've heard the arguments of the times of Noah...that a day is as a thousand years in the bible...and that the time to be ready is now. And I've marveled at how it so often in a mix of truth and error that confusion is bred.

I've followed the story of the Doomsday spokesperson of NYC, Fitzpatrick. who spent his entire life savings of 140 grand to pay for advertising in the subways and buses of NYC. And today I saw the pictures of a confused and deflated man, checking his watch as a loud, jeering man with a wiry black beard, stands next to him and sneers into the camera as he holds up some of Fitzpatrick's flyer's. And it makes me angry.

My heart breaks for him and bristles at the callousness of humanity to mock a man who is down. We all have much to learn.

I stood in a checkout line the other day and listened to the checker and bagger go back and forth about the validity of the Bible, the concept of prophecy, and the Second Coming. And I prided myself that I had the reassurance the there would be no end of the world on May 21rst because of my knowledge of the Bible and the fact that it says no man knows the day or hour. And I was silent.

But as I loaded my groceries in the car a slow wave came over me, questions that made me think. Does it really matter if the world doesn't end tomorrow? Do I somehow rest in complacency because I know it won't happen? Would I give all I had to spread the word and stand publicly in Times square if I was truly convicted? Have I become lazy in "truth".

I do not believe in the method of Fitzpatrick, or the message that he taught. But I cannot point a finger or mock a man who has sold out for hope and now lost it all. I can only be convicted of my own responsibility to know what I believe.

I wonder what drives humanity to find the weaker man, to kick someone who is already down? Somehow the golden rule has been forgotten. Who has never been wrong? Who has never been prideful? Who has never been awkward or alone? Let them take up the dirty job of hate. As for me, I will never claim to have been immune from any of these things. And today, as Fitzpatrick wakes up bewildered and alone...I will pray. Pray for healing in a man who is broken, pray for hope when its hard to see, and pray that someday...God will come.

The Evolution of Man

She lays on his arm, her tiny head engulfed by his broad hand. He has black grease stains up to his elbows that soap didn't take off. It's clung to the callouses on his fingers like black ink spots would on men who write stories, and it tells his story.

A hard working man's man who loves cars, and sports, and getting dirty. Who doesn't have time for frills or fluff or delicate things. But you wouldn't guess it now. Because she is nothing but delicate and perfectly at home there. And he handles her as gently as a person could and holds her with a tenderness that cannot be rivaled, for she belongs to him. She is his child.


He used to worry about the frailness of babies, used to worry about the diapers, and demands, and needs of those mysterious things. But you wouldn't guess it now, because he has stepped up to the plate and taken that ball home...changing diapers in seconds, dressing, burping, feeding.

I watch him kiss them, listen to him gurgle and coo, and hear him tell extravagant stories to two little big eyed babies...and I wonder at the evolution of this man from just a guy...to father.

It's time to go now and he scoops her up with a deftness he has previously always shown in anything physical, and walks out the door, only to return seconds later and ask..."is there another binki? this one doesn't match her outfit."

