Father's Day: Introspective stuff (or, "Manning Up")

I just celebrated my fourth Father's Day, and this one was the busiest yet. Actually, the last few months have been the busiest of my life, what with the birth of Elliot Katherine Smith in October of 2016. I can count on one hand the number of full nights of sleep Hillary and I have gotten in the last eight months, but it's been the most amazing eight months of my life and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

In fact, I wouldn't trade the last four years for anything, either.

Three years ago, Hillary and I were preparing for our wedding. As such, her daughters, soon to be my daughters, needed a name to call me. They'd been calling me 'Graham' for over a year, and although that had been fine when Hillary and I had been dating, it just didn't have the feeling that any of us wanted. 'Daddy' was already taken... so Faith, and by proxy, Zoe, since at that time Zoe wanted to do whatever Faith was doing, decided I would be called "Dad."

So even before Hillary and I were married, I became Dad. I officially had kids.

This was what was waiting for me when I came home from a mission trip to Guatemala that summer. Tears were shed. 

Fast forward a few years, and my life looks completely different than anything I ever planned. Hillary and I survive one miscarriage and then have Ellie Kate. She turns out to be absolutely amazing, and the cutest baby that has ever lived. Yes, I'm biased, but I am more than willing to back that statement up with independent research 

Good luck to anyone else vying for the title. This is your competition. 

I was lucky enough to spend Father's Day weekend not only with my father, but all three of my children, since other concerned parties asked to have the entire weekend free because of previously arranged engagements. More power to ME: I couldn't think of any other people I'd rather spend Father's Day weekend with.

And what commenced was a lot of swimming, playing, and all-around fun. And one big reminder that I am, without a doubt, the most blessed man on the face of the earth.

Last night, as I was feeding Ellie Kate her bedtime bottle and rocking her to sleep, I noticed a printed canvas that sat on her bookshelf. You all know the kind: there are hundred of them at Hobby Lobby, with fun and inspirational sayings printed on them. This one had been in Ellie Kate's nursery since we'd brought her home, but I don't think I'd read it until that very moment (it had been partially covered by "The Very Hungry Caterpillar"). I'm not sure when we bought this particular canvas, or if someone bought it for us, but here's what it says, in white letters on a pink field:

Read me a story 

and tuck me in tight. 

Tell me you love me 

and kiss me goodnight. 

I've shed a lot of tears over my kids already, even in the short time they've been in my life. But as I held the baby in my arms and read this, really read it, I had to bite my lip to keep the tears back as I faced a truth that I'd always known. It had been easy to ignore in the eight months since we'd brought Ellie Kate home, because of the breakneck pace that life has taken, but in that quite moment I was forced to confront it. 

I only have a short time to influence this little life before she steps into a harsh, bleak world. The world will not tell her she is loved, will not look out for her best interests, will not care whether she is happy or fed or encouraged. The world, given the chance, would chew her up and spit her out like it had millions before her. 

How long do I have? Ten years, before her friends suddenly have more influence than me? Ten years before me telling her "I love you" isn't enough for her to realize that she's beautiful, that she's amazing and special and perfect just the way she is? 

Even thinking back to the time that's already slipped away, the time I frittered away staying focused on keeping diapers clean and getting her to sleep through the night and moving her from bottles to baby food, without realizing those were moments I'd never get back... I realized I'd already lost so much time. 

And then I thought about Faith and Zoe, the older girls, and I got really horrified. 

Already, Faith is reaching the age where she'd rather spend time alone in her room with a piece of technology than with her mother and I. She's EIGHT. And if this is what she'd rather do, I have no one to blame but myself: if I want to encourage her to spend time with me now, and to foster the necessity for quality time so she'll still want me in her life when she's a teenager, I need to get off my butt and invest in her NOW. I know there are already voices from outside her, pulling her this way and that: and if you have a child around the same age and you think your kids are immune, PLEASE don't fool yourself. It starts earlier now than it did when we were kids. 

And Zoe... sweet, little Zoe... all she wants is someone to play with her. Legos. Play-Doh. Doc McStuffins. Dinosaurs. It doesn't matter to her. If you sit in her room and play with her, you're her best friend. 

