Poor Sportsmanship: The Elizabeth Lambert Story

Until this week, no one in the media knew who Elizabeth Lambert was. Women's college soccer rarely makes the front page of the sports section in the United States. However, through a series of brutal fouls committed by Lambert in a televised match, she is now extraordinarily famous. Elizabeth Lambert is now a household name. Her conduct gives the term "sore loser" a whole new meaning. She was suspended for her conduct, which you can view below.

I grew up playing soccer and now coach my ten year old daughter's soccer team. Good sportsmanship is a HUGE priority for me. I try to lead by example and make my expectations of positive conduct known at the beginning of each season. And, my girls are great. I mean, really great. My parents are great, too.

A few weeks ago we played a team that did not demonstrate good sportsmanship. Playing this team was like playing a bunch of biker chicks with serious criminal records. They consistently fouled my girls and even drew blood from two of them. That day, we had a parent referee, so most of the dirty offenses went uncalled and unpunished. And, don't get me started on the cheating. Or the other coach's do-whatever-it-takes-to-win attitude. She was like the evil sensei from Karate Kid.

The worst part was, they won the game.

After all of it, the blood, the elbows, the high kicks, the uncalled offsides, my girls marched right up to them and shook their hands. They were frustrated and felt bullied, but they shook their hands. I was tempted to stay on the sidelines, hands firmly in my pockets. But, I too shook their hands and managed to get the words, "good game," out of my clenched teeth.

I was feeling pretty ticked off about the game. Apparently, I kept talking about it all night. As Mike and I were walking into a party later that evening, he said,

"Babe, promise me you are not going to tell every single person at the party about the game."
"OK, sorry. I promise."

I only told 3 people. OK, maybe 4 but, it helped me feel better.

The video below makes me wish our game had been televised.




It goes without saying that this behavior is inexcusable.
I have a few questions, though.

Why was she permitted to stay in the game? It appears she received one yellow card for kicking another player in the head. The other offenses went unpunished. Why did the referees allow her to keep playing? More importantly, WHY DID HER COACHES keep her in the game? Lambert is culpable here, but so are her coaches for allowing her to finish the game. If one of my players demonstrated behavior like that, they would be off the field immediately....

OK, rant over. I'll post something happier tomorrow. :)

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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Stress Dreams

Sometimes, when a big, meaningful event is on the horizon, I internalize all the stress and anxiety about it. I go about my business, crossing all the regular t's and dotting all the normal i's. I may slam the door a little harder, communicate in a slightly sharper tone to the husband, or re-organize a closet but, I basically stuff the stress down.

That means, as soon as I am deep in REM sleep, my mind has a field day with all the stress hormones I've been ignoring. Last night, I had a full blown stress dream about my upcoming race. It started with me losing my bike shoes. I ended up finding only one of them. I had a cramp during the swim and realized when I took my wet suit off that I had forgotten to wear anything underneath. I vomited, ran out of water, and got a flat tire. Then, somehow, there were people dressed up as various mascots (a chicken, a bear, and a Seahawk) cheering for me as I, crawling, dragged my body across the finish line.

I'm hoping the race goes just a little differently next week.

In the hope of repressing any more triathlon stress dreams, I'm telling you now. I'M NERVOUS. I'M ANXIOUS. I'M a little AFRAID. Ahhhh.... I can feel the stress hormones neutralizing.... It also helped that I bought a new pair of bike shoes today. You know, just in case I lose one of the other ones.

T minus 10 days until the big 70.3.

Gulp.

Road Rash

Yesterday, while riding my bike, I crashed.

Hard.

At mile 47 of my 50 mile ride, my front tire caught some kind of weird edge and I found myself skidding uncontrollably across the sidewalk to my right. When I stopped skidding, I stood up, noticed the missing sections of skin on my right side and tried to ascertain the gravity of my injuries. My personal triage checklist had two categories. Messed up and SERIOUSLY messed up.

I could stand. Apparently not SERIOUSLY messed up.

Blood was present. Enough pain for me to howl out loud and curse. Maybe SERIOUSLY messed up.

Repetitive calling out to Jesus to save me. DEFINITELY SERIOUS.

I could locate cell phone and call husband. NOT Serious.

Ability to think about changing a flat tire still intact. NOT Serious.

Hands visibly shaking, tears present. Definitely SERIOUS.

