"From Dust You Have Come", OR "Sacrificing"

Anyone else look forward to Lent every year?

Anyone? Anyone? Beuler?

Lent really is one of my favorite times of the year. And I think it all goes back to one particular Lent, five years ago. Until that year, I hadn't given much though to it; Lent had always seemed like something Catholics practiced, and I was a proud Protestant. I understood the forty days before Easter were special, because it represented Jesus' return to Jerusalem before the crucifixion, but it hadn't ever occurred to me to "give up" anything for Lent, like I'd heard some people do.

But the previous year had been a difficult one. My marriage had ended, and I'd had to learn to adjust to life on my own over nine very painful, confusing months. I'd gone through up and down periods of growing closer to God and then sliding away. All and all, my life had been a hectic roller coaster, and I decided I'd had enough. I wanted to grow closer to God, and Lent was the perfect season to do it.

So I gave up sugar. Not just sweets or desserts, but all refined sugar. No coffee creamer. No sugar cereals. No sugar in my pasta sauce or bread (it was really difficult to find those). No sucrose, fructose, or dextrose. No sugar substitutes, either (bye bye, diet soda). I had to consciously re-arrange my eating habits, shopping habits, and going-out habits to reflect what I had fasted to God over this time.

And I loved it.

I was thrilled with the difficulty of discipline. The extra time in the supermarket and looking at a restaurant menu reminded me of all that God had brought me through in the last year, and how far I'd come by His grace since the previous May. My fasting sugar wasn't simply done to improve my health, or so I could say to people, 'No thanks, I'm fasting sugar for Lent'; every time I craved sugar, or had to watch what I bought, I was reminded of God's faithfulness in my life.

Ever since that year, when I truly felt the Holy Spirit moving in me during the season, I have loved Lent. Even more than Christmas.

Tonight is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, and I was excited. The Ash Wednesday service is one of my favorite services of the year. I always felt moved by the Holy Spirit during the service, the calling for us to be holy, as Christ was holy.

My evenings are much more eventful now than they were during that year-and-change I was living on my own. I live much further from my church, and Hillary and I have to wrangle three little girls together to make it on time. Having to leave so early and get home so late makes it difficult, too, as we've actually got to start our bedtime rituals before we leave for church, just so we can get the kids in bed at a reasonable hour when we get home.

Maybe it was the devil holding us back. Maybe it was just poor planning on our parts. Maybe it was a little of both. But, no matter the cause, Hillary and I found ourselves pulling out of the house at 6:45, for a church service that was half an hour away that started at 7:00. There was no way we were going to make it.

So we turned around before we left our subdivision and returned home. I didn't make it to my beloved Ash Wednesday service.

I was so bummed that, when we got home, I put in my headphones and listened to some Ash Wednesday sermons on YouTube while I fixed dinner for me and Hillary. And, like God so often does when I'm in the wrong, He took the time I was chopping sweet potatoes into fries to set me straight.

If there was ever a single meaning for Ash Wednesday, it has long been lost to antiquity. Today, Ash Wednesday has many meanings. One, to remind us that we have come from the dust, and to the dust we will one day return (Gen. 3:19).  Dust and ash, by definition, serves no purpose; it's waste material, only good for throwing out or cleaning up. How much like dust are we to God! God has no necessity of us. He would still be as holy and righteous, ruling over His world, had He never brought man into existence. But that itself is a testimony of God's love: even though we are worth nothing, of no value, God still loves us and makes plans for our lives and desires nothing but the best for us.

Ash Wednesday is also a reminder of the Old Testament tradition of mourning, where the mourner would put ash on their heads as a way to humiliate themselves before God. Humiliate, in this sense, coming from its original root word, 'humility': to take a posture of humility before God in mourning over our own sin that has separated us from Him. During the forty days of Lent, we are to mourn for our sin, understand that it had separated us from God, and spend the season in repentance while we strive to imitate Christ's holiness, because it's God's will that we be conformed into the likeness of His Son. (Romans 8:29).

Lent is a time to prepare our hearts for the upcoming death of our Savior, just as he spent his final forty days in Jerusalem preparing for his own death. It's a time of sacrifice. It's a time of repentance and mourning. And most of all, it's a time to struggle for holiness, a struggle that may have left our sights in the previous year.

And if God was calling me to sacrifice for Lent, maybe the first thing He was calling me to sacrifice was my beloved Ash Wednesday service for the sanity of my family. Because if the service itself had become more important to me than what the service represented - a time of sacrifice and holiness to honor God - then, like many other things I'd given up to God in the past, I needed to let it go.

Don't get me wrong: I don't think there's anything wrong with being bummed because I missed church. There are definitely worse things to be sad about! But, if time simply wasn't going to permit it this year, I needed to pull myself out of my funk and find where God could use me at home. So I pulled out my earbuds, finished making dinner for me and Hillary, and started Lent by helping get my kids ready for bed with my wife.

I may not have gotten the cross drawn on my forehead with ashes, but it was still a reminder just what the season of Lent is supposed to mean. It's a season of setting myself aside to listen to the Holy Spirit's calling of my life. It's intentional denial of something I normally love, to remove one of the many sources of white noise in my life that prevent me from hearing God's calling. And it's a reminder that I'm a sinful man, that I mess up and need a Savior to remind me of my need for repentance.

I'm going to giving up sweets this year, with two exceptions: a little creamer in my coffee every morning (but no more than one cup), and whatever sugar substitute that's in Shakeology (my breakfast every day). I'm also giving up swearing; even though I don't do it much, it far too often makes its way into my private conversations. And I'm giving up useless internet time, because that bad habit often destroys my evenings and keeps me from making the most of the time God's given me.

Sweets.
Swearing.
And scrolling.

Those are my sacrifices for Lent. It's my prayer that God will use these fasts to help me grow closer to Him, that every time each of these fasts affects my life I'm reminded that I'm nothing but a pile of useless dust, beloved by God for nothing that I could offer Him, and that it was my sin that nailed Jesus to the cross, where He went willingly for me.

Happy Lent, everyone.

"Bubble Bobble Bad Words", *OR* "Rationalizing"

Should we try to rationalize the Bible when it doesn't make sense?

I've been a Christian for over half my life, and completely read through the Bible twice, not to mention the dozens of times I've re-read select parts of scripture as part of devotions or study. I still, and I'm sure this will continue for the rest of my life, come across things I'd forgotten with every reading. That, or I'll read a passage with the eyes of experiences, a little more spiritually mature than the last time I studied them.

And still I encounter passages that don't make sense or seem contradictory.

The Bible is truth. I have to believe that. If there were parts of it I chose to follow and parts I didn't, then it stops being truth and starts being God's Wikipedia page, free to be edited and glossed-over by whomever at their leisure. When I start picking 'good' scripture and 'bad' scripture, I literally believe in nothing.