How much time have I already missed with these girls? I've only been in their lives for four years, which means I'm already behind the curve. How often have they needed my time and attention, and I've simply been too hard-headed to notice and offer myself to them? It's not THEIR responsibility to seek me out for me to invest in them: It's up to ME to intentionally invest in these kids. 

Maybe I'm agonizing too much about this. After all, I don't *think* there's anything wrong with the time I spend playing video games, or watching TV, or goofing around on the Internet. I don't think too many of these opportunities have slipped through my fingers yet. But if I don't let myself become a little paranoid - if I'm not constantly on the look-out for every opportunity to make sure my kids know how loved they are - I'm going to blink, and these important moments are going to be gone. 

Ellie Kate has already moved out of the Duckling Room at daycare. Now she's a Piglet. 

Faith has seen hundred of videos on Youtube Kids, the contents of which I am completely oblivious of. 

Zoe wasn't even verbal when I met her. Now she's reading three- and four-letter words. 

The Steve Miller Band lied. Time doesn't keep 'slipping' into the future. Time screams into the future like a meteor entering the atmosphere, and only when you take a look around do you realize how much time has passed and how old you really are. 

I know one thing for certain, though: without God's help, I'm never going to be able to make the most of my time with my three girls. If I focus too hard on them, make them the center of my life instead of Him, I'll end up elevating them to a place they were never supposed to be: as the center of my life. And, while this sounds appealing while they're small and sweet and cute and cuddly, I have to remember that I'm the one they're looking up to, and what I teach them matters. If I teach them that earthly relationships are what we should strive for, that it's okay to make another person a god in your life, that's the kind of relationships they're going to look for. 

And if I'm afraid now of having my hands full when they're teenagers... I'll really have my work cut out for me if the girls make every little boy they fall in love with the centers of their universes. 

One day, the girls are going to be grown. And the things I teach them now, when they're young, are going to matter. While it's vitally important that I show them love and affection and caring that only their daddy can provide, it's even more dire that I teach them there's Someone who loves them on a level that I could never even approach. That, no matter how much someone on earth says they love them, that Another loved them so much that He sacrificed everything to be with them.

They need to learn that there is such a thing as love that can never be taken away, love that never fails, that never grows old, that always fulfills. 

There's no way to slow down the rate at which the girls are growing up. The two older ones have already been through so much in their young lives. If I want to make sure I'm not royally screwing up this Daddy business, I'm going to have to keep my head on straight and keep my eyes on Jesus. We, as parents, are the first line of defense against the forces that do, and will forever, assail our children. 

Time to man up. 

Mastering the Mountain, *OR* You CAN go home again

Summer is upon us.

Okay, those of you already raising your hands, ready to tout, "But the first day of summer is the Summer Solstice, which isn't until the June 21st!"... shut up. It was in the mid 90's last weekend. The sun rises before 6:00AM and doesn't set until 9:30PM. It's officially summer.

Summer has always been sacred to me, ever since I was a kid. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a prime motivating factor (okay, THE prime motivating factor) in my decision to become a teacher. But one thing that bums me out, as a runner, is the lack of summer races. Spring and fall are prime race season, because the weather is just mild enough to run a dozen miles without passing out or dying from heat stroke. Simply because of lack of opportunity, I'd never run a race in summer.

Until last weekend.

When the spring race season ended, I found myself without any running opportunities to look forward to until fall. Until I was clued into the Hatfield & McCoy Marathon and Half Marathon by a really cool guy named Alex Batausa.

Some background information: In case we've never met, I am from Eastern Kentucky; the heart of coal mining country. My wife Hillary and I both are, actually; we even went to the same high school, although she was way out of my league back then (she's still way out of my league, although she hasn't realized it yet). My parents still live and work there. It's a beautiful area, with lots of industry and tourism potential. Eastern Kentucky and western West Virginia are famous (infamous?) for the Hatfield & McCoy Feud, which, according to legend, was started when a member of one family stole a pig from a member of the other family. Given the price of organic, free-range pork these days, I can understand the animosity!

Alex is the president of the Tug Valley Road Runners Club, an organization in east Ky and west WV dedicated to helping runners come together, lift each other up, and, most importantly, run! He posted about the race in the Facebook group Runners Helping Runners, and my interest was piqued.