A Mother's Heart

Today we laid to rest one of our youth, 21 years old, talented, passionate, and smart. Gui Sobral. His smile has graced our lives, his energy contagious. The only son of dedicated and loving parents, killed in a twisted car crash a week ago. And for the first time in my life, I felt something new, something unexplainable, something so much bigger then myself.
I watched as his mother supported by someone on each side stepped up to read a poem she had written, the kind of raw emotion, grief, loss, pain…the stricken look of devastation, of lost expectations, of memories, of love. I watched as childhood pictures flickered across the screens, simple pictures to us, but to his parents, parts of their lives, parts of everything that he had been. Glimpses into a lifetime of love. And I saw her anguish and something intensely foreign began to well inside of me.
I have to be honest; I haven’t felt attached to this pregnancy. I’ve felt invaded, taken over, not in control. I’ve resented the days and nights of sickness, the limitations, the tiredness, I’ve felt claustrophobic and trapped. I’ve laid awake at night and wondered if somehow I’m missing some vital mothering instinct that is supposed to be apparent in all females. I’ve heard those around me who are pregnant, gush about their feelings of passionate love for their unborn, their excitement, that glow. And I’ve been jealous of it. Worried really. People have asked me everyday how excited I am, and I’ve answered with caution and a simple smile…”I’m getting there” when in reality, I feel very far from it.
But today, I sat there…in that pew and an emotion started to well from within the very depths of my being, a understanding, an agony. As I felt the kicks of my own children, and heard the wail of a mother who had lost hers, I felt it…what must be, has to be, a mothers heart. Nothing so intense, nothing so clear, nothing so pure in feeling , in emotion, has ever overcome me. I had to hold on to the seat, literally, to keep from rushing to a woman I don’t even know, to grasp her to me, to weep with her, to hold her in her loss, to help feel a pain I am now only beginning to understand. And in that moment, I loved my children, they are not just what lives inside of me, but they are why I live. I will be from this moment on, always a mother. They are mine, a part of myself, my responsibility, my inspiration, my motivation, my heart.
They lower Gui into the ground, and as they do, my babies kick. And I feel a holy fear of the sense of protectiveness I feel for these unborn children of mine. A complete abandon of any sense of sacrifice to big or to great for those that I call my own. There is nothing, nothing, that would be to big, or too much for me to give or do, to protect them, to uphold them, to see them succeed, to see them live fulfilled and happy, to have them understand my love. There is nothing that I could even call a sacrifice, because it is what I want to do. Because today…I am a mother.

A Whole Box of Positive

I just couldn't remember...one line or two lines? I sat there on the edge of the bathtub holding the pregnancy test thinking rather blindly that I thought it was two lines for positive, but that just couldn't be right, because there were two lines on that little sucker and well, I couldn't be pregnant.

I had woke up feeling very odd that morning, and on a hunch had rummaged through my bathroom drawer for that old test I had had from a previous scare years ago. I had long since thrown away the box, and had no idiot proof reference in the instruction book ,that actually gives you a little picture of what it's supposed to look like if it's positive.

I googled the question "what does a positive cvs pregnancy test look like" and wouldn't you know it. Dozens of other women had the same question. And wouldn't you know it, they said it was two lines. And wouldn't you know it, I didn't believe it. I woke Dustan up and told him we needed to go to Rite aid THIS MINUTE and get some pregnancy tests...he was a little to stunned to argue and off we marched. We got a box, and I mean a box of pregnancy test and brought them home.

In a daze I went through the entire box and blinked unbelievably as one after another came up positive, within moments. I'm not a swearing person, I'm a pastor and I was raised with a clean mouth policy...but there is something about finding out you are pregnant that kind of makes you want to swear. I certainly thought it, if I didn't say it...."$&%*"what have we gotten ourselves into. Visions of sleepless nights, screaming children in checkout lines, snotty noses, and dirty diapers whirled through my head. Loss of freedom and flexibility seemed to creep in from the dark corners of my mind as we looked at that bathroom windowsill...at the lineup of our future. A whole box of positive. Yep, a whole box. Not one, not two....a...whole....box. And then Dustan took pictures, and gave me a huge, and told me I was going to be a great mommy. And I cried, because I was so darned sacred. Dustan was all smiles and laughter...and I didn't talk for three days.

Six weeks later we found ourselves in a small maroon and teal office waiting for the Doctor to give us the first glimpse of our baby. He did his job with ease and professionalism right up to the point where he paused and said, "huh". We froze..."look at that, there are two." I wish I had a picture of Dustan's face...the color drained, the eyes dilated...I argued with the Doctor, "no, you don't understand, that is not possible. There are no twins in my family, this was not planned, I'm not an older mother...there can't be twins." He very factually replied that one out of every eighty couples have twins without fertility drugs...ONE OUT OF EIGHTY! Why have I never heard that statistic?!? And then we heard two little heart beats, and visions of forty little fingers and toes flashed through my head, of two little blue eyed blonds, and I laid my head back on that table and laughed and shook my head, and laughed some more....and Dustan didn't talk for three days.

The Thing I Fear Most

There is not a lot in life I fear. This is not always a good thing.

When I was just barely big enough to reach the measuring line, stretching my spine as much as I could, I lived for the roller coasters that would go fast and upside down. My mother would stand next to the track and wait for me as I went over and over on the scariest rides with my big cousin. My cousin taught me to wait for the first car and put my hands in the air to make it more exciting, which I did, because more exciting was good.

I've been bitten in the face twice by dogs, once it resulted in several stitches, mainly because I had no fear and put my face right down to that cute, snarling, snapping dog.

I used to climb out my window in Montana in the middle of the night in summer, and roam the dark woods by myself, or lay in the meadow in my night gown and feel very small...and liking that feeling

I've looked bears in the eyes, held a giant bangle tigers head in my lap, played with snakes, and let spiders crawl up my arms.

When I was eighteen I went sky-diving and as I scooted along the bench to jump out of the open door thousands of feet in the air, I just remember being excited, no fear. Not even a little.

I love rock-climbing, and mountaineering, where you can dangle your feet over the side of a ledge thousands of feet up and look at the world below.

I love when your skis leave the ground, and there's nothing but empty space between you and the ground, and just being so close to flying.

I love the feeling of the unknown, the excitement of being surrounded by foreign things, foreign faces, a foreign tongue, and not knowing how in the world I can get from point A to point B. I love that.

I don't fear death. Graveyards are some of my favorite things, I like to lay in a quiet one near my house, deep in the woods and think of how peaceful it will be to rest.

I love driving my motorcycle to fast, feeling the power as an extension of my body, pushing the limits. Being a little wild.

I thrive on public speaking, large groups, and mental challenges. There's not much in life I fear.

But there is one thing that makes my throat go dry. My palms sweat, my breathing speed, my knees weak. And that is something now that I cannot avoid...it is a fear that is growing inside of me, moving within myself, a part, a extension of me....I am terrified of having children.

It's not the labor, the deliver, or the copious amounts of pain that frighten me. I say bring it. But it is the unshakable feeling of being helpless in what my children inherit. It is the overwhelming fear of seeing my weaknesses in my children, and knowing that I am responsible.

It is one thing to have weaknesses that you do battle with daily; that is one thing. It's humbling, and humiliating, and frightening. But it’s something altogether different to watch the people you love most in life, struggle with what you have developed in your own failures. How will I explain my struggles to my children as I watch them deal with them themselves? How will I find an excuse to excuse the suffering that they most endure because of what they have gotten from me? These are questions I cannot answer. I fear.

But the clock keeps ticking, and my body tells me I am changing...and sooner or later I must face this fear. My only malady for my dilemma is that there must be, has to be...grace. And also...that they may turn out like their father.

Get a breath...live.

I was born dead. Not a very glamorous start, blue, wrinkly, and no heartbeat. My mother always said that I was her miracle baby. When I was small this somehow gave me the idea that I was worth something, I had purpose, and was meant to be here. But age makes you feel that that might be a form of pride, that really you are just like everyone else and by some freak of nature you beat the odds and pulled through.

My parents are remarkable people and didn’t seem to do anything normally. I was conceived in the middle of some African desert probably in a tent, camped out beside wild animals that really enjoyed eating people; nothing like a little fear to shake up the love life. This was the same trip that my parents Land Rover broke down in the middle of the Serengeti, where wild Hyenas’ stalked my father as he tried to fix the car, and my two older brothers cried in the back seat as small toddlers afraid of the lions roar in the bush. This was the same trip that my father, in his characteristic pursuit of perfection in all things, in effort for perfect photograph, got charged by an elephant, rhinoceros, and ran over by a giant silver back gorilla; with my very pregnant mother in observance. It’s not to shocking then that my mother’s pregnancy was complicated.

My parents had taken a short stint as missionary’s in Rwanda, Africa, where my grandparents had been working as the same for the past 15 years. My two older brothers were two and four at the time and my mother was thrilled to be expecting another, maybe this would be the girl she longed for. It was rough from the start. Only a couple months into her first term she had a massive amount of blood loss and severe cramping, a bad sign, she knew from a previous miscarriage. A trip to the international hospital confirmed her fears as the doctor shock his head and told her she had lost her baby. “We need to do a DNC, its best for you and will clean out any toxins that may be a harm to you”, he said. My mother is a firm believer in the natural course of all things. “If is bad”, she said, “it will come out on its own”.

A while later she was back, this time because she was still sick every morning and wanted to know why. Wouldn’t you know it, I was still hanging on.

It was most likely in an attempt to stay within the comforts of my mother’s womb that I managed to wrap the umbilical cord around my neck multiple times. Or maybe it was an indication of my early interest in rock-climbing, using what was available as a belay device. Either way what was supposed to be the link to my life force became the thing that would take it.
Before the invention of high-tech camera’s that can assess the problems and issues with babies in the womb, the doctors were forced to make their best guesses. On repeated visits in and out of the European hospital in Rwanda, my mother was told that her child did not seem normal. The heart-beat was irregular and didn’t sound right. Understanding the negative affects of a dysfunctional heart in development the doctors warned her of the chances her child would be abnormal. Abortion was always an option they said. “Sometimes it’s the best for both the parents and the child”. “We’ll take it in any shape” my mother replied. Realizing that this pregnancy would be complicated, my parents made the decision to return home to the United States.

On delivery day, July 28th, my mother went into contractions, but something was terribly wrong. With each contraction, my heart rate plummeted sometimes almost disappearing on the black and green monitor. It was clear to the doctors this was an emergency situation and that my life was in the balance, C-section was in order and quickly.

I have pictures of that operation. I don’t quite understand how my dad did this, but he suited up and treated the whole thing as a photo opp; my mom out cold, the doctors slicing her right down the middle. They were in such a hurry that they cut through a major artery, sending blood in a pulsating geyser across the room where it hit the wall in a grotesques rendition of modern art.

For several pictures all you see is blood, then a small bluish lump. That’s me! No heart beat, not breathing, strangled by my umbilical cord. It wasn’t that long, maybe several seconds, but to my dad, it must have been a long time before he heard that first scream. My first lusty breath, granted by the skill and persistence of the doctors and I imagine my own will to survive. It’s in each of us, no matter how small, beat the odds, get a breath, live.

There I was, alive and breathing. The girl they were hoping for. Back from the dead, ready to take on the world. As long as taking on the world included sleeping, eating, burping, and pooping, and as long as my parents were on hand to meet my every need. I was ready.

When my mother came to, her joy on seeing me alive couldn’t help but be dampened by the caution and concern the doctor’s showed about the consequences of lack of oxygen to my brain for the first several moments of life. What the ramifications of that would be, would have to be seen over time. My parents spent the first several months of my life looking for defects and dysfunctions’ in their child. Over time I would develop some… I seemed to be incapable of keeping my room clean during my teenage years...

The color of my life...

I was thinking the other day, about the things that make me…me. About the memories that stand out in life and seem unique in some way. A part of tapestry that makes us colorful. In the end I’m just an average girl. Had a fairly unique life to a lot of people. But to me it was normal so thus not that remarkable. Had a really great childhood I think. Despite a few black marks and struggles…generally speaking it was really blessed.

Moved to Montana when I was four…lived in a log cabin on the banks of the North Fork river…looked across to the Rocky Mountains. It had no electricity or telephone. Heated our food, water, and house with wood. Almost lost our house to the great forest fire of ’88, but fire stopped on our property line and burned around it…believed in miracles then. Got snowed in in the winter of ’89. Dad rode my horse Starbuck to the nearest telephone 15 miles away at the local mercantile to make an emergency call. Cars couldn’t get out for weeks.

Learned how to work hard and play hard. Never got an allowance, never needed one. Played in the river in the summer-time…pulled giant leeches of my legs and watched the blood run down. Woke up in the middle of the night to -60 degrees F, in winter, crawled in my parents bed with my brothers just to stay warm. Saw the most incredible vivid display of the northern lights drawn in massive curtains across the sky and reflected back on the river and snow. Gathered firewood in the fall, got scrapped off on a tree by my Shetland pony Coco, multiple times. Had a lamb named Heidi. Found it with a big chunk taken out of its side by a Timber wolf. Had to put her down. Got stopped on my way home from the neighbors by a Timber wolf, twice my size. Looked into my soul…can shut my eyes and see those steely blue eyes staring me down. Didn’t turn around couldn’t, frozen in mid step. Stayed there for 5 minutes until it turned around and disappeared back into the woods. Then I ran.

Had a Grizzly bear try to break into our house, had a Grizzly raid our trash, our garden, our garage. Had a Grizzly bear swipe at my Golden Retriever named Goldie. Had a cat get eaten by a mountain lion. Had friend who had a pet mountain lion. Lived outdoors. Ran barefoot…got browned like a little Indian. Had an Indian show up on our door-step. A REAL Indian. Showed us how to track and light a fire, set up a teepee and clean a buck-skin. Stayed with us a while. Had a neighbor who was in the Vietnam war and lost his mind…thought the government was after him. Tried to kill my dad one night by running him off a cliff in the car. Had a lot of neighbors who thought the government was after them.

Loved my brothers like best friends, still do. Fought with my brothers like best friends, still do. Talked back to my mom and dad every day of my life, still do.

My early days, some of the memories have laid down roots taken hold. Is it unique? Sure, but yours is too…if you think about it. It’s tantalizing to think that each person holds the stories to a rich and varied life, unique to only them and just sitting there waiting for the telling.

I will love

"A wise girl kisses but never loves...listens but doesn't believe...and leaves before she is left." Marilyn Monroe.

One of my teenage mentees posted this on her facebook last week and I just have to wonder...what kind of crack was Marilyn Monroe smoking, and since when was this wrapped up and dished out as good advice? Since when was stupidity sold as wisdom? I should be gentler, but it worries me that young people today, or I suppose, not just today, are on-slotted with the idea that happiness can only be had in self preservation. More like a death sentence to cold hearted isolation.

Now, let me clarify that I certainly understand where this is coming from; and am sensitive to it. The concept of it, and the affinity to it, is most likely the result of some unbelievably painful heartbreak that leaves one feeling like the nerve endings to their heart have been ripped out and frozen and then plugged back in for a nice little reminder. I get that. Been there. But what an awful thing to come out the other side saying! What an awful way to take a life lesson and toss it in the trash, put it in lock down, and give up on experiencing one of the greatest gifts in life! Would you like me to tell you how I really feel?

I love people. Plain and simple. If I didn't have people to love, if their weren't people for me to love, then life would be pretty desperate for me. You cannot ask me to partially love someone, or be reserved with how I love someone, trust me, my parents have been giving me that lecture since I discovered romantic relationships. Doesn't work that way with me. If I love you...I'll love you, hook, line, and sinker. Doesn't matter who you are either. You want to put up walls and get all tough? All the better, I'll try my hardest to smash em down. You want to be difficult and play hard to get? Go ahead...I like the challenge. I live to love people. That's my job, my passion, my gift. So when you tell me that it's safer, better not to love, you will excuse me if I disregard you. You will excuse me if I laugh when you tell me that the pain isn't worth it. I say bring it. Let me hurt, let me break, but don't tell me I cannot love.

It is what makes humans human. It is what makes life richer. It is what gives life purpose. And it certainly is what makes it beautiful. What would I have missed if I was safely tucked in isolation? I cannot even begin to tell you! I would have missed the understanding of safety in the unwavering love of my parents. I would have missed the protection and laughter of my brothers. I would have missed the friends-forever of my childhood. I would have missed the childhood imagination of romance, my prince charming. I would have missed feeling like my real life prince charming had ridden into my life and swept me off my feet that Montana winter, even though he turned me out into the cold a few months later. But to miss that? Never. I would have missed the lifelong friendships that I've built. The ones that I fall back on when things are tough. I would have missed the heady thrill of really being taken with someone...so much fun. I would have missed the needs of the kids I worked with, the things that only love can see. I would have missed out on finding someone behind a disguise, because love was the only thing that could see it. I would have missed my wedding day, my friends funeral, my Crystal's baptism, my best friends wedding, the chubby cheeks of my nieces, the broken sobs of a teenager, late night laughter, early morning smiles, knowledge of the safety of being known by another...I would have missed life.

Would I have missed some pain? Of course. I would have missed the breath taking, gut wrenching, devastation of my first heart break. I would have missed the helplessness of loving but not being able to help. I would have missed a few tears. Some sad stories. But how could I take any one of these things away and still be who I am today? How could I choose to sacrifice all that has been gained from pain? Never.

I do not fear love, or the loss of it rather. It is a part of life to love and loose. In the worlds of the famous poet..."it is better to have loved and lossed then to have never loved at all" I resonate. I will love those around me. It is my pleasure, my duty. We cannot call ourselves Christians until we can love. I hate to think what would have happened if the fear of pain had kept Christ from loving. He knew what would happen, he knew that his love would be rejected...but he loved anyway. Because it is who he is and what he does. You can tell me, that rejection is ahead of me and loss is eminent. I know this. No need to state. But don't try to tell me that the solution is in what people call independence and safety. There is no freedom in being tied to yourself. I will not take that road.

I will love.

The House By the Side of the Road

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by -
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban;
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears -
Both parts of an infinite plan;
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
And the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by -
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish - so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Sam Walter Foss

Where I find myself

I think I will never be satisfied. It's a blessing and a curse. I want to see the world, breath it in, see it all. But I want to settle in, send down roots, have a family. It is much like the concept of Yin and Yang, each in opposition to each-other, but in compliment. One cannot exists without the other. I cannot exists without both. They take turns within me. Each clamoring for my attention. Each having to take turns.


This time last year, I was packing up all I had in life, getting ready to move back to the country I call home. But it didn't feel like home. It felt like a foreign land of excess and convenience. Where my own language hurt my ears and overwhelmed me because suddenly I could understand everything that was being said. The sweet silence of ignorance had been robbed from me. I found myself searching for the sing-song roughness of the Chinese language that I had grown accustomed to ignoring. Here understanding was forced on me. Familiarity bred contempt and I wanted earplugs.


There are so many things to love about America, so many things I had missed. Like green grass, and Taco Bell, big trucks, and being able to drive. So many things you can do here that you cannot do else where and that I wanted to do. But leaving Hong Kong broke my heart. It's uniqueness, it's intensity, the memories, the people. I cried as our jet plane dipped its wings to the South and the Hong Kong skyline disappeared below me. I left part of my heart there...and I felt it leave me. When you love in life, you hurt. And I had loved living in Hong Kong.

I suppose I could have withstrained myself, I knew it was only temporary, but to fall in love with a place, or even a person, and withstrain yourself from investing your heart because of safety issues; is to limit yourself to mere surface level understanding. To get dirty in something, someone, to see all that it is, they are, is to love them. And I loved living in Hong Kong.

To be outside of my comfort zone, is to be in my comfort zone...to challenge normality. Here? here I'm somewhat normal. And its hard. Hard feeling tied to a place. Hard knowing that people expect things of me that I am not qualified to deliver. It's even hard driving two minutes to the grocery store and having my pick of five different kinds of taco sauce...hard because it's so easy. In Hong Kong, taco sauce came by an epic journey of an hour by three different modes of transportation and a mile of walking, till you found the one store, that had the one kind....and let me tell you, there was nothing better then that one kind of hard earned taco sauce.

But it's wonderful here too, wonderful because it is also unique. Only in America can you sit in the grandstands of Fenway park and watch the Redsox play ball and sing the national anthem to the flag flying under the Coca Cola sign. Only in America can you live in a four bedroom, two and a half bath house and still refer to it as small. Only in America, am I truly an American. And I love my country.

Come to think about it, I love every place I've lived. I've loved Montana because it's where I found myself grounded in simplicity and drawn to adventure. And I've loved Tennessee because its where I found myself learning how to slow down for relationships, for life. And I've loved Connecticut because it's where I found myself learning that people can change and hope is stronger then desperation. And I loved Hong Kong because it's where I found myself intoxicated with life's complexity and how small I really am. And I love South Lancaster Massachusetts, because...it's where I find myself.