More blood discovered upon lifting up bike shorts. SERIOUS.

Helmet not cracked. Still breathing. NOT Serious.

I survived the crash and my wonderful husband rescued a bloody and really pissed off me, on the sidewalk of Avondale road, 3 miles from home. I was angry because I had had an extraordinarily good ride. I felt good, I rode fast (for me) and kind of wanted to brag about it. But, I was in too much pain to gloat about anything.

In the crash, I broke 2 spokes on my front wheel and punctured the rear wheel. I attempted to fix the rear wheel on my own but was in so much pain that I couldn't figure out how to use the CO2 cartridges to inflate the tire. So, after Wonderful Husband picked me up and I then picked the kids up from school, I brought the bike to the angelic folks at Woodinville Bicycle and they fixed the bike in 30 minutes flat.

While they were working to get me back on the road ASAP, we exchanged crash stories. I think they recognized the "holy-crap-I-just-ate-it" look in my eyes and busted their butts to help me so I would stop showing them my road rash.

Apparently, in the cycling world, it's not a question of IF you will crash. It is, rather, a question of WHEN. One guy at the bike shop crashed and had a punctured lung. 3 Days in the hospital. One went through a windshield. I felt relieved that my injuries were basically skin deep. And that when I crashed, I did so away from traffic. I'd rather pick gravel out of my knees than glass.

And I was thinking the entire time, WHY DID NO ONE WARN ME?

When I signed up for this whole triathlon thing, I didn't pay much attention to the risk, to the cost. I, instead, envisioned the glory of crossing the finish line. My vision also entailed a crown on my head and a vast expanse of adoring fans weeping and chanting my name.

Road rash wasn't a part of the deal.

So, tonight, I'm heading to bed with a very real reminder of pain. Not quite sure what to make of it. No real lesson, yet. I'm still in process. I'm still planning on finishing the race. I'm still planning on working out tomorrow.

But, it really, REALLY hurts, people!

Slacker

I am, admittedly, a blogging slacker.

I have not blogged in two weeks. Nor have I Twittered or Facebooked. I've been busy. But, not necessarily busier than usual. Just maybe a teensy bit busier than usual. First, I didn't blog for 2 days. Then it grew to four. Then, it grew to 10. Pretty soon I found myself avoiding the computer altogether because I felt so damn guilty. Next, rationalizations surfaced to refute the guilt stemming from said non-blogginess. "It's not like this is your job," I reassured myself. "I mean, the $.03 you make a day, (AKA three copper coins that can't even purchase a latte) on your ads are not really worth it, are they?" Then, of course, I began to debate the virtue of blogging for free.

"It's not about the money. Clearly," I told myself.

While I relish the $30.00 check I get every few months for running ads on the old blog, it's not exactly income that's putting food on the table. So, I continued to rationalize, "Why keep writing FOR FREE?"

The inevitable conclusion is that I just like to. And, during my two week hiatus from blogging, I've missed it.

So, let me catch you all up on what's been happening for the last two weeks during my self-imposed blogging break.

1) I'm still training for the Iron Person Triathlon. T-minus 3 weeks until race day.

2) I got SUPER lost on a 45 mile bike ride and ended up having to call my husband for rescue in the middle of the inner city at twilight. My salvation was a Vietnamese-Hawaiian surf restaurant in the middle of Seattle. Long story. Basically involves me being not so directionally gifted. Too shameful to blog about in a separate post.

3) Mike and I have completed our Foster Parent Training classes. We're in the process of completing the whole application and home study. Hopefully by mid-fall, we'll have a new kiddo or two.

4) We've had glorious weather in Seattle until tonight. 70 degrees, people. 70. Freaking. Degrees. Tonight, however, it's raining. Said glorious weather contributed to my blogging absence. I'm supposed to ride 50 miles tomorrow. IN THE RAIN.

5) We've survived yet another construction project in our house. All in preparation for the the new kid or kiddos we hope to adopt.

6) I lost approximately 1 pound.

5) My kids are awesome.

OK, I'm back.

I promise to write again tomorrow.

A Series of Unfortunate Events....

Today was a gorgeous day in Seattle. There were no sun breaks because there were no clouds. The sun was high in the sky, raining down vitamin D and happiness, trying to cure all Seattleites suffering from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) in one apologetic, shiny day.

Sheri and I headed out for a brick workout today. We would have done it even if it was cold and soggy, because the Training Schedule rules our world. The Training Schedule called for a 1 hr and 45 minute ride immediately followed by a 45 minute run. They call it a brick because when you get off the bike, your legs feel like a million tons of heavy red bricks. OK, maybe not a million. But, it's hard to run after you get off the bike. Really, really hard. However, one must obey the all powerful Training Schedule at all costs, so you suck it up, put one foot in front of the other and try to practice the face you'll make when you cross the finish line.

Birds were singing, drivers were smiling, and even though my legs already felt like bricks when the ride started, I was optimistic. I had sunshine, a PB&J sandwich, Gatorade, and a view of Mt. Rainier. Miles 1-7 passed without incident.

Then, I ran over a staple. A. Tiny. Little. Staple. In the middle of a bike trail.

Air violently hissed out of my back tire and I suddenly had my first flat of the season. I have no clue how to fix a flat. None whatsoever. I instantly began wondering which friend I was going to call to come pick me up. I yelled up to Sheri and, totally unfazed, she whipped out her flat repair kit and got to work. Having no idea how to help, I could only offer little spurts of encouragement. "Good job, Sheri!" "Wow, I'm impressed!" "Um...... let me know if you need anything..."

A fellow cyclist, by the name of Jason, towing his 1 1/2 yr old son named Luke in a bike trailer, stopped to see if we needed help. We accepted his gracious offer and Jason and Sheri got to work fixing the flat. Not knowing what to do, and feeling very useless, I proceeded to play with the baby. When in doubt, flirt with babies. It's a motto I live by.

Sheri and Jason almost successfully installed a new tube in the tire. As they were finishing up, Sheri discovered a hole in the new tube. I will not repeat what she said and what I thought simultaneously. Sometimes there are no other words.

Back to square one.

Jason attempted to patch the first tube with the staple punctures and was really, ever so very nearly successful. He patched it, they got the tube in the tire, and we started pumping it up. A soft hissing sound came from the tire and we realized THERE WAS ANOTHER HOLE. By this point, Good Samaritan Jason and his adorable son, Luke, needed to get going. We thanked them for their help, gave Luke a few raspberries on his tummy, and proceeded to install a THIRD tube in the tire.

And, by we, I mean Sheri.

But, Ladies and Gentleman, SHE DID IT. Sheri was a rock star. A Super Hero. She saved my day. She was a TOTAL STUD. My thanks also go out to her husband, Jack, for teaching her to fix a flat.

We proceeded with our ride. Delayed but not deterred, we tackled the ride with renewed enthusiasm.

Until, a small bee decided to dive into my shirt. And sting me. Twice. I screamed and furiously shook the little bastard out of my jersey. No problem, it only half stung each time, so finishing the ride was no problem. It still hurt like the dickens, though.

Tonight, I'm laughing about these experiences, adding them to the "survival stories" archive that every athlete keeps in their brain and brags about to other athletes.

Today, Sheri teased me that by blog time, I'd have come up with some lesson I'd learned from the flat and the sting. And, she was right. So, here goes.

Obstacles happen. Prepare the best you can (I'm going to learn to change a flat ASAP) and then roll with the punches.

You never know when a staple or bee will derail your plans.

Breathe deeply and survive.

Life is unpredictable.

And, it's OK.

(PS, I was also very humbled and impressed with how many fellow cyclists offered to stop and help us....I felt cared for by strangers today)

THANK YOU, JASON!

She-Ra, Princess of Power

There are some mothers I know who love to clean. They love the smell of cleaning products and, like the commercials for said products, actually dance around the house while dusting. They maintain a pristine house with floors you could safely lick. Toys are put away immediately after they're played with and sanitized frequently. The laundry, pre-sorted by color, is rarely backed up. Many of these mothers also garden in their spare time and could win awards for their beautiful roses. Photographs of family bliss are routinely scrapbooked and even the birds in their backyards are fed and cared for. In fact, when they head outside to their backyards, forest animals flock to them to hear them sing for hours, in perfect falsetto.

These mothers (who really don't exist...this list is a June Cleaver meets Snow White model) also DO NOTHING ELSE. How could they?

I, however, do lots of other things. So many things, that I am at least 6 months behind on household projects. As a card carrying member of the Real World, I am not what one would call "caught up."