But I has my reservations. Because, as any runner knows, the bane of a runner's existence are hills. And this area doesn't just have hills; it has MOUNTAINS. The Hatfield & McCoy course runs right through the heart of the Appalachian Mountains. The race I was interested in was literally named the Blackberry Mountain Half Marathon, which included a mountain climb that makes the Boston Marathon's Heartbreak Hill look like a speed bump.

When "Note: Elevation change is significant" is written in bold, it's time to pay attention. 

But this was my last chance to run a real race before September. And it was a half held in my home town. Not to mention that I knew the course by heart, having driven it countless times with my parents (in fact, it nearly passes my grandparents' house). How could I NOT run it?

And, as there often is when it comes to my running, there was the family aspect.

Further background information for first-time readers of my blog: Our younger daughter, Zoe, was born with Spina Bifida. She's had several surgeries in her five years on this planet, and is scheduled for another later this week. The surgery will leave her feet in casts for at least three weeks, which will, of course, put a damper on summer fun for her because she won't be able get the casts wet. It's terribly unfortunate, but it's what needs to be done for her development.

Silver lining: the surgery date could not have come at a better time. It allowed us one last weekend to take the girls to visit my parents in eastern Kentucky during which Zoe could swim before her surgery. And it was the same weekend as the H&M half marathon.

And a weekend to trash Granddad and Grandmom's house. 

Hillary drove me to the starting line the morning of the race, because no one else wanted to get out of bed. Everyone wants to be your friend, until you have to wake up at six in the morning on summer vacation. That's when you find out who your true friends are. :P 

Taken by my wife, after she dropped me off at the start line. 

Appalachia sometimes gets a bad rep. It's the source of some really cruel stereotypes, most of which are completely unfounded. But I still maintain that its one of the most beautiful areas of the country, and home to some of the kindest people I've ever had the pleasure to meet. And this race only served to reinforce that belief. 

I'd never before started a race to a LITERAL starter's pistol, but race volunteers dressed in Hatfield/McCoy costumes fired into the air to send us on our way (Okay, it was actually a starer's rifle, but still really cool). 

As I mentioned before, I was a little nervous about running this race because of the change in elevation. And because my last race, the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati, went really poorly because of lack of planning and training on my part. So I paid much closer attention to my training for this race. 

- More sleep the night before 

- No running the week before the race 

- Eat lots and lots of carbohydrates the night before 

- Drink more water along the course 

- Eat something for breakfast pre-race 

I love running, and I love experiments, but I had no idea if (or how much) each of these variables would affect my running. So I simply tried them all and hoped for the best. 

It was interesting, running  past scenery that was almost unchanged since my childhood. I passed a park where my old Boy Scout troop used to camp. A road where my high school chemistry teacher used to (and may still) live. A second-hand store where my parents had once bought a vintage table, which had sat in my first house for years. 

And, of course, Blackberry Mountain. 

Confession time. I didn't run the entire height of the mountain. I walked more than a portion uphill, and even a portion downhill (contrary to popular belief, downhill running is almost as difficult as uphill running, because of the extreme strain on knees and ankles). But, even so, I gave the race everything I had, passed from Kentucky into West Virginia, and crossed the finish line. 

I didn't enter the race expecting a personal record. I just wanted to have fun, see some interesting sights, and get a cool medal that looks like a mason jar. I especially wasn't expecting a stellar time since I had to make an... ahem... emergency port-o-potty transaction around mile 10. 

Free Gatorade is the real motivator. 

But then, what to my wondering eyes should appear: my FIRST EVER PLACEMENT IN A RACE!  

You can't tell from the picture, but that's the top of a one-quart mason jar. 

Yes, it was a small race (there were probably between 400 and 500 Blackberry Mountain Half participants), but I was extremely proud of myself. I might have actually done BETTER, were it not for my pesky intestinal distress. 

If I had to go back and chance anything about my training or race preparation, I'd have worn my over-the-calf compression socks. Blackberry Mountain sort of wrecked my calves, and more support could have made the difference. That, and I'll figure out a food/drink regiment to keep my stomach from staging a coupe in the middle of the race. 

I think I also owe a lot of the success to the organizers of the Hatfield & McCoy marