Baby Steps

I love-hate the old 90's film, "What About Bob." Every time I watch it, I laugh out loud, mostly in a nervous, really uncomfortable, I'm-not-sure-what-else-to-do, kind of way. The character, "Bob," is horrifically neurotic. He has OCD to the nth degree. He won't touch anything without cleaning it and his fears and hang-ups outnumber even the most terrified cartoon character. His only salvation, his only pathway through the bog of his own psychosis, is a pop psychologist who has penned a trite self-help book called "Baby Steps." Bob, like a desperate leech, latches on to the concept and begins to see improvement. He can suddenly take elevators by taking one baby step at a time. He can walk out of his living room because all he has to do is take one step, and then another step. Bob's obsession with the book leads to more uncomfortable, neurotic humor and the audience can chuckle because the scenario is just too absurd to be real. WE are not that crazy. WE obviously have better boundaries. We don't need to take baby steps. Right? RIGHT????

This week, I am identifying with Bob on a whole new level. I'm not about to stalk anyone, don't worry. But, as of late, I have wondered if Bob-like neurosis was in my immediate future. We have made some huge, gargantuan life decisions that initially sent me into a spiral of pure bona fide nuttiness. In an economy that isn't any one's friend, we have decided to embark on two separate but, strangely connected adventures. First, we are pursuing an international adoption that we aren't at liberty to discuss in detail but, is likely going to cost a whole heck of a lot of money, and second, we are going to seriously increase our giving to our church, which is completely, literally committed to making a dent in global injustice in the next 3 years... I'm not writing about this to brag. I'm not writing about this so I can gain some kind of saintly favor from God.

I'm writing about this because deciding to commit to both was really HARD. We came to the commitment by taking teensy little baby steps and by crying and negotiating with God a lot.

And then, after safely jumping from lily pad to lily pad, we just dove in head first, right in to the pond. Faith is, after all, being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11) I guess you could say we've done a big, joyful belly flop.

Committing to 2 very pricey endeavors on a pastor's salary is just plain scary. Scary but, exciting. Invigorating, actually. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I know that we are risking to affect change on a global scale, that our sacrifice means something in the grand scheme of things.

So, I guess I'm writing to encourage you to do your own belly flop. You get extra points if it makes a loud smacking sound when you hit the water. :) It stings but, you know you're alive.

You know you're getting older when.....

Let me begin this post by saying that I’m not technically old. Early thirties is not old. I’m younger than my husband and younger than a lot of my friends. In fact, my very good friends/ neighbors were teasing me about being the young one on the block last Saturday night (You know who you are, Grandma). I can literally feel some of my readers rolling their eyes at the title of this post as they think, “Oh, just wait. You have no idea what old is. You’re practically a teenager.” Fair enough, fair enough. But, I still have some complaints.

Lately I’ve had these humbling moments that scream, “You are AGING.” Generally speaking, my knees hurt when I run, my metabolism is slowing down, loud restaurants irritate me and I have no clue what movies are out or what new band is worth listening to. I don’t know if these are the result of aging or motherhood but, I’ve been able to explain them away. A cold day explains the creaky knees, the metabolism just needs me to take more vitamins, intolerance of high volume at restaurants just means I’m tired from a day of raising kids…

I cannot, however, continue to explain away my fading eyesight. That sounds a bit dramatic. Rest assured, I’m not going blind or anything. But, let me tell you a little story.

I have been trying to find a job. Well, not a job-job. I was a high school English teacher in my pre-Washington life (and a damn good one, if I do say so myself!) But, now I'm a full time mom, pastor’s wife and Chief Community Volunteer. I volunteer at my kids’ school, I coach a soccer team, I’m leading a service trip to South Africa, I speak at conferences at our church…. A job-job would not permit me to keep those crazy commitments. So, I’m searching for the perfect job that would let me keep my current life the way it is. Stop laughing.

My dream is to write and get paid for it. That and change the world for free. I’m working on both crafts but, have been focusing on the former this fall. I’ve read books on marketing oneself and how to pitch your stuff to editors and how to tolerate massive amounts of rejection. Also have read the books on writing the most killer resume ever. Bear with me, this is all part of the back story of aging, I promise.

The easiest way to get paid for the penned word is copywriting. So, I decided to try my hand at it and found a few web sites that act as the middle man between writers and clients. They find the work, which is half the battle, and then hire you to write really boring copy for them. I took the bait and signed up. They were promising 20 cents a word, which is a REALLY good rate for writing boring copy. I wrote my little heart out about topics such as “Understanding Financial Responsibility Law” and “Including Pet Coverage in Auto Insurance Policies.” According to my calculations, I was about to receive an $800 check. And then, I enlarged the print on my screen. What I thought said 20 cents a word, ACTUALLY said $.02 a word. That's right, I COULDN'T SEE THE 0 in front of the 2. People, that is 2 pennies per word. My check shrunk before my eyes. Instead of $800 for 10 hours of work, I would be paid $80.

I have an appointment with the eye doctor next week.

No Risk, No Reward

Last week, my husband jumped out of an airplane.

For a sermon illustration.

He's done lots of things for sermon illustrations. He has used real fire and real chain saws to drive a point home. He uses the verbal illustration most often. He talks about me, his kids, and his friends in sermons all the time. He once tattled on me to the whole congregation, claiming that I was a cusser, a foul mouthed human being. The congregation laughed and I had to answer a thousand questions about the incident in the hallways after the service. In my defense, I uttered one small word (not even a really bad one) in front of my kids and they delighted in repeating it over and over. They told daddy and a sermon illustration was born. I must not here that sometimes the stories in his messages are stretched the ever most teensiest bit.

This time, though, the point he was trying to get across could not be done from the safety of a stage or from behind a pulpit. The message was too big, too risky, too important. He called me week before the stunt and I could tell something important was on his mind.

"Hey babe," he said.

"Hey."

"How's your day going? Are you having a good day?"

"Yes. I am...Why do you ask?"

"Well, um...I was wondering what you'd think if I jumped out of an airplane...."

"HUH? Wow. Well, someday I think that would be fine."

"Friday, I want to skydive on Friday."

I was dumbfounded but, excited for him. We're generally a risk taking family. We do roller coasters, we hike, we do marathons and triathlons. Skydiving was way riskier than any of these things but, I said it would be OK as long as I could be there.

After all, someone would have to collect his broken bones if the chute didn't open.....

So, Friday, the kids and I traveled to the airport with Mike to watch him fling himself willingly from a perfectly good airplane. Here's a quick snapshot of paragraph 2 of the waiver he had to sign.

In case you can't read it, it says "Jumping out of an airplane is a very dangerous thing to do. Please do not ever say that we told you skydiving is safe. It is not." It goes on to list the different injuries one can sustain from skydiving, "broken legs, angles, wrists or fingers," "death from hitting the ground too hard."

So he signed it and boarded the airplane after we read this quote on the wall,

The kids and I watched his plane take off, watched it disappear in the clouds, and watched a tiny white speck plummet toward the earth. I was mostly calm. At least that's what my kids would tell you. Inside I was desperately trying to quiet the raving lunatic telling me that I would never see my husband in one piece again.

When the parachute deployed we could see and hear him clearly. He made it down safely and I was able to breathe normally again. You can watch the video below.

RISK! from Overlake Christian Church on Vimeo.

So, why did he jump? What was the point he was trying to prove? Overlake is heading into a huge, mind blowing vision campaign. The campaign itself is not mind blowing but, it's goals are. Goals like 1,000 slaves set free, 2,000 orphans adopted into loving families, 1,000 churches planted, 50 Community Health Centers to combat HIV/AIDS......

We're asking our congregation to give of themselves in a way that many of them never have. We're asking them to take this risk with us and give of their time and resources in sacrificial, radical ways. We're asking them to trust God.

These things, my friends, are why I let my husband jump out of an airplane.

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Holding Hands in Public

Today I dropped my 9 –year-old daughter off at the Jr. high bus stop.

Our school district offers violin lessons for 4^th graders at the local Jr. high before school. 4^th graders are to ride the bus with the Jr. High kids, take their lesson, and re-board the bus, which drops them off at their proper elementary school. Because I’m really very afraid of Junior High kids (I spent a year teaching 7^th grade Spanish), I debated whether or not to just drive her to the school myself, sparing her the bus experience. She’s so tiny and sweet, I rationalized. Those kids will eat her alive. Plus, how will she be able to find the music room when she gets there? I mentioned this plan to Alex and, horrified, she replied, “Mom. There. Is. No. Way. You can’t drop me off.” She wanted to do this herself. She assured me that she’d sit near the bus driver and that if she couldn’t find the music room, she’d find a teacher and ask for help.

Plus, she didn’t want to be seen with her mother holding her hand at the Jr. High. I can be overbearing that way. You know, trying to hold her hand in public.

I reluctantly agreed to let her ride the bus.

Alex has been looking forward to the start of violin lessons for weeks. She’s been “practicing” with her half size violin and bow and trying to figure out how to properly tune it. Mike and I have politely listened to the squawks and squeaks of the tiny instrument, playing the part of the rapturous audience because of the delighted face Alex wears when she plays it. Well, I played the part. I think Mike really was rapturous. His love of our kids is big and unabashed. He loves them like crazy and is their chief cheerleader. He’s permanently proud of them.

I have learned to take ibuprofen before the concert of scratchy strings and loud whistling begins.

I woke Alex up early this morning and she stumbled out of bed with unusual compliance. She usually loathes the morning time. Today, however, she was excited. She carefully chose her outfit, took a shower, and asked me to blow dry her hair. She fussed over which shoes to wear and insisted her glasses were crooked. I fixed the apparently crooked glasses and watched Alex continue to bustle around the house as if she’d had one too many cups of coffee.

“She’s nervous,” I pointed out the obvious to my husband.

“Yeah, “ he replied, “Don’t worry. I’ll walk her to the bus.”

Alex must have overheard this exchange because when I went upstairs to check on her progress, she whispered,

“Mom, I don’t want Daddy to walk me to the bus.”

“Why not, honey?” I asked, surprised.

“I don’t know,” she fumbled and then looked at the floor.

Remembering her desire to not be seen holding my hand at the Jr. High, I could see her imagining Mike bestowing his big, unabashed love on her at the bus stop in front of the older kids.

“Oh, I said. “OK. How about if I drive you down and you can get out of the car when the bus comes?”

“OK, thanks Mom,” she answered with a sigh of relief.

I broke the news to Mike that his little baby girl didn’t want him to walk her down. It hurt his feelings. When I gently told him that she wanted me to take her, his shoulders fell and his face took on a pained expression.

Alex and I rushed out the door and drove to the bus stop. When the bus came, she flew out of the car and called out “Hi!” to the Jr. High kids in the most innocent voice I’ve ever heard. She threw me a grin and waved wildly as she boldly boarded the yellow school bus.

I came home and sat down on the couch next to Mike, remembering the days when I didn’t want my own parents to hold my hand in public. I tried to comfort him. I tried to explain that, in a way, Alex’s desire to go it alone on the bus is proof that we’re raising her well. The love we provide, the boisterous, full, crazy love Mike provides on a regular basis has helped create a strong foundation of self-confidence. She wasn’t rejecting us or being rude, she was testing out her independence. She wanted to see if she could get on that bus without her cheerleaders and their boisterous hugs.

He understood but, I think he still felt sad.

Tonight, when there are no Jr. Highers looking, I’m going to hold her hand tight. And Mike’s going to make a big fuss over her violin playing. Then, we’re going to hug her repeatedly.

She might be a little embarrassed but, that’s just the kind of parents we are.

Supersonic

(Another re-write of an old post... :) )

Last night, my 5 –year old son Caleb and I found our selves alone. My oldest, Alexandra, was at a sleepover and my husband was at a class reunion in California. We had scads of uncalendared time before us, which is a rare occurrence in our house. We are usually overscheduled: piano, Taekwondo, soccer, school, doctor appointments. Free time is like a clear diamond, precious and rare.

As I pulled away from dropping Alex at her friend’s house, I had an idea.

“Hey, buddy,” I pitched excitedly to the back seat, “Wanna go on a date with me?”

“Sure, mama!” Caleb accepted with a small shy smile.

“OK, Buddy, pick anywhere you want! Wait…but just not Chuck E. Cheese, Ok?"
 I loved supporting the idea of kids being kids but didn’t love the migraine I knew I’d take home with me.

He thought for a minute, knitting his eyebrows together and concentrating very hard. I began trying to silently guess what his choice would be. I was banking on ice cream, fast food, or the Lego store. His face suddenly lit up and he said confidently,

"Mama, I want to eat at your restaurant. I want to stay home with you and play."



Shocked, I replied, “Are you sure buddy? No Cold Stone, no McDonald’s? No Lego store?”

“Nope. I want to go home with you.”

“OK,” I fumbled, “It’s a date!”

How could I say no? Even with the tantalizing promise of mint chip ice cream and chicken nuggets, he opted for solo time with me. He wanted to eat food that I made. Not excited about the prospect of dragging out ingredients and deciding how to assemble them into something edible, I said,

“Bud, I think mommy’s restaurant is kind of, well… closed. What if we go through a drive through and eat the food at home on the front lawn? How about a picnic?”

“Yeah!” he shouted enthusiastically! I was grateful for the compromise. Now he had the best of both worlds. Fast food and hang time with mom.

When we got home, I laid out a thick blanket on the green grass and we had our picnic underneath a bright blue cloudless sky. We played "superheroes" while we ate. This game consisted of my son inventing 2 Superhero good guys and one Superhero bad guy. He and I played the good guys and we pretended there was an evil villain lurking in the shadows, ready to take over the world. And, of course, between bites of greasy French fries and chicken nuggets, we just had to stop him.

My superhero’s name was Supersonic. Ironically, the name Caleb chose for me had nothing to with anything “sonic” or remotely related to sound. It just sounded cool. My powers consisted of Laser Vision, Super Strength and Nostril Power. Oh, and I could fly. 
Caleb had his own host of powers I can't fully recall, mostly because he kept adding new ones every fifteen seconds. But I do remember the bad guy had Super Ultra Vomit Power. 