Lately, I have been doing laundry only when we're all out of underwear.

Truth is, I am not genetically wired to love the mechanics of managing a household. In order to be motivated to clean and organize extensively, I have to feel a little pissed off. The mess and disorganization have to get under my skin enough for me to have finally HAD ENOUGH. Then, I rise up like She-Ra, Princess of Power (younger readers - this was an 80's cartoon of a girl who kicked some serious evil butt) in an imagined battle for justice and redemption, to face the devastation. A few times a year I break down and combat the forces of evil in a week long effort to beat back the chaos.

I don't know why, but this is my week.

I have spent the past two days cleaning out the crap lurking within the deep bowels of my garage and my kids' rooms. Let me just say that I hate small toys. I hate toys with small plastic parts. I hate any toy that comes from a fast food restaurant. Also, I'm not a fan of petrified oranges. Or petrified peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

I know, I know. Disgusting. Let's just say I should check the bottom of the toy box and underneath the beds more often.

But, I will rest tonight with great satisfaction and peace. I've pressed the reset button in my house and we're starting from scratch. Well, almost. Tomorrow I tackle the game closet, the front hall closet, the pantry, and the storage shed.

Wish me luck.

The Quintessential Documentary

My son, Caleb, has figured out how to use the video camera.

Tonight he decided to document the habits of our shelter mutt, Scout. You see, Scout enjoys an occasional cocktail from the latrine. And, by occasional, I mean multiple times daily. I flavor my water with Crystal Lite, lemon, lime, or Zip Fizz but, Scout prefers the taste of lingering feces and/or urine.

This video could be considered entrapment. Poor Scout. Caleb locked him in the bathroom in order to memorialize his toilet drinking habits.

I was on Facebook at the time.

Enjoy.

Zoom

We recently bought a new digital camera. Our old one was beginning to throw large fits, turning itself on and off at will, and refusing to comply with simple requests such as "upload to computer" and "focus." I briefly mourned the loss of the old camera, remembering all the memories it had captured. Then, with a shout of glee, began playing with my new toy, which I bought on sale at Target. My favorite part of the new camera is the zoom function. With the press of a button, it can hone in on details and capture perspectives that the naked eye cannot.

I have taken score of photos of leaves, raindrops, and my children's faces, just to test the limits of the most hallowed zoom. The excitement about the zoom function was starting to wear off until I started writing out my work outs for the week.

At the beginning of each week, I consult the official triathlon training guide and painstakingly map out a schedule of the daily torture that awaits me. I have officially left the "base" phase of training and entered the psychotic, seemingly impossible "build" phase. As I was scribbling furiously, translating training codes and lactate interval sets into real language, I began uttering words like. "Crap," "Seriously?" and "What. Have. I. Done."

In spite of my outbursts, I knew that there was no turning back. I've blogged about it and I've paid the entry fee for the race. Hundreds of people would know if I quit, and there is a no refund policy. I felt a wee bit trapped, totally unsure of how I was going to make it through the volume and intensity of the training.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my new, beautiful, holy digital camera. I suddenly realized I was looking at the week in it's entirety instead of focusing on one day at a time. I changed my perspective and honed in on the first running workout. Could I do it? Absolutely. I looked at the first swim workout. Yep, doable.

In all my workouts this week, I've applied the zoom perspective. Each day is about it's own training. Each interval set stands alone. Each sprint is it's own thing. I don't think about the 2500 yards I have to swim, I think about the 25 in front of me. I swim it down that way, one lap at a time. At the end of the week, my internal camera will pan back out and analyze the sum total of all the days.

I'm applying the zoom perspective to other areas of my life as well. A moment with my kids, a specific project, the dinner that needs to be made. In my mind's eye, I view the task through the lens of a camera and zoom in. My perspective changes, focus comes, and I'm fully alive in the moment. A panoramic view of all that needs to be accomplished is overwhelming and often, paralyzing. I know many people struggling through divorce, unemployment, illness. The enormity of the situation is too weighty, too suffocating to manage.

But, we can all live one moment at a time.

Jesus himself tells us in Matthew 6,

"So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

Curse Words and Kids

Tonight, over leftovers, my kids had some serious questions. For the record, the questions weren't about the leftovers. Caleb wanted to know just what the "f word" was and Alex decided to help her brother in his quest for the truth. They can form an unbeatable team in a matter of moments when they are united behind a common cause such as deciphering what a cuss word really means. It's Sunday night, so Mike was at church. I was left alone to answer these hard core facts of life questions.

They wanted to know what made a word "bad." I laughed inside at the question because the only answer I could immediately come up with was that "society has deemed this word inappropriate." I'm not entirely sure I understand the term "society," so I came up with another fumbling response. After articulating that some words are just meant to hurt people in a very mean way, I stopped myself dead in my own tracks. Honestly, I don't know the origin of curse words. I don't know why certain letters have been assembled to form offensive expressions of crudeness.

So, instead of concentrating on what the bad words were and just how they were spelled, I talked to my kids about kindness. Their focus was diverted when I talked about the motivation behind using offensive language. The motivation being causing pain, causing hurt. They understood that immediately and vowed to try and use words to uplift and encourage.

But, at bedtime, the little rascals still wanted me to review a litany of bad words in English and Spanish, just they could "be prepared."

I didn't introduce them to any new terms of profanity. But, I did laugh really, really hard when they asked.

A Trip Down Memory Media Lane

I don't know about you but, I loved 80's TV shows. I loved FlashDance, Footloose, and After School Specials. Before the days of DVR, Tivo, HBO, DVD's and the internet, I had to meticulously plot out the days and times of "my shows," so I wouldn't miss them.

Here are a few samples of my favorites from the 80's. What were your favorites?

SMALL WONDER


PUNKY BREWSTER


SILVER SPOONS

Grace and Guilt

I think I may have a genetic memory disorder. I am forever forgetting important things. Dentist appointments, eye doctor visits, lunch with a friend. I am always over scheduling things. I frequently end up having to cancel or postpone things at the last minute when I realize I’m double or triple booked.

This morning, I woke up late, well after I was supposed to meet my triathlon training partners at the pool. I had accidentally set the alarm for 5pm instead of 5am. I know how to set my cell phone alarm clock, so there’s really no excuse. When I returned home to send the kids off to school, I ended up giving Caleb the wrong sandwich in his lunch. He let me know this troubling news the very moment I collected him from the bus stop. Then, to really seal the deal (“deal” meaning the sinking notion that I may need to begin taking “silver” vitamins to prevent the onset of dementia), I completely forgot to show up to baby sit for one of my best friends so she and her husband could go to a very important doctor’s appointment together. You see, there was this PTA meeting…..

The worse part of my forgetfulness is first, how my disorganization makes people I care for feel insignificant, and second, how incredibly guilty I feel after forgetting.

I’ve tried lots of systems to help me organize my many appointments. And, 75% of the time, they work. They help jar my consciousness into remembering what the heck I have on the lineup for the week. 25% of the time, though, I forget to check the stupid calendar or log the events into the calendar in the first place.

In these moments of weakness, where I have no choice but to throw up my hands and admit that I’m human and thereby prone to error, I’m brought to my knees. I’m reminded that God’s love for me isn’t based on my performance and that He isn’t giving me a grade. His grace covers my deficiencies. Sometimes, though, it’s really hard to convince myself to accept that grace, to actually forgive myself.

Tonight, I’m intentionally choosing (rather, trying to choose) to lean into God’s perfect love and forgiveness. Guilt accomplishes nothing. It yields no benefit that I’m aware of.

While I’m renouncing guilt, I do have a few questions.

I am not usually one to ask for help, another genetic character flaw, but I’d love to know two things from you.

1) How do you remember the details?
2)How do you recover when you forget?

70.3

I am certifiably insane.

I have committed to participating in a triathlon race in June that covers 70.3 miles.

In. One. Day.

This phenomenon is called a Half Ironman. Personally, I think they should call it an IronPERSON, you know to be more gender inclusive. But, I don't make the rules.

I have succumbed to peer pressure because apparently suffering through 7-8 consecutive hours of torture in the form of physical exercise is the cool thing to do around here. And, I really, really want to be cool.

My running/ swimming/ cycling posse (Sheri, Lori, Liz), committed to this race months ago. I've been dragging my feet, totally unsure if I could stomach the sheer commitment to the thing. I instead decided on a shorter race. I doubted my ability to rise at the crack of dawn to fit the training in and I just couldn't imagine sitting on a bike for longer than 2 hours. The thought of the pelvic bruising alone stopped me dead in my tracks.

But, as daunting as the goal seemed at first, I began to slowly warm up to the idea. I started training for it in a haphazard fashion. An extra swim here, a longer bike ride there. And before I knew it, I started to actually believe I could do it. I have even gotten out of bed in the 5 o'clock hour to train a few times. Shocking, I know. (I must give credit to my husband for hurling my butt out of bed one morning last week. I asked him to the night before and even when I moaned, "I hate you," he fulfilled his promise).

The thing is, races aren't raced without an accumulation of single days of training. You don't begin with a 7 hour workout, you slowly add 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes. Books aren't written in a day. They are born one painstakingly written sentence at a time. In fact, if you don't go slowly, you end up injured, sidelined, frustrated or incoherent. I'm beginning to wonder what's more important, the process or the product. So, for now, I'm focusing on the workout that needs to be done today. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

Does anyone have a wet suit I can borrow?

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Why this blog is called Sun Breaks....

We moved to Seattle in the summer.

We were prepared to trade the sunny surf of Southern California for the majesty of real mountains, tall trees, and the famously wet weather. Mike and I and our two small kids willingly left family, friends, ministry, and predictability to build a brand new culturally relevant church community in an area that equated spirituality with recycling.

When we pulled into the driveway of our new home, the skies of the Puget Sound were sunny, radiant and a more pristine blue than I had ever seen. For the first month, Mt. Rainier could be seen in all its glory nearly ever day.

I packed away the 47 umbrellas people had given us when me moved and wondered why Seattle had ever been referred to as “the rainy city.” Months later, the umbrellas were still in the closet as Seattle experienced a freakish winter drought.

Finally, Seattle weather returned from its cloudless prodigal journey and got its act together. The heavens opened up and the rains came. They came with unwavering perseverance and austere determination. I started reading the weather report every day. I became obsessed with weather terminology. I read somewhere that Eskimos had hundreds of different words for snow. The Seattle weatherman had about that to describe rain, clouds and gray. Rain, rain changing to showers, heavy rain, light rain, windy rain, drizzle, fine rain, freezing rain.


One day, while indulging my obsessive weather report checking, I came upon my favorite Seattle weather phrase, "sun breaks." When the sun peaks through the gray atmospheric blanket that covers the Puget Sound, Seattleites stop and notice. Eyes turn upward and life pauses. Fingers at Microsoft stop tapping keyboards, ferryboat passengers venture out on to the deck, drivers slow down, and even the tall evergreens seem to extend their branches toward the sun.

In the proverbial gray that occasionally blankets my life, there are distinct sun breaks, glimpses of hope and redemption that remind me of the Source of light and life, that give me pause to stop and notice.

So, welcome to my blog. It’s called Sun Breaks.

I hope you like it.

Hungry

Since I officially began triathlon training, I have been hungrier than I ever remember being when I was pregnant. Which is saying something because I gained 55 pounds with my 1st pregnancy and 48 with my second. I wish I could claim with any integrity that it was mere water weight. Truth is, it was girl scout cookie weight and scrambled eggs with cheese and avocado weight.

Obviously, I need to honor my body's new demands for nutrition and fuel. However, I'm not so sure that ingesting half a loaf of garlic bread or a bag of sour cream and onion chips after a long run is helping my body in any way whatsoever. Not so sure ice cream or massive amounts of Costco trail mix fit the bill either. I should be eating salmon, edamame and non fat yogurt. Chicken breast, black beans, brown rice. Things with fiber and vitamin C and potassium.

Instead, I grab whatever I see that's easy and eat it on the fly. Today, I actually stuffed trail mix in my pockets and ate it ravenously as I sped to pick up the kids from school. I spend time cooking the right meals for my family, packing healthy school lunches, and restricting the junk food intake of my kids. But, lately, in terms of nutrition, I'm skipping right over caring for myself. My needs, because I'm a mom and am always so busy taking care of everyone around me, get put on the shelf. Then, I hit a wall in a training session, or feel totally depleted of energy in our family time at night because one just cannot expect results when eating whole bags of sour cream and onion chips.

I'm ready to feed myself, to really nourish myself. The extra 10 minutes it takes to really eat something worthwhile are worth it. And, I'm important enough to spend those 10 minutes on. Chances are, I'll be a better mom, wife and friend for counting my needs worthwhile enough to be met. Maybe the laundry can wait another 10 minutes. Maybe the dishes don't need to be done right away. Maybe, just maybe, it's OK to occasionally rest.

Am I alone here, people? Do you ever find it hard to care for yourself? I'd love your feedback.......

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Obesity Epidemic

I took my dog, Scout, our beloved half German German Shepherd, half Rotweiler, half Who Knows mutt, to the veterinarian today. During the night, while his family was dreaming, he managed to chew his tail into a red, bloody stump. And, it was really, really stinky. So, I forfeited a run with the girls to rush my little buddy to the vet, whose doors should be covered in dollar signs, for emergency intervention. One of the truest things I know is that you cannot leave the vet's office without forking over at least a hundred bucks.

The corpulent doggie nurse checked us in, checked him for fleas, weighed him and generally talked my ears off. Both of them. There was not a pause in her speech, no space for me to respond or even nod. Standing there mute, I began counting the minutes until the real vet joined us for the examination. I struggled to find my voice as she started asking questions, expecting a response.

Doggie Nurse: "So, what are you feeding him?"

Me: "Dog food. From Costco."

Doggie Nurse : "He's getting too chubby. You need to put him on a diet. Few people are aware of the obesity epidemic in dogs."

Me: " Really? This dog runs 20-25 miles a week with my husband and I. Are you sure?"

Doggie Nurse: "Oh, I'm sure. Look at how he waddles. He needs to loose at least 6 pounds."

She launched into a fifteen minute educational lecture on reading every ingredient in the dog food I purchase. This time I started to lose my hearing. I think the sudden deafness was a primal defense mechanism that my subconscious produced to protect me.

The vet finally came in, prescribed a whole slew of medicines to restore the tail to it's former glory, and I left after parting sorely with my $184.00.

As I drove home, I thought, "I have a fat dog."

It dawned on me that only in America are dogs obese. The crumbs from our table are enough to fatten up even the animals in our midst. I couldn't help remembering the children of Cato Manor township in South Africa that eat less than my dog every day.

It's been a rough day of trying to process what I can do to immediately change that.

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Speed Walker

I am a fast walker. When I putter through the house, I'm always on a mission of some kind. I'm not programmed to aimlessly wander. Cars that drive too slowly or are obviously lost drive me nuts. Meetings that drag on without producing a specific to do list are the bane of my existence.

I am not what one would call a "patient person." Because of this tendency to speed walk my way through life, I tend to miss the scenery. My husband and daughter, however, are all about the scenery. Mike is forever pointing out various wildlife while we're driving, "Look, guys, an eagle!" or "Check out that full moon!" We're not house hunting or looking to move but Mike always wants to drive in a desultory fashion through neighborhoods to see what houses are for sale. When we traveled through Italy together, I relied on the map, and Mike preferred wandering the streets.

My daughter, Alex, frequently loses focus. If we're rushing to get to school on time, she'll pause in the driveway to gaze at the rainbow produced by an oil spill in the driveway. She takes forever to eat her meals in spite of my constant reminders to "take another bite" because she's so engrossed by the conversation or by the comic genius of her brother.

I'm always insisting that we go, that we hurry, that we speed up. The problem is, I'm missing out on the moments, on the small things that make life living in the first place. Mike and Alex remind me to slow down, to pause, to take in the scenery.

So, I'm working on being still. Being still is officially on my task list for this week.

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Mean People Suck

I was driving down the freeway today, flitting in and out of traffic, trying to get my daughter to her Taekwondo tournament on time, when a large, black SUV suddenly zipped in front of me, nearly clipping my front bumper. Thankfully, I employed my cat-like reflexes, braking fast and maneuvering the steering wheel to avoid a collision. I may have muttered something about wanting the completely idiotic driver to meet my daughter in a dark alley so Alex could pulverize them with her spinning heel kick. I'm just saying.

As my heart rate returned to normal, I noticed a square bumper sticker on the SUV's rear window that read simply, "Mean people suck." Ironic that the Mean People Suck mantra is being carried by a rude SUV that cuts off littler cars and thinks it owns the road. I'm just saying.

For the rest of the car trip, I worked on forgiving the driver, imagining that he or she was in a mad rush to the hospital or a funeral, or the airport, thus justifying said crazy driving. When forgiveness was achieved, I actually began to resonate with the sticker.

In our ministry life, Mike and I encounter lots and lots of great people. People who are committed to growing closer to God and allowing Him to shine his light in the dusty, dark corners of their hearts. People who really want to change. People who are committed to living out Jesus' call to Love God, Love People, and Serve the World. Ministry would be so, so easy if everyone we encountered was like this. If everyone had it together. If everyone was just nice to us and to each other.

Then, there are people who are so blinded by their own wounds and their own fear, that they attack. They attack anything that makes them uncomfortable, anything that presses their buttons. A decor style, a minor theological ideal, a song choice, a joke, a political stance. And, like alcohol on a wound, it stings us. 

As I began to agree with the bumper sticker, that mean people really really suck, and that all mean people should just go live on an island together, I was smacked in the face with the full force of this realization: Jesus came for the mean people. "No," I tried to argue, "The mean people are not worth it. I mean, God, do you know how mean ____is? Did you see what she did? Am I the only one paying attention, here?" 

As my self-righteous soliloquy continued, I was again smacked in the face with another realization: I am mean. 

And, Jesus came for me.

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Inauguration Day at my House

The other day, while shopping at PCC, our neighborhood health food hippie overpriced grocery store, I happened upon some organic Seattle cookies emblazoned with photos of the first family on them. I instantly thought of my kids and how much they would enjoy dessert coupled with a history lesson. Actually, I hoped that bribing them with dessert would be a good way to get them to watch the inauguration with me. So, I paid the ridiculous price and came home with our own private inauguration day celebratory food.

So, tonight, the kids and I sat down on the couch with our cookies and watched the historical inauguration ceremony that I recorded earlier in the day. Caleb immediately chose the Barrack cookie. Alex settled on the cookie with a little dog wearing a question mark (the Obama girls haven't decided on a pet yet), and I chose Michelle. Sasha and Malia are still on the kitchen counter waiting to be eaten tomorrow in the kids' packed lunches.

I was amazed by some of the insights of my children. When Aretha Franklin belted out "My Country Tis of Thee," Alex casually commented, "Well, she sounds good but, she's really hard to sing with." When Caleb caught a glimpse of the huge Bible Joe Biden was sworn in with, he proclaimed, "Wow, whoever made that Bible must really like God a lot."

When Barack stumbled over a few words in his oath, Alex looked at me and said, "I bet this is the most nervous he has ever been." When I cried during the poem at the end and told my kids how the White House was actually built using slave labor, Caleb said, "Well, mama, I don't think that will happen anymore."

I agree, Caleb. I agree.

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Clean

My runs have gone better this week. I'm not in nearly as much pain and I'm beginning to remember why I like running, why I started in the first place.

I am not a natural runner. I was not born with the gift. I do not look like a gazelle sprinting effortlessly across the African plains when I hit the trails. I am not like my friend, Andrew, who runs a 4:30 minute mile without trying very hard. I am not like my friend and former professional triathlete, Lori, who is like the Energizer Bunny on speed.

I'm just me. An average girl (I refuse to refer to myself as a woman - it's sounds like I'm talking about my mom. No offense, mom), who tries to defy genetics to do what I know is good for me. In truth, I love to run. Well, jog, actually. But, it's not easy for me. It's not natural. It's hard, hard work sometimes. I'm often the last one in the pack to make it up a big hill and my race times are hardly impressive.

So, for me, victory does not come in the form of breaking through the shiny finish line tape. For me, victory is that I get out there and pound the pavement anyway.

Yesterday, I ran 6 miles with my pack, my running girls. They totally kicked my butt on the hills, as usual. Even while we chatted, catching up on the details of each others's lives, I prayed. Time on the trail doubles as my time with the Creator, who gave me lungs and legs in the first place.

Afterward, when I was back in the car, heading home in my sweaty gear, I inhaled as deeply as my lungs would allow. Oxygen infused every single cell in my body and I felt startlingly alive, surprisingly clean. I looked at my normally bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror and they were crystal clear. Running helps me bring everything into focus. The unnecessary, ridiculous things fade away and the raw, true things fly to the surface.

Ah, I thought. This is why I run.

(By the way, this photo actually is of a trail I run on.... :) )

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