But what do I do when I come across passages that seem contrary to my view of God?

The Bible says that God is full of compassion and slow to anger (Psalm 103:8). But, early Friday morning, I read a passage in Numbers (the most underrated book in the Bible, in my opinion) that left me confused and disturbed.

"The Lord is slow to anger, abounding in love and forgiving sin and rebellion. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punished children for the sins of their father to the third and fourth generation." (Num. 14:18)

Context is important. The context of the passage is one of the most famous in the Old Testament. After their rebellion and complaining, God determines that the Israelites aren't worthy to enter the land of plenty He's created for them, because of their rebellion and impertinence.

But even with context, the verse left me shaken. Is THIS the same God whom Jesus came in the name of? How can God punish children for sins their fathers committed, three and four generations down the line? What sin could possibly be so bad that great-grandchildren, who never even met the sinner need to be punished? What did they do to deserve that? How is that a God who the same verse says, 'abounds in love and forgiveness'?

I circled the passage and kept reading. A few verses down, I discovered this next passage:

"As for your children, that you said will be taken as plunder, I will bring them in to enjoy the land you have rejected. But you - your bodies will fall in this desert." (Num. 14:31)

In the context of the passage, this verse makes more sense. Only the generation of people who've rebelled and turned their backs on God will be punished. Their children will be given a chance to have the land that God promised them. Whew! That certainly makes me feel better. God won't punish the generations for the sins of their fathers after all.

But wait... which one is it? Do I serve a cruel God who punished straight down generational lines? Clearly both can't be true. Does this make God a liar? Does this mean the Bible contradicts itself?

Surely there was some way I could rationalize this. Some how, I could come up with a world view in which both statements were true, that sometimes God punishes later generations and sometimes He doesn't.

Which brings me back to my leading question: should I even try rationalizing the Bible when it doesn't make sense?

I must remember that God isn't like me. When I try to imagine God thinks like me, and I try to put context of what God does by imaging what I would do in the same situation, I am disempowering God to an insane degree. It's akin to trying to understand why a motorcycle works because I have the basic knowledge of how to get a tricycle to go. I understand they both have wheels and move me around... but the comparisons stop there.

My mind and God's mind have even less in common that the tricycle and the motorcycle. In order to understand anything about scripture, I have to first understand that it was first breathed by One higher than I. Second, I have to accept that when God speaks, he says what he means, and when He speaks through others, they say what He means, too. There's no room for rationalization. But it's possible to understand scripture without rationalize it. If it wasn't, there would be no point for God to leave scripture for us.

Without going too deeply into the theology of sin: sin and rebellion from God make us grow apart from Him. God doesn't wait for us to somehow purify our lives of sin before He reaches out to us and wants to form a relationship with us. God is not amused by sin, but he is not surprised by it, either. He desires to form a relationship with us in spite of our sins, knowing we will sin all our lives but desiring to start a fire in us that continually encourages us to leave our sin behind, to be in a process and attitude of repentance. From this, God can show us His will for our lives and help us live in the abundance of His love despite our sin.

It is in trading the desire of repentance for the desire of sin where the true danger lies.

I'm a father of three girls, and they do and repeat everything I do. Including the bad stuff. Faith loves to play the NES classic edition with me, and her favorite game is Bubble Bobble. She likes being the blue and purple dinosaur, and she likes we both can play at the same time and continue as many times as we want when we die.

The numbers in the lower corners are the lives each player has. They go quicker than you'd think. 

Dying is nothing in this game. It can happen dozens of times in a single level. But last night, when my little green dinosaur dropped after getting touched by a bad guy, I let a bad word slip. 

It was quiet. I don't even think Faith heard. But Hillary was sitting in the room with us. And she heard, and gave me a look to let me know that she'd heard.

We don't curse around our children. It's not something I want to teach them them to do. But Hillary's look told me everything I needed to know about that situation. I had not only possibly taught my daughter a bad word, but, even worse, I'd taught her that it was completely appropriate to use it in a situation where things didn't go quite as you'd like.

Parenting is a big deal in my life. It should be, in the life of anyone who's really trying not to screw up their kids. It's a massive responsibility, as pointed out by God several times in the Bible (and demonstrated by God with his own Son). Provided she even heard it, I don't think one curse word is enough to turn Faith onto a path of destruction in her life. But it would be naïve of me to think that my words and actions aren't going to mold her future attitudes and behaviors.

What my children see in me now, for better or for worse, it going to affect what they do and say. And that, in turn, will mold their own children. And their children's children. If we as parents aren't careful, the sins of the father can literally become the sins of the children. And then my children really will be experiencing the fallout from my sins, to the third and fourth generation.

I'm not a believer in God's cosmic "slap-on-the-wrist", that He physically punishes our sin here on earth. If that were the case, wicked people would always get their comeuppance, like the bullies in an 80's teen movie. And we all know that's not the case, because bad people prosper all the time in this world. Real punishment from sin is what sin creates in our lives: separation from God. It fills our ears with spiritual cotton, preventing us from hearing God's voice. It covers our eyes with spiritual cataracts, blinding us to the beauty of God's creation and the splendor of what He's blessed us with. Worst of all, it creates distance between the only One we were ever truly meant to have relationship with. When we are separated from God by sin, we cannot live the life of the fullest that Jesus desires to bring us.

Those are the consequences our children may have to face because of our sins.

This post has gotten pretty heavy. They tend to, whenever I talk about parenting. But the beauty in this is that God doesn't expect us to go through the struggles of life and the pitfalls of parenting alone. Remember, even though the Israelites turned their backs on Him, God never abandoned them. Even though they had to wander in the desert because of their poor choices, He still provided for them.

No matter what trolls on the internet try to say, the Bible doesn't contradict itself. God has provided Truth for us because He is a God of order and not of chaos. The Bible does not need to be rationalized to be understood, but it does need to be studied, prayed over, discussed with spiritual friends, and experienced in real life to be understood. It takes a lifetime of careful, conscious effort.

Faith likes to play Bubble Bobble because we can continue as many times as we like if we lose all our lives. Much like the video game, God gives us as many chances as necessary for us to return to Him, as long as we continue to live in an attitude of repentance.

Just watch your language. And write down those passwords! 

"Is it Hateful to believe in Hell?"

I hate politics. I hate what it's done to our country, I hate what it's done to people I know, and I hate what it's done to my various social media outlets.

This blog post has NOTHING to do with the current administration: I believe it's possible to feel a certain way about the government, live my life contrary or in accordance with whatever is being said and done, and (GASP!) not blast Facebook with it.

This has to do with an article I read on NPR earlier today. It's titled, "Is It Hateful To Believe In Hell? Bernie Sanders' Questions Prompt Backlash".

You should read it yourself, instead of taking my word for what it says. In case you're busy or tired, here's the general idea: Bernie Sanders, Vermont Senator, questions whether Russell Vought (Trump's appointee for deputy director of the Office of Management and Budget)'s views of Christianity - specifically, on the eternal condemnation of non-Christians - qualifies as hateful or Islamophobic. It was the Senator's opinion that it does.

Bear in mind: this blog post is not about all the things mainstream Christianity does right or wrong.

I repeat: This. Is. Not. About. What. Mainstream. Christianity. Does. Right. Or. Wrong. This is about the Christian belief in hell, the authority of scripture, and whether or not belief in scripture should disqualify someone from a job. Reading this article set my mind twisting, mainly because I'm usually a fan of Senator Sanders. But I think he's got this wrong.

If I claim to be a Christian, I have to believe in the absolute infallibility of scripture. If I believe that parts of Scripture are truth and others are not, or parts of it should be taken in context and parts of it shouldn't, then I can make it say whatever I want it to say. And if that's the sort of Scripture I believe in, I don't actually believe in anything.

Hell exists. Damnation exists. Condemnation exists.

In the article, Senator Sanders repeatedly asked Mister Vought, "Do you believe people who are not Christians are condemned?" He did not elaborate on this, and I assume it was so whatever answer Mister Vought provided could be twisted into America's political machine.

But the answer is simple. If Mr. Vought is a Christian, the answer is yes.

Jesus said to him, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me." (John 14:6)

I claim to be a follower of Jesus. So I must accept the truth that He is the only path to salvation.

The article claimed that "about of half of U.S. Christians believe that some non-Christians can go to heaven". In my view, this means that half of U.S. Christians aren't really Christians at all. Because if someone is trying to peddle a Christianity without the need for Christ, without the need for forgiveness of sin and Christ's sacrifice on the cross, without reconciliation with the only true One worthy of our love, they're not peddling Christianity at all. They're trying to sell a watered-down, touchy-feely, sunshine-and-rainbows Christianity. And believing in this fake Christianity is, in my opinion, even more dangerous than not being a Christian at all.

But that leave me with this problem: Since I believe this, then that means many of my loved ones are, indeed, condemned.

This is a hard pill to swallow. I am friends with people who believe many different 'flavors' of Christianity, some of which don't have room for hell in their belief of God. I am friends with dozens of non-Christians and people of other faiths. Am I proclaiming that, as they are now, they're bound for hell?

Yes. And I cannot apologize for that belief. Because it's Scripture. It's truth. And Jesus never apologized for Truth.

This doesn't mean that it doesn't break my heart. Quite the opposite! It has me on my knees day and night, asking God to show me a way to speak about Jesus to these people I love in a way that won't turn them away from Him forever.

But does this belief make me hateful? Does it make me Islamophobic? Or Agnostophobic? Or Anti-semetic?

The argument I believe Senator Sanders was trying to make (at least, it's the argument the commenters on the Facebook article thought he was trying to make, and I severely regret having to wade through that quagmire) is that Mr. Vought would be unable to do his job as deputy director of the Office of Management and Budget because of this belief that non-Christians are condemned, that it would stain his view of them and impact his decisions on whether or not to allocate funds to these condemned people.

Despite it being in Scripture absolutely nowhere, there is a common misconception that Hell is for people who disobey what's written in God's Big Book of Downers, and Heaven is for people who never have fun but fall in line to God's ridiculously unrealistic behavior constraints. This lie has been pushing people away from Christ since He first walked the earth.

All of humanity is fallen. Everyone, Christian or Jew, Muslim or non-believer, continues to fall short of the glory of God every day. Me, included. You, included. Your grandmother, included. That's the point of salvation: repentance of a life lived in opposition to God, but continual justification for the endless times we fall short. We call this GRACE.

Belief that those who haven't yet claimed the justification of Christ are still under God's wrath isn't a statement of hatred. It's a statement of fact.

But we are called, as ambassadors for Christ, to show the love of Christ to everyone regardless of this fact. A Christian teacher would never think to not invest in the life of a student because the student has a different belief system. A Christian plumber wouldn't ignore a flooded basement in the home of a Jewish or Islamic family. A Christian pastor would never turn away the questions of an agnostic or atheist seeking clarification.

And a true Christian deputy director of the Office of Management and Budget would never allocate funds away from certain groups of people simply because of their condemnation.

The love of Christ, and the gifts and works of our hands, aren't simply for the righteous. If that was the case, then no one would every do anything for anybody. Because no one is righteous. Absolutely no one. 

Christ set the ultimate example for us. When he died on the cross, no one on earth was worthy of the gift of salvation. When He brought his "funds" to us - the payment for our sins - all of humanity, stretching from time immemorial to time eternal - was condemned. But instead of turning away, He gave. Not only to the millions who would accept His free gift, but for the billions who He knew would have the opportunity to accept it, but would chose not to.

Christ commands the same attitude of love and generosity and fairness from us.

I suppose the article rubbed me the wrong way because it accused a Christian of being unable to do a job simply because he believes scripture. But, as is often the problem with interpreting little pieces of scripture instead of interpreting scripture as a whole, the context was lost. Christ is the only path to salvation, yes: but, as long as there are people in our lives not on that path (and there always will be), we are called to live every day displaying the same love Christ showed everyone, not just Christians, when He died for us.

Yes, condemnation exists. Yes, billions of people stand under it, tens of millions of those in America. But does believing that, saying it aloud, count as hate speech?

If so, then I guess I'm hateful.

"Overcompensating" OR "The Realm of Possibility"

I ran another marathon.

It's been more than a month since my last Runner Confidential, and in that post I talked about the process of training for this marathon. It chronicled my first marathon and how miserable it was, and I mentioned that, for the first time in my life, I was actually trying a marathon training plan.

I made that post before school started. Life has gotten a lot more complicated since then. The school year has gotten off to a good start, but it's definitely shaping up to be the most nose-to-the-grindstone year I've ever experienced. Getting to school early and staying late (and doing school work at home almost every night) has almost eliminated my ability to run in the mornings, and that's stymied the training plan I'd started.

But surely a few lackluster weeks of training wouldn't harm me that much. I'd still been putting in the weekly long runs, which are (arguably) the most important part of the training plan. And I'd been squeezing in training runs whenever I could. How much could my training have been affected?

Which brings us back to the marathon.

The Air Force Marathon on the Wright-Patterson Air Force base in Dayton, Ohio, to be exact. Hillary and I drove to Dayton Friday evening, and after getting trapped at Wright State University's Nutter Center because of the 5K (they blocked the road that led out of the parking lot) and having to change hotels (our first one resembled something out of Silent Hill), we made it to Dayton.

After my last debacle of a marathon (see the last post, linked above), I'd made a list of things in my head that had gone wrong that I'd try my best to fix with this race.

Not eating enough carbs the night before? French toast dinner at Cracker Barrel.

Not enough food in my stomach before the race? I'd eat a bagel as I drove to the starting line.

Too dehydrated the night before? Drink water until my eyes felt like they were going to float out of my head.

Because of stringent parking regulations (and the promise that they'd once again close roads after the race started), Hillary couldn't drop me off at the starting line. Which really stunk, because her support and encouragement is one of the driving factors of my life. The thought of starting a race without a send-off from her was downright depressing. But she also needed her sleep, and I didn't want her to have to sit around, twiddling her thumbs at the starting line, waiting for them to reopen the roads.

So I let her sleep, and Saturday morning I drove myself to the Nation Museum of the United States Air Force. She wrote me the note above after I'd gone to bed. She was up later than me because she was feeling horrible and had to drive to the nearest Wal-Mart to get some medicine, but she was still thoughtful enough to leave this for me. It's reasons like this that make me the luckiest guy in the world.

And this was the only picture I took at the race that morning. Can you believe it? I was surrounded by huge, decommissioned United States Air Force planes, and I took a picture of the stupid port-o-potty. I think I got a kick of their spelling "clean" with a K. 

The race was delayed half an hour. Hillary later told me it was because of lightning, but I'm pretty sure they had a hard time getting everyone parked in time for the marathon to begin. 

At 8:00AM, I started running. 

I should have known from the beginning that something was wrong because my headphones didn't work correctly. I shouldn't have been surprised; they were a cheap pair American Airlines gave me for free when Hillary and I flew to Canada in July. From the start of the race, sound only came out of one ear bud. Although whether it was the right or left ear bud that worked kept alternating, there was never a point when both worked at the same time. 

But that wasn't a big deal. No one's marathon time has ever been ruined because of faulty earbuds. But someone's marathon time (namely, MINE) had been ruined because of dehydration. Forget that dehydration was to blame for my feeling awful after the Flying Pig Marathon last May; I did NOT want to be in that boat when the race ended.

Water station at mile 1? I wasn't about to pass it up. So I drank.  

Lack of nutrients also ruined me last time. So mile 3 seemed like a great place to eat my first energy gel, which I'd crammed into the tiny pocket on my running shorts. 

Another water station? I'd better have Gatorade this time, to make sure I'm replenishing sodium and electrolytes. 

My hamstrings are hurting at mile 10? I should wait until at least the halfway point to take my Tylenol and use my Icy Hot (also crammed into the tiny pocket). That way they have a better chance of lasting longer. 

Mile 13 approached. I thought I was doing pretty good. I mean, my hamstrings were getting sorer by the mile at that point, and my feet were sore, but I thought that was to be expected. 

But at mile 14, the pains had gone from bad to worse. And mile 15, worse still. Until, by mile 16, it felt like someone was holding a blow torch on my hamstrings and had taken a hammer to my arches. So I allowed myself a little rest time, when I stopped my fitness watch and simply let myself be still for a few minutes. If I injured myself, not only would I not set a personal record, I may not finish at all. 

It was humid and hot in Dayton that day, even if it was very overcast. My mouth felt dry. So during this rest, I drank two cups of Gatorade at a water station, and ate a Nutra-Grain bar I'd stashed in the back of my compression sock (which isn't as gross as it sounds). 

After around 5 minutes, when I decided my rest was over, I tried to run again. But the rest hadn't helped at all. My arches and hamstrings felt as awful as before. And now I had a full stomach, which was starting to cramp, to add to the mix.

No problem, I thought. I'll just walk for a bit. Until I start to feel better.

And my walking break lasted for the next five miles.

It was around mile 19, when I once again tried to run and was forced back to an old-lady-speed-walking-around-the-mall pace, that frustration started to set in. I'd spent all that time training, reading, and working to make my marathon time better. For the first time, I'd actually listened to running experts and followed a plan. I'd prepared myself as best as I knew how, trying to learn from past mistakes and taking all the necessary precautions.

For what? For this? 

It wasn't until around mile 22 that I was finally able to incorporate some running back into my locomotion, and even then it was only for a half-mile at a time. I even psyched myself up to run the last mile of the marathon, when the Museum was back in sight and I could practically taste the free banana. And even then I had to slow to a walk mid-mile to get enough strength to carry on to the finish.

When all was said and done, I'd run the slowest marathon of my life: 5 hours, 35 minutes. Far worse than the Las Vegas marathon, the one where I'd clearly gone in over my head and had no idea what I was facing.

Of course, there were plenty of extenuating circumstances I tried to blame my poor time on. As I mentioned before, it was very humid that day. And, being that most of the course was around airfields, a 20 mph cross breeze almost constantly batted me around like a ping-pong ball. My shoes were at least 3 years old, which I could at least blame for my arch pain. And the intermittent rain showered the course for the final four miles.

But when the race was over and I had to drive myself back to the hotel (where poor Hillary had been trapped for the entire day), I was forced to face a fact that honestly hadn't occurred to me until that moment: that it may not be physiologically possible for me to run the Boston Marathon.

In order to qualify for Boston, I'd have to run a Boston qualifying marathon in under 3 hours, 5 minutes for my age group. And yes, I knew this starting the race. But I'd started the Air Force Marathon thinking that my efforts were going to have some measurable impact on my ability, would at least put this impossible goal a few inches closer.

Instead, the goal has been pushed farther away than ever.

When the race was over, before I got back to the hotel to rescue Hillary from her isolation, when I was alone with only my thoughts for company, I thought this would be a jagged pill to swallow. But it wasn't. In fact, the realization that Boston may be out of my reach didn't bother me much at all. We spent the rest of the day lazing around the hotel room, watching college football. After that, we had dinner at Smokey Bones (aww yiss), and then I went to bed with sore hamstrings and a smile on my face.

Shouldn't abandoning this dream... I don't know... hurt a little more?

But then I thought back to when I ran my first marathon, in 2012, as a metaphor of beginning my life again after my divorce. I didn't run that race with the intent of punishing myself into training oblivion. I ran it because I thought it looked like fun, and because I got to run it with one of my good friends. And I kept running marathons because I wanted to challenge myself. And because I liked the electric atmosphere that surrounds racing. And because I'm a glutton for cool-looking medals.

In fact, the more I thought about my "dream" of running Boston, the more it occurred to me that it wasn't much of a dream at all. More of an afterthought, a 'next logical step' to racing. I had planned it for myself because it was seemed to come next in a list of tasks, without bothering to think if it what what I really wanted.

And what I briefly considered a physical limitation - simply being physically unable to push my body to complete such a race in such a time - wasn't really worth getting bent out of shape over.

There's someone who, daily, reminds me of that lesson.

Even though I know it's unlikely, I hope she always stays so blissful. I hope Zoe always has such blind enthusiasm for life, always sees everyone as equals, and never lets the difference in her normal and her classmates' normal bring her down. I hope she continues to remind me how great God is, and how much He's given me, and to never take for it for granted.

And I hope I can provide a good example for her. I hope that I can show her that there's nothing wrong with striving to get better, with pushing your limits. But I also need to show her that there's no shame in admitting that something may be physically outside the realm of possibility. And that, as long as you're doing what you love and you can go to bed saying you did your best, nothing else really matters.

I like racing. I like the atmospehere, the way entire towns turn out to cheer the runners on, and I am a sucker for cool medals. Maybe I'll run Boston one day. Maybe I won't. Maybe one day I'll have to dial back my racing and stick to half-marathons, or 5Ks. Maybe I won't. When all is said and done, I won't remember much from each individual race; they're simply going to be reduced to a series of meals hanging on my wall and bibs stuffed in a drawer.

What IS going to endure is the way I conduct myself upon realizing that something may simply be beyond my power.

One thing's certain: I'm never going the route of 'drastic overcompensation' again.

(Someone remind me of this post if I want to buy a sports car when I turn 50).

As far as medals go, I think this is the largest one in my collection. That's not overcompensating, right? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? 

"Laziness" *OR* "Old Wineskins"

Beleive it or not, this blog started out as a place for me to chronical my running. Actually, it started as a place for me to post reviews of energy products marketed to runners. Circa 2012, about the time my first marriage was crumbling, I needed something to direct my energies toward so I wouldn't go insane. It was at this time that I started training for my first marathon.

Marathon training is hard, ya'll. And the sad part is, I didn't even know how to train. I figured that, if I just made myself run longer and longer distances, I'd eventually get into "marathon shape", which I didn't even pin a solid definition to other than, 'The ablility to finish a marathon without dying'. 

In case we've never met, I (like most men, I think) have a bad habit of thinking I'm an expert on anything I have at least a passable knowledge about. If I can swing a wrapping paper tube around in what I think looks like a component impression of a sword, I'm instantly an Olympic-caliber fencer. And running was something, at that time, I thought I had down to a science. So clearly I needed no special research on how to run a marathon. 

What commenced was the most misersable 5 hours, 13 minutes, and 39 seconds of my life.

I was in much more misery than my expression implies. Also, I had a lot more hair. 

Fast forward more than a year. Undaunted, I signed up for my second marathon. Clearly, when I had trained for the first marathon, I had simply not used my "non-training" routine intensely enough! So I continued with the same actions, in the same way I had used them before (admittedly with more frequency) and expected a different outcome. I didn't once bother to consider that the correct approach to marathoning wasn't in the ammount I trained, but in the methods I was using. 

My second marathon, I ran in 5 hours and 12 minutes. My "more intensive training" had shaved a whopping 1 minute and 39 seconds from my time. 

That simply would not do! After all, I had developed a goal to one day qualify for the Boston Marathon. Clearly, something about my training would have to change. But, like the proverbial fly that beats its head against a window until it smashes its brains to jell-o, I continued my old training plan of "run more". 

The following year, I managed to shave 20 minutes off my marathon time, when I finished the same marathon in 4'52". 

While I was very proud of that time, I still had a big problem. In order to qualify for the Boston Marathon in my age group (the 34-39 age group), I would have to finish a Boston qualifying marathon in 3 hours and 5 minutes. Which meant that I still, somehow, needed to shave more than an hour and forty-five minutes from my marathon time. 

Which seems impossible. At least, it seemed impossible with the way I was training. 

Humans are creatures of habit. I get that. We're animals that hate change, and resist it with everything in us. Psychologists have written long articles about why this is, but I think the short answer is because changing a behavior is difficult and takes effort, and none of us want to beleive that we are flawed enough that our methods actually need changing. We want to beleive that we're experts and have the best way to do things already mastered. 

Simply put, we are a lazy species. Me, chiefly among them. 

This revelation about myself was a long time coming when it came to running, but I'm glad to say that it's application to other areas of my life was much more forthcoming. When my first marriage fell apart, I pretty quickly saw that I wasn't, contrary to my own beleif, an expert when it came to relationships. Though she and I had been in a relationship for five years, I actually had NO IDEA what entailed in being a husband. I may have understood the role of "boyfriend", but the role of "husband" completely escaped me. 

Withing the last few years, I stepped in a new role, one that another version of Graham would have assumed he was already a master of withouth even the slighest experience: the role of Dad. Thankfully, Old Graham was long gone, and new, willing-to-admit-that-he-doesn't-have-it-all-together Graham was willing to learn. I had to rethink the ways I used my energy, my time, and my finances. Suddenly, my life was no longer about me and the things I wanted. And I'll admit, it was very difficult to break out of those selfish mindsets.

But, even though it was difficult, it was GOOD.  

And that's perhaps the trap that we, as people, find ourself in when it comes to change. We assume that because it's difficult, or requires a lot of time or energy, that it can't be GOOD. But that often is the exact opposite, in the examples we read in Scripture: God doesn't do extreme GOOD in the lives of people who aren't willing to do something DIFFICULT. 

I'm running my 5th marathon this fall (I won't even go into the time of my 4th marathon, because there were other extenuating circumstances which made that time esepecially terrible). But this time, I'm following a training plan. I've been a subscriber of Runner's World magazine for many years, and I figured it was time I started taking the advice of experts as seriously as I took the advice of the little voices in my head that told me I already knew everything. 

The training plan is hard. I ran over 16 miles on Sunday. My feet hurt so badly that even standing to sing hymns in church was a task. But just because the run was HARD doesn't mean it wasn't GOOD. Because it was very good. 

The more I think about this analogy, the more I realize how it applies to so many different areas of my life. Which is good, because it means I am always learning and never accepting that I've "arrived" in any facet of my life. But it also stinks, because the lazy part of me that resists change desperatly wants to climb into the metaphorical bed inside my mind and pull the covers over its head. 

I'm about to enter my 10th year teaching, and some of my methods and activities have become stagnant with time. It's time to rethink many of them. 

My Bible study and prayer life are slipping. It's probably time I looked for a new approach to studying the Word, and changed the way I pray or the things I pray about. 

It's easy to dilude yourself into believing that just because you've done something for a long time you should be considered an 'expert' (or, in my case, the beleif that mere passable knowledge in a topic makes you an expert). It's a different thing entirely, and a much better thing, to accept that maybe the old methods you've cemented in your head need reconsidered. I firmly believe that laziness is part of the human condition, and that sloth is one of the seven deadly sins for a reason. 

There's no rest for the weary, it seems. But that's not a bad thing. I've got a classroom that hasn't been touched since May, a former guest bedroom that's halfway through a transition into a nursery, and six weeks left in a marathon training plan that will hopefully get me one step closer to qualifying for Boston. It's only appropriate that my thoughts about these things change with them. After all, wasn't it Jesus who said we can't put new wine into old wineskins?  

"Training Plans", OR "Outside the Zone"

It's been an eventful few weeks.

Elliot Katherine's nursery is coming along well!  Me and Hillary have rearranged lots of pieces of furniture, trying to keep half the room as a functional guest room while still adhering to the black-and-white monochrome color scheme we decided on. The guest bed has new bedding, I've painted nightstands and bookcases black ("Black Magic", as the can called it), and we've purchased a few new items of furniture to accent the room.

Chiefly among them:  Ellie Kate's crib!

Even though she's got a place to sleep if she showed up tomorrow, there's still a lot to do. Like put the rocker together. 

I'm going to put it together soon. Really. 

So Hillary and I are working to get the majority of the work done before school starts. By that time, it will be less than three months before she's due, and with me and the girls going back to school life is only going to get more hectic. 

In my last post, I wrote about the Hatfield/McCoy Half Marathon I ran in eastern Kentucky, and what an amazing race it was. And, with the completion of that race, how I had no more races until fall. The next race on my calendar isn't until September 17th: The Air Force Marathon in Dayton, Ohio. 

This is a point of anxiety for me. The last full marathon I ran was pretty awful; my time was terrible, I felt worse, physically, after the race than any other race since I started running, and my recovery took forever. With the memory of that abysmal race hanging over my head, I resolved to do something for the Air Force Marathon that I've never done before. 

I'm going to follow a training plan. 

Now, don't get me wrong. I've not done races in the past without training. But keep in mind: though I spend a lot of time on the road, I am a total novice when it comes to knowing how to train. So when I say I've "trained" for previous races, I mean I ran in the months beforehand, when running was convenient, and when running wasn't convenient I used a stationary bike or something else to help me stay active. In fact, if I was to nail a description to my old 'training plan', I'd have to call it the, "Just do whatever I want and hope it makes me faster" method. 

But, with as bad as I felt after the last race, I decided it was time to seek help from the pros. So I've started following a training plan from the people at Runner's World, who know thing or two about becoming a better runner. 

This isn't the first time I've thought about following a training plan, but it's definitely the first time I've actually followed up on it. Until now, I'd always told myself that I ran simply for the joy of running... for the happiness I get out of lacing up my shoes in the wee hours of the morning and hitting the pavement before the world wakes up. I always swore that I'd NEVER be one of "those people" who did meter-sprints, followed strict regiments, and was forced to press buttons on their GPS watch constantly while running to do numerical analysis of running data. 

But then I ran for a few years. And few more years. And a few MORE years. And I wasn't becoming a better runner. In fact, I was downright stagnant. 

There comes a point in all things, be it a job or a relationship or a skill or whatever, when staying in the same place isn't satisfying anymore. There comes a point when, if you're not going forward, you're going backward. 

Even though I didn't want to admit it, it was time to follow a training plan from people who know more about this stuff than I do. And the first part was admitting that there was a lot I didn't know. THAT might have been the most difficult part. 

So it was time for a change. And the first thing that had to change was my hair. 

Your gross thought of the day: running in the summer with a ponytail. It fills up with sweat, and then slaps on the back of your neck like a dead fish as you run. Nasty. 

Pictured: hair that is much easier to run with. 

Don't worry; this wasn't some existential crisis, or a desperate cry for help! I've actually been toying with the idea of cutting my hair for years, and have gotten really serious about it these last few months. I actually wanted to do it before the Hatfield/McCoy half, but wasn't able to make it to a barber. With having long hair for more than a decade, it was time for a change. And Hillary likes it, which is a major plus. :) 

So, I'm two weeks into my training plan, and it's already putting me outside my comfort zone. Last Sunday I had to run 10 miles, according to the plan. But Hillary and I went to a late showing of 'Independence Day: Resurgence', and I didn't fall asleep until 1:30 in the morning. I would have to get up before 6:00, run the whole distance, and get home in time to help wrangle the kids into suitable shape to make it to church at 10:30, which is a half hour drive. 

I wanted to make excuses. I wanted to sleep in. I wanted to do it MY way. 

But I also wanted to get better. And I wanted THAT more than those other things. So I ran 10 miles before church, and took a really great nap that afternoon. 

In the training plan, the middle of the week is peppered with short runs, some of which are instructed to be on "hilly" courses (good luck finding a course in central Kentucky that's NOT hilly). But Sundays are "long run" days. After last week's 10-miler, I would have been happy to log another like it. 

But the training plan wouldn't let me. This Sunday's long run was 12 miles. 

So, here's what I'm realizing. Stagnation is no fun. Even if you're sitting at a place that used to be a place of comfort, of safety, you can't simply keep doing the same thing over and over again and expect things to get better. You've got to wake up earlier, run a little longer, push a little harder, give a little more effort. And then, next time, give a little more. And the time after that, a little more. 

Waking up at 5:15 on a Sunday in summer to run 12 miles in the rain SUCKS AND I HATE IT. 

But you know what I hate even more? The idea of never getting any better. 

So I did it. 

And earlier in the week I saw this baby raccoon hanging out by Woodford County Middle School while doing a "hilly" run. He's not relevant to the story. I just thought he was awesome.

If you're a consistent reader of this blog, you might recognize this as the portion where I bring the entry full circle. It's time to connect that revelation about my running to other portions of my life; specifically, that not-yet-complete nursery in which I'm currently sitting while writing this. 

I've done a lot of things in my life. But I've never taken care of a baby before. Most of the skills I've acquired over the years have to do with me, and me alone. I'm a good runner, which is almost strictly a solitary sport. I'm a darn good video game player; again, mostly solo. I've read loads of books and seen lots of shows and done a whole lot of things that revolve around ME. 

Then, after getting divorced, I remarried to a woman who understands me as no one else ever has. Of course, I already had a little insight into marriage, even if my last one went down in bigger flames than the Hindenburg. At least I had a frame of reference to begin learning how to be a real husband. 

Over the last few years, I've learned a lot about being a dad. It's been the most amazing, worthwhile transformation I could ever experience. I feel a lot of the rough edges of my personality wearing away as old, selfish Graham starts to become a thing of the past. Good riddance. 

Coming this October, I'm going to be flying blind when a baby comes into my life. 

The Graham I am now, I haven't been for very long. This Graham is the best version of Graham that has ever existed. I've worked out everything this Graham has to do on a daily basis, as a husband and father and teacher and Christian and runner. Though he's still got a lot to learn regarding these various roles, he's got the basics covered. I get this Graham. 

But, like with my running, this Graham has to change. Because staying stagnant, not preparing for what's coming, isn't an option. If I'm going to become the person Ellie Kate needs, I've got do exactly what I said above: wake up earlier, go a little longer, push a little harder, give a little more effort. And then, next time, give a little more. And the time after that, a little more. 

And, OH MY GOSH, does it analogy apply to my spiritual walk! It's like the Holy Spirit only reveals things to me when I can slap to an analogy that my super-dense, completely-unable-to-discern brain can understand. How often do I get stuck in spiritual limbo, comfortable with my relationship with Christ? I read a story or book in the Bible, or hear a sermon, or go on a mission trip or a retreat... then I let those affect me, make me strive to follow Christ harder, awaken a need for more of Him... and then I sit on that happy feeling. Because the feeling is comfortable. It's easy. It's something I know. 

But staying where we are, especially in our relationship with God, is never an option. Heck, it's not even POSSIBLE. Every moment I'm not seeking to grow closer to God, I'm slipping away, distracted by the cares and stresses and responsibilities of this world. 

Shannon L. Alder once said, "Life happens one step outside of your comfort zone." And I couldn't agree more. But I want to take it a step further: life happens when you keep taking one step out of your comfort zone. Because one little step is good; but your comfort zone quickly expands to encompass that step. And then you're back in your comfort zone. Which is why I have to take another step. And another. And another. 

The REAL race is always staying one step ahead of your comfort zone. 

Or, in my case, one mile.  

"Outnumbered" OR "Blessed Beyond Measure"

If you're a regular follower of this blog, then you know that me and Hillary are officially expecting our third child (our first child together) in October. In case you haven't heard that story, feel free to check out the post previous to this one. It was quite a journey to make it to this point.

Even though the big secret was revealed to the whole world, there was still another secret that far fewer people were privy to:

Boy or Girl? 

Only a select few people knew. Not even Hillary and I; we arranged with Hillary's doctor to seal the identity of the gender in an envelope, which we delivered to Hillary's mother, Teresa, and Hillary's brother's girlfriend, Mohini. The two of them had volunteered to throw us a gender reveal party as soon as they heard we had a baby on the way. 

It was almost a month between the big Facebook pregnancy reveal and the gender reveal party. And in that time, Hillary researched (and practiced) every old wives' tale she could find about determining the baby's gender.  

What she considered the most important tell was the baby's heartbeat. Using a home fetal doppler, she found (and still finds) the baby's heartbeat at least once a day. According to the doppler, the baby has a heart rate of around 150 bpm. And, according to whatever nebulous place on the internet where one finds such information, a heart rate that slow indicated a boy. 

Hillary was also incredibly nauseous for the entire first trimester. And, according to a friend of ours who experienced the same symptoms, those are symptoms of being pregnant with a boy (the friend in question had, appropriate to her theory, given birth to a boy). 

When the gender reveal party finally arrived, Hillary and I were treated to an amazing surprise: a volcano. 

We were to pour baking soda into the volcano, and watch as lava streamed out the top. The color of the lava would indicate the baby's gender. 

Volcanos are messy, so we took it outside. And there, in our front yard, we saw it. 

PINK lava. 

Honesty time. And yes, I realize that's pretty much all the time with me, especially when I post my thoughts and exercises and whatever else on the internet for all to read. But time to lay out the truth like a fitted sheet. Because that's the thing with the truth: it looks easy, but most of the time it's corners have elastic in them and you can't get them around the mattress without someone's help. 

I was a little disappointed. 

Don't get me wrong; I am absolutely thrilled that me and Hillary are going to bring this little girl into the world. I consider myself the luckiest man in the world (eat your heart out, Lou Gehrig), that I not only get to raise this child of mine, but the two beautiful, wonderful girls that God decided to bring into my life. And I could not ask for a more supportive, hard-working, and loving woman to call my wife through it all. 

But, even so... I sort of wanted a son. And I don't think there's anything wrong with that.  

Maybe it's something hard-wired into the DNA of a man, to want a smaller version of you running around behind you, learning all the things you learned, from you, watching him grow and wondering what kind of man he's going to be. And, of course, there's the patriarchal desire to continue passing your name to your descendants. As if I was a Game of Thrones character looking to extend my family bloodline. 

By that evening, when all our friends had gone home and Hillary and I had put our two current girls to bed, the shock of seeing the pink lava had worn off. And I'd had time to consider what I'd been telling people for weeks, who'd been asking the ubiquitous question, "What do you want your baby to be?" 

"Healthy," I'd said. 

And, by God, I am sticking by it. 

This child is the child that Hillary and I prayed for, the one we'd spend month after month trying for, mourning for, and placing all our hopes and dreams in. After losing the pregnancy in October (see last blog post), all we wanted was a happy, healthy baby together. The way I look at it, God has a lot more experience in choosing the perfect children for their parents, and I haven't heard an instance yet of Him getting it wrong. She is our child, our gift from God, exactly as He has intended her. The gender He's picked is good enough for Him, so it's certainly good enough for me. 

Last weekend, Hillary and I got to attended two weddings on the same day; one in the early afternoon, and one in the evening, one-hundred-and-fifty miles apart. It made for a lot of driving, but we got to see our beautiful girls drop flower petals just before a bride made the walk to meet her groom. 

No, really, I'm not crying. There's just something in my eye. 

And then, as I gradually stretched the truth of the matter around my mattress of life, I began to realize  the full weight of what it meant to have the unparalleled honor of being a father to three daughters. 

One day, I will be the guy walking a girl down the aisle to meet her groom. 

And I'm going to get to do it three times. 

There are going to be, at fewest, six prom dresses these girls are going to be fitted for, which I'm going to object to because of the (in my eyes) scandalous amount of skin they show, but for which I'll eventually give in at the girls' insistence, because I'm their dad and I'm already wrapped around their little fingers. 

Boys galore are going to be brought to our house, and I'm going to feel like almost all of them are not good enough for my girls. I'm going to ruthlessly create lists of all the qualities I don't like in them, but I'm going to keep (most of them) to myself because I want to trust their judgment. And besides, everyone knows telling a teenage girl she CAN'T date a certain boy only makes her want to date him even more. 

I'm also going to learn how to disassemble a gun on the kitchen table, clean it, and meticulously reassemble it. Just in case. 

There are going to be sleep-overs, make-overs, tea parties, wrestling matches, games of tag and hide-and-seek and video game marathons, sword fights and scary stories and campfires and s'mores. And it's all because God decided to bless me with three little girls. 

Yes, I'm hopelessly outnumbered. But this is exactly how God intended it. So I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Seeing how grown-up Faith and Zoe already are, and how fast they're growing up, I barely held it together as the wedding progressed. And as much as I can't wait for our new baby to arrive, I want to revel in this magical time of not knowing, of simply wondering and waiting and hoping. 

Oh, and if you're wondering, the baby is completely healthy. 

See you in October, Elliot Katherine Smith. 

"Bun In the Oven", OR "Back-Up Plans"

So now, the world knows.

Hillary and I have known for almost two months, now. Our closest relatives and friends have known for a month, maybe longer. But, for the most part, we've managed to keep it a secret from the rest of the world until earlier this week.

In case you missed it, this was Hillary's Facebook post earlier this week.

It took some people a little longer to get it than others. But pretty much everyone realized the news. Hillary and I expecting a baby this October. 

We waiting so long to tell everyone because we wanted to make sure everything was okay. We got our first ultrasound a few weeks ago, and everything looked fine. But we wanted further testing, just to be safe. 

He/She is the little gray lump inside the dark gray lump. 

Last week we finally got back the blood tests that eased our fears. All the possible genetic abnormalities that could be detected by blood test were pretty much out of the question. Whether boy or girl, we're hopeful for a healthy baby. 

This is a triumph, for Hillary and I. For years, even before we were married, we discussed the possibility of having a child together. We decided the time was right to try, what with both of us already in our thirties. And, last March, signs began to point to the truth that God had blessed us. 

It was the best possible news. But it was bittersweet, because this wasn't the first time we'd gotten our hopes up. 

Last September, Hillary and I also though we'd succeeded in getting pregnant. Like this time, all the signed pointed toward the blessing we thought we were ready for. 

A few weeks passed. The date of Hillary's first ultrasound approached. She wanted me to go with her, because she was nervous. She said that she felt uneasy, nervous; like something wasn't right. I chocked it up to the nerves of a newly pregnant woman.  

I should have listened. 

There was simply nothing there. No baby. We didn't have a viable pregnancy, after all. 

(If this comes as a shock, it should. Hillary and I didn't tell very many people about it. In fact, only a select few of our closest friends and relatives even knew we were pregnant in September/October.)

The timing for a baby would have been perfect. Hillary would have been due at the first of June. I wouldn't have had to spend any sick days to spend all the time I wanted at home with her and the baby. Our baby would have been born within a month of my cousin, Cory Rayborn, and his wife Lindsay's daughter. The two would have been able to grow up together, nearly the same age. Hillary wouldn't have to spend her summer pregnant. 

Everything was perfect. All was as it should have been. 

Except that it was not meant to be. 

The following weeks and months were a roller coaster of emotions for the two of us. They were met with lots of questioning, anger, and confusion. God knew our situation. He knew our lives. He knew our willingness to have a child, to lace our family together. Why would he do this? And why, in this way? Was God cruel enough to dangle what we desired in front of us, only to pull it from our grasp like some cosmic game of keep-away?  

The months of questioning stretched into 2016. 

As soon as Hillary and I were able, we started trying again. Hillary went to her doctor often, to see what more we could do to increase our chances.  All the while, we wondered why it simply hadn't "taken" the first time. 

One night in January, Hillary and I had to drive separately to a church function. I'm not sure what it was, or why we had to drive our own vehicles. What I do remember is how hard our seemingly fruitless attempt to conceive again was weighing on her. And as I drove home that night, I thought about my wife, and what she'd personally been through over the last few months. And I said a desperate prayer, aloud, as I drove on the Bluegrass Parkway back to our house. 

God, if Hillary and I are meant to have a child together, let us have that child soon. If we aren't, then ease mine - and especially my wife's - hearts about the subject, and instead show us how to focus our energies on you and how much you've already given us. 

I wish I could say that it only took me saying the prayer once to believe that God heard it, but I must have repeated the prayer three or four times before I got home. I told Hillary about it, because I believe there is not only power in prayer, but power in prayer shared with others. 

A few weeks later, while the two of us were volunteering at our church's Wednesday night youth Bible study, the topic was raised of the annual Guys/Girls Retreat. Sarah Bailie, the youth minister, announced the dates of the trip, and asked for adult volunteers to serve as chaperones. 

The Guys/Girls retreat is one of mine and Hillary's favorite retreats. We had never missed it. But the dates fell upon the weekend in March in which Hillary had calculated as our prime conception time. If we missed those dates, we'd have to wait until April to try again. 

At this time, it was late January. We'd already missed our opportunity for the month. February was coming up. And if nothing happened in February, waiting until April to try again felt out of the question. 

We hem-hawed around the topic. I prayed about it, unsure of what I'd hear. Yes, youth retreats are extremely important in the spiritual development of the youth of our church, and could impact a student's life in ways I can't understand. But was there anything wrong with missing it just this once, to try for what our hearts had desired for so long (and had already been denied once)? 

The response to the prayer was pretty immediate. 

For some context, God did not grant me with an abundance of discernment. In fact, when it comes down to it, my skill at discerning the will of The Spirit is downright anemic. So when God spoke, he must have known that a nearly-audible voice was what I need. 

Believe I AM capable of this. 

Of course, this was ridiculous. I believed God was capable of helping Hillary and I conceive again. 

But did I believe He would come through? 

Faith is a weird thing. The Bible continually says that not only is Faith believing that God has the power to do what He says He'll do, but living our lives as though He WILL do the things He says He'll do.  Jesus himself said that, even with a tiny speck of faith, we can tell a mountain to throw itself into the sea, and it'll be done. 

Jesus doesn't say that we have to simply believe God can throw a mountain into the sea. It requires action on our part. We must change our words, thoughts, and actions to reflect the reality that God not only CAN do what He says he will, or WILL do what He says He will, but that He has ALREADY GONE BEFORE US, HAS ALREADY DONE WHAT HE SAYS HE WILL DO. 

Hillary and I were trying everything we possibly could to fulfill our dream. But if we really believed we served a God who was powerful enough to do what we had prayed of Him, why were we constantly making contingency plans as though He wasn't going to come through? 

In real faith, there is no room for, "If God does this, great, but if He DOESN'T, then I have a back-up plan." 

So I told Hillary that I thought we should sign up for the Guys/Girls retreat. 

And, before we left for the retreat in March, pregnancy tests started coming up with the little blue line. 

Of course, God owes us nothing. There is nothing I could do that could put God in my debt. And I'm not saying that God is like a slot machine, guaranteed to "pay out" the longer you pull His arm. But even Jesus knew the power of true faith, of faith that doesn't ask, 'What if God doesn't come through?' but instead, 'God has already gone before me; there is no need of a back-up plan'. 

Hillary and I didn't deserve this blessing. We hadn't earned it. And I don't believe my faith made it magically happen when it did. That's the real mystery of faith, I guess. God's got a whole lot going on up there; things that I will never be able to understand. He's still not provided Hillary and I with an explanation why things happened the way they did in October. God owes me no explanation. But he has still promised me, and everyone else, that all we have to do is believe that He is capable of the things He says He is. 

And then to live our lives as if we believe it.