We sat in the sunshine, Caleb talking and imagining at a dizzying rate. Not a surprise if you know my son. He has never been short on words or creativity. He narrated a complex story line as I patiently nodded and listened, throwing in a "Wow!" or "Cool!" or "No way!" at appropriate moments. I also threw in "One more bite," and "Watch your drink!" a few times. 



At first I thought I was giving Caleb the gift of my time, that he was the one benefiting from our game. Then, I realized, sometime after Vomit Power Man tried to douse us in puke and I warded him off by blowing with my Nostril Power, that I was the one who needed the playtime. The reality that he's growing up hit me like a ton of bricks. I greedily soaked up the time with my son, trying hard to memorize every detail, every nuance of the experience. His small white teeth, his thick dark hair, his little dimple, his wide smile, his pudgy fingers, the sparkle of adventure in his eyes.

I know there will be a day when he doesn't want to play superheroes with me on our front lawn, when eating at “my restaurant” will not be his first choice. The value of these moments, these stolen seconds of unscheduled time with my son, is incalculable. Someday, when he drives off to college, waits for his bride at the end of the aisle, or becomes a daddy himself, I will pull out this memory, dust it off, and remember the little boy who wanted to eat at my restaurant and play superheroes.

Tooth Tragedy

(This is an old post I'm in the middle of re-writing for a shot at publication....Enjoy!)

After 2 months of wiggling and jiggling her tiny bean of a tooth, my eight year old daughter finally, officially, lost her 7^th tooth. She diligently twisted and turned it until every last thread of tissue was disconnected.

The whole process of tooth loss is a bit nauseating for me to witness. First your child announces that the tooth is loose. Then they begin to play with said tooth incessantly, desperately trying to speed up the Tooth Fairy’s visit. They push it around with their tongues, wiggle it with their fingers, and eat apples with stunning regularity. Gradually, the tooth begins to dangle, sliding around the pink gum in acrobatic 360 degree turns. The "pop" sound a tooth makes when it is finally pulled is very distinct and turns my stomach, just a little, every time I hear it. Weirder than watching your child lose a tooth, is watching the new gargantuan permanent tooth fill up half your child's tiny face. We all have those photos of ourselves in elementary school with gaping holes in our smiles. We also have photos of ourselves with large beaver teeth occupying a startling amount of space in the 4x6 image. The arrival of Beaver Teeth marks the beginning of the infamous Awkward Phase that no childhood has been able to successfully avoid.

I digress. Alex wanted to pull the tooth all by herself . In the small bathroom, my husband Michael, my son Caleb, and I all crazily cheered her on like she was just moments away from a gold medal.

“You can do it, Al!”

“Twist it to the left! Ok, now to the right!”

“Almost there! Just do it! Just do it!”

In one swift, epic moment, she bravely pulled the dangling tooth with her right hand. The sheer force of the determined gesture sent the tiny tooth flying from her tiny hand into the great abyss of the upstairs bathroom. It felt like we were watching the scene unfold in slow motion, complete with the slowly drawled scream of “Noooooooo!!!!” as the tooth flew through the air. The upstairs bathroom has white hexagon tile. I immediately knew we were in trouble. Tiny white tooth on tiny white tiles.

Alex started crying hysterically. Deeply worried that the tooth fairy would not come if there wasn’t any tooth, she mouthed over and over “I just gotta find it. I just gotta find it…”

Mike, Caleb, Alex and I frantically, painstakingly scoured the bathroom on our hands and knees. We went over every square inch of tile, sink, tub, and rug.

No luck. Alex’s tears started coming faster and I knew full blown hysterical sobs were near.


In a hopeful attempt to assuage her fears, my husband quipped, "Honey, the tooth fairy knows you lost a tooth, don't worry. She always comes, no matter what." She didn't buy it. She looked at him incredulously and cried harder. 
Strike One.

It was my turn to take a crack at calming her down. I said with my very best mommy-means-business-face, "Alex, really that's enough. Come on, honey. Stop it right now." I stepped back, hoping my attempt at discipline had done the trick. In response, 
the tempo of the sobbing sped up and tone of the crying morphed into a loud shrieking sound. Strike Two.

I knew we were on the threshold of total and complete devastation. Bedtime was approaching and unless a miracle happened, our 20 minute tuck in would turn into a 90 minute one. The 90 minute tuck would result in a grumpy morning the next day. The grumpy morning would turn into a grumpy day. Basically, total family misery was at stake.

I was out of ideas. Desperate, I began praying, “God, please, please, PLEASE, let me find the STINKING TOOTH.” On the cusp of a third strike, I suddenly remembered that I still had some of her old teeth from the last time the tooth fairy visited. Not quite sure what to do with old baby teeth, I had thrown them into a junk drawer that contained other stuff I didn’t know what to do with. With lightning speed, I ran into my bedroom, grabbed the old tooth and hid it in my palm.

I did what any self-respecting, desperate mother who wants to put her kids to bed on time would do.

I lied.

I pretended to find the tooth on the bathroom floor.

I said with a little too much enthusiasm, “Honey, let’s look one more time on the floor. I didn’t really look very well behind the toilet……Oh my goodness! Look! I found it!” I triumphantly held the old tooth up, sucked in my breath, and waited.

She bought it.

The tears dried up and the post-sob hiccups eventually subsided. I took a picture of her new, toothless smile, wondering just when the permanent Beaver tooth would break through. Alex and Caleb were in bed on time and the tooth fairy left a buck under her pillow.

I fell asleep that night to my husband’s words, “You’re a genius, you know that?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” I replied.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Especially when the tooth fairy’s involved.”

Loopholes

Human beings are hard wired to search for loopholes. It’s in our nature to painstakingly seek out shortcuts. Webster defines a loophole as “an ambiguity or inadequacy in the law or set of rules.” My children are forever testing the household rules, searching for the perfect ambiguity to exploit.

For example, we have a rule that the kids may only play video games if they have done their homework and then their daily reading. They are awarded video game and computer time based on how long they have spent reading. It’s a minute for minute exchange. Twenty minutes of reading can be redeemed for 20 minutes of Wii or DS time. Simple enough, right? As I crafted this rule, I was proud of its straightforwardness and confident in its clarity.

I had no idea just how complicated this system could become. My kids, who love to read, immediately started trying to poke holes in my rule. They peppered me with questions. Can you read in front of the Wii while someone else is playing? Do you get reading time if you read signs while riding in the car? Does it count if someone reads to you? Do you get extra Wii time on birthdays and holidays? Can you borrow your brother’s reading minutes if you promise to lend him some next time? Does daddy have the power to override this rule when mom’s gone? What happens if you “accidentally” play for too long on the Wii? Are there any times where your reading can count for double?

We have had long discussions about the Reading/ Gaming exchange rule. So much, that

I am considering hiring an attorney to draft a legal contract so that all parties are clear on the terms of the agreement. My children have no idea how much Wii time they’ve missed because of time spent discussing procedures and parameters.

I find myself searching for loopholes as well. My kids learned from the best. Just how important is it for me to meet that deadline? Do I technically have to pay that bill on that date, or is it just a suggestion? Do I have to do that tempo run, or can I just run easy? I find myself wondering if the time I spend searching for shortcuts ends up being more time consuming that just getting the job done.

I have often used my own fears and insecurities as a loophole.

“I feel called to go to Africa, but I can’t afford it.”

“I really want to be a writer, but I’m too afraid of rejection.”

“I want to work out but, I’ll never stick with it.”

“I’d like to start my own business, but it’s just too risky.”

My fears let me off the hook but, they prevent me from really living. I wonder what a life without loopholes, without fear and excuses, would look like. I'm willing to give it a try.

Somehow, though, I don't think my children will quit searching for ambiguities or inadequacies in the laws of this house anytime soon.

Sometimes Justice is Hard to Calculate.....

Last week in Phoenix, an eight year old girl was brutally gang raped. The perpetrators had no elaborate scheme or meticulous cover up. No real plan. They simply decided one day to lure their little neighbor into a shed by offering her gum, hold her down and rape her for 10-15 minutes. They were immediately arrested at the scene of the crime, after another neighbor heard hysterical screaming and called the police.

The “gang” consisted of young boys, ages 9. 10, 13, and 14.

The victim and the perpetrators were all Liberian refugees. You can read the full story here.

After learning that their innocent daughter had been sexually assaulted, her family did the unthinkable. They disowned her. Instead of outrage at the perpetrators or a fierce desire to see justice done, the family embraced a cultural relic still present in many African and Middle Eastern countries that pronounces female rape victims Guilty, responsible for the violence they were powerless to fend off or flee from.

The father told a case worker and a policemen in her presence to “take her,” that he “didn’t want her back.” His daughter, bloodied, bruised, and severely traumatized had become, however implausible to most Americans, a symbol of cultural shame. Thankfully, the Phoenix Police Department is committed to seeking justice for this little girl, even while her family chooses to blame her.

The President of Liberia, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, involved herself personally upon hearing of the crime. She chided the girl’s family, beseeched them to seek counseling, and assured the world that Liberia is moving in a cultural direction that values women and decries sexual assault. She then asserted that the perpetrators, the young boys, have to pay the penalty, but we also want to make sure that they are counseled ... that they will have an opportunity to change and become useful citizens, not only in the United States but when they return home."

The 14 year old boy is being charged as an adult. The 9, 10 and 13 year olds are being charged as juveniles. Being charged as an adult means that the sentence will be harsher, longer, and the record permanent.

Delivering justice seems fairly straightforward at first glance. The perpetrators should pay. They should absolutely pay for their crimes. They should be harshly sentenced and given the maximum penalty. The victim was only 8 years old, after all. Then, one remembers something crucial and even more horrific; They are only little boys. Boys only a few years older than my own son. Boys, refugees, that were likely exposed to rape and sexual violence before arriving in the United States. It is highly likely that their childhoods were not filled with Sponge Bob, Toys R Us, good parenting, and sound moral teaching. As refugees, it is likely that these boys all but raised themselves. It is entirely possible that the boys were recruited as Liberian rebel soldiers.

These little boys, the perpetrators, are victims in their own rite. It is easy to imagine that the boys are suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Most refugees could be easily diagnosed with PTSD.

So, what’s a justice system to do? Should the goal be punishment, or rehabilitation? Sentencing or counseling? A combination of both?

Obviously, the little girl needs counseling and a family that will love her and introduce her to the Creator who restores all things broken. She has been wounded physically and emotionally in the most horrific way possible. I basically think she should come live with me. In all honesty, I’ve been having dreams about telling this little girl how valuable she is, how perfect, how pure. I OBVIOUSLY believe in adoption. More to follow on that….

Don’t these boys need the same thing? Wouldn’t the best thing be for their innocence to be restored? Shouldn't some one inform them of how valuable they are to the Creator?

The more important and pressing question is this: What is the Church to do? With the 8 year old rape victim, the little boy perpetrators, and Injustice everywhere?

I know this. Churches are EVERYWHERE. How does the Church mobilize to prevent this tragic story from enfolding in the FIRST PLACE?

I’m not offering any answers. Not just yet.

I’m extremely curious about what YOU have to say…….

Consequence Free Adultery?

I have a huge bone to pick.

Yesterday, while reading the latest TIME Magazine, I happened upon an article highlighting the latest trend in dating/ matchmaking sites. Wait for it....SITES THAT INTENTIONALLY FACILITATE EXTRA-MARITAL AFFAIRS. Sites that overtly CAPITALIZE on troubled marriages and tantalizingly advertise that "...humans were not made to be monogamous" and "your secret is safe with us." They lure married men and women to their site promising to find them the perfect adulterous liason, even charging their clients' credit cards under a neutral, unsuspicious name. Adultery on the internet is not a new concept but, the brazen unapologetic nature of this new brand of internet cheating has me shocked to the core.

Thankfully, the tone of the TIME article was a condemning one. The author was nearly as incredulous and angry as I in his treatment of the topic. Upon reading about these sites, a strong, metallic taste filled my mouth and my stomach turned instantly queasy.

Marriage is hard enough without sites like these, falsely promising consequence free infidelity. The promise, however, is a false one. Adultery is never consequence free. Affairs are messy, explosive, volatile things that leave shards of glass and shrapnel everywhere. Just ask anyone who has cheated or been cheated on. Just ask the kids of the cheaters. Co-workers, friends, family, and neighbors also find themselves picking shrapnel out of their skin in the aftermath of an affair.

My husband and I have been in ministry for 15 years together the most painful things, besides death, that we have counseled people through is extra-marital affairs (both the online and flesh and blood kind). They are painful when exposed and painful when they are secret. There are always far reaching consequences and devastating casualties. And, the secret never lasts long.

While touting the amazing features of his site, the CEO of one of these companies was asked by the TIME reporter, "How would you feel if your wife used this site?" He answered, "I would be devastated."

Finish Line

The day before our 70.3 mile triathlon in Boise, Idaho, my friends and I walked past the official finish line. A great white arch with a digital timer and spotlights was to be the ending point for 1200 athletes brave or insane enough to attempt the race. Glimpsing the official finish line sent chills up my spine and caused my stomach to rise immediately into my throat. The finish line symbolizes success. And before a race, no athlete really knows for sure if they'll cross it. No one knows if they, hands raised in victory, will get their photo op. No ones knows what will happen. There are simply no guarantees. Months of hopes and dreams could easily be destroyed. Any number of things can go wrong: cramps, dehydration, inadequate nutrition, a bike crash, hypothermia, random collapse....

For 24 hours before the race, we tried, on the advice of Liz, to just breathe. Every half hour or so, I had to close my eyes and take in a massive dose of oxygen. I am prone to nervous bowels and psychological nausea, so breathing was my coping mechanism. That and drinking lots of water. If nothing else, I was determined to be hydrated. Hydration is important, necessary, even crucial the day before a race. Proximity to a bathroom the day before a race is therefore, just as pressing.

Liz also led us through visualizations of the race so we could pack the appropriate gear in our transition bags and minimize surprise events on race day. Even with nervous stomachs and psyches, we went about the business of preparing to race.

I barely slept the night before the the big day. I obsessively checked and re-checked my gear and my bike to make sure I had everything I needed. We caught the race shuttle around 11:15 to head to the start. On the shuttle, I dared Lori, the fastest, fittest member of our posse, to do a round off at the finish line (see previous post). I promised to pay her $100 if said round off was successfully captured on camera. More on this later.

Official race time was 2pm, so we had lots of time to chat, eat, obsess, and cry for no apparent reason. Athletes milled about the transition area, checking out all the competition and waiting for the clock to run itself down. For a half hour, I sat near the Pros. Shiny, fancy, absurdly expensive racing bikes were lined up perfectly, matching the shiny, fancy quadriceps and calf muscles of their professional triathlete owners. Tan and ridiculously fit, the pro-athletes prepared their transition areas with ease and joked, albeit competitively, with one another.

Behind the pros was a smaller bike rack that fit only 3 bikes. Curious about which group would occupy the the obviously smaller rack, I waited and watched. Three very fit men showed up to claim their spaces. Two had only one leg and the other only one foot.

Ah, I thought, that's the disabled athlete rack.

Then, I realized that the term "disabled" hardly described the men before me. They were more than able, more than capable. They, with prosthetic limbs, were about to cover 70.3 miles and were likely going to beat me. I was more impressed with these men, than the professionals I had been staring, open-mouthed, at for 30 minutes.

Another reason to cry. Tears are the primary way I cope with stress, apparently. I decided that the during the race, the posture of my heart would be gratitude. I silently prayed, thanking God for giving me lungs and limbs in the first place.

The swim is the first event in a triathlon and it is typically divided into waves. My friends, Lori, Liz, and Sheri were in an earlier wave than I was. As they prepared to enter the water, the speakers blared the song, "Beautiful Day" by U2 (see yesterday's post). No joke. As I screamed myself silly cheering for them, I cried again. I thanked God for putting my personal theme song on the official race Ipod. Innocent bystanders were beginning to think I needed the medical staff and the race hadn't even started.

I patiently waited for my wave. When called, I calmly entered the water, feeling confident and ready to kick some serious butt. The swim was relatively easy for me, in spite of the choppy water, wind, and currents which made it difficult to swim in a straight line. 1.2 miles passed without my normal hyperventilation and panic in the water. I even emerged from the water without feeling dizzy. I made it to the transition area and prepared for the cycling portion of the race.

Once on my bike, I took a deep breath, in order to obey Liz because I think she's very right most of the time. The first leg of the race had been completed successfully. I felt great, excited even, about the coming 56 miles. I spotted my parents and sister on the course and it gave me a huge adrenaline shot. They cheered like crazy for me and I felt famous. They even got roped into being official Race Marshals in their crazy dedication to cheering me on.

Then, it started raining. Hard. Thunder and lightning followed. Typically, the weather in Boise on June 13th is 80 degrees and dry as a bone. THIS IS WHY PEOPLE CHOOSE BOISE AS THEIR FIRST HALF IRONMAN.

Alas, on June 13, 2009, it rained for the entire, very hilly ride. Until mile 30, I was maintaining my body temperature just fine. At mile 31, I suddenly realized I was FREEZING. It wasn't the kind of cold where you just need a blanket and a sweater and a latte. I, and all the other triathletes, were drenched from head to toe. I was shivering uncontrollably. Something very foreboding and negative clicked in my brain and I stopped singing my theme song (Beautiful Day) and started HATING being out on the course. Feeling very nauseous didn't help my general morale, either. At mile 40, I began contemplating ways I could legitimately quit the race and still save face. I even wrote an entire blog in my head entitled "The Merits of Quitting." I imagined the sympathy of my readers and decided that quitting was actually the most honorable option. I mean, just WHAT was I trying to prove, anyway?

At mile 45, I desperately had to use the restroom. My hydration skills had worked all too well and I needed to drop what felt like 5 pounds of consumed fluid ASAP. My legs were so frozen, that I couldn't get my right bike cleat out of the pedal and just sort of tumbled over into a volunteer (This explains the bruise I have on my leg today). I used the bathroom but could not, due to frozen fingers and arms, zip up my tri-suit. Many thanks to the volunteer who helped me with that. I was in such a bad psychological state, that I left my bike glasses which were shielding my eyes from the rain, in the rancid Port-a-John. But, in this moment of desperation, when I was ready to cash in my chips and hitch a ride home, my good friend Sheri, appeared out of nowhere. She had also been hypothermic and had needed to spend some time warming up in a volunteer's car in order to continue. I have no idea how she got out of that warm, warm car. If I had felt any comfort, I would have seized the opportunity to be transported immediately to the nearest jacuzzi.

But she showed up, at precisely the right moment.

When I saw her, as I attempted to get back on my bike, I was suddenly more worried about her than I was about me.

And then I started crying. Shocking, I know.

Sheri and rode along together for a while until the bike finish.

At mile 55, I realized that I still had to run 13.1 miles. If anyone had told me that it was OK to stop, that I had already proven myself, that I didn't need to cross over the noble, white arched finish line, I would have instantly dropped out of the race.

Instead, a 15 year old boy offered to help me get my running gear on.

My parents and sister stood across the road telling me I could do it, screaming that I was strong. Ironically, at that moment, I felt weaker than I ever had. I had two huge blisters on my toes and could not imagine dragging myself out of the transition area. They screamed and cheered and I broke into a sob. I had a serious case of Bad Mind and I shouted back at them, "I don't think this is going to happen, people!" I put my running shoes on and, freezing, forced my body out on to the run course. My family broke into a jog and ran with me as long as they could.

The first 4 miles were pure hell. I silently swore to myself that I would NEVER DO THIS AGAIN. My back ached, my legs were rebelling, and my mind had been all but defeated by toxic thoughts. It reminded me of the transition phase of childbirth. As spectators and volunteers shouted, "You look great!" "Nice job!" "You can do it!", I wanted to strangle them. I thought, I. Cannot. Freaking. Do. This. You have no idea what you're talking about.

Then, I drank some good old fashioned Coca-Cola at several aid stations along the way. The caffeine kicked in and "Beautiful Day" started playing in my mind once again. I finished the last half of the run feeling confident. At mile 10, I picked up the pace and realized I was going to finish. Again, I started crying, this time out of joy.

My friends and family cheered me to the finish line and I crossed it, after a very long 70.3 miles.

After finishing, I learned that Lori actually performed her round off (stay tuned for the photographic evidence) after finishing 6th in her age group (now I owe her $100), that Liz finished fast in spite of severe abdominal pain, and that Sheri conquered the run course even after severe hypothermia.

Without a doubt, completing this race was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I'm in no hurry to sign up for another one. Like childbirth, I need a little space from the experience before deciding on number 2. But, I got my photo op. I passed through the great white arch.

And, I am grateful. In the end, it really was a Beautiful Day.

Thank you all for your prayers and well wishes! I am humbled by how many people tracked us and cheered us on. Thanks to our families who sacrificed so we could train. Thanks to the local bike shops, Woodinville Bicycle and Sammamish Valley Cycle, who answered all of my silly questions.

I'm going to put my feet up now. They are a little sore. :)

Race morning!

Setting up our bikes at the T1 the day before!

My awesome family!

Twas the Night Before IronMan.....

So, I'm sitting here in my hotel room with Lori, Liz and Sheri, as we pack and prepare to cover 70.3 miles tomorrow in our Half Iron Person Race (still not wanting to call it Iron Man, I think Iron Person or Iron Athlete is a more inclusive name:) ) According to the official Boise Half Iron-Man Training Guide, on the last leg of the race, "No form of locomotion other than running, walking, or crawling is allowed."

Good to know. I was thinking about doing a forward roll over the finish line. Lori will probably do a round-off.

It's been a crazy day of driving the course, registering, signing medical waivers, dropping bikes off, organizing transition bags, and swimming in the semi-frigid Lucky Peak Reservoir. We're as ready as we will ever be.

I love these women. I have loved training. And tomorrow brings what it may. My theme song for tomorrow is U2's, "Beautiful Day." I will be singing it for approximately 7 hours. Good thing I know all the lyrics.

At 5:30pm today, my parents and sister showed up here in Boise to surprise me. They drove all the way from SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. I am absolutely floored and humbled and grateful. They even stayed in a dive, Bates-Motelish place in the middle of Oregon last night. It was called the "Say When Casino and Motel." If that's not love, I don't know what is.

You can track us all tomorrow at:

the Boise Iron Man Site

I'm # 1029. Sheri is #97, Liz is 0126, and Lori is 68. The race starts at 2pm Mountain Time, 1pm Pacific Standard Time. Sheri, Lori and Liz are in the same wave, beginning at 2:10. My wave starts at 2:45.

Good night, hope you have a Beautiful Day tomorrow!

Agenda Interrupted

At the central train station in Antwerp, Belgium, regular citizens, going about the banal duty of getting to and from work, embarking on the unknown saga of adventure, or simply going grocery shopping, were surprised with a musical performance in the middle of their busy day.

Their schedules were stopped, their lives momentarily halted. All agendas were interrupted.

Watch this, and tell me you don't wish you could have been there.

I totally have a soft spot for Julie Andrews. Just saying.

Humility

I pulled up this photo of Sheri, Lori, and I tonight. This is a pic from before a swim in the 55 degree lake a few weeks ago. Absent from the photo is Liz...she's taking the photo.

I showed my daughter, Alex, the photo. Here's what she had to say.

"Mom, you look like a geek. You all have really weird swim caps on. Your eyes are all wrinkly and weird looking. And, why do you match Lori? Are you trying to be twins or something?"

Here's what she didn't say, "Wow, mom, I can 't believe you braved the frigid temperatures in the name of conquering a goal." or "Sheesh, mom, good job not wearing ANY makeup in this photo. You look so young." or "You guys are totally strong and kick butt."

I believe the good Lord gave me children for the express purpose of keeping me very, very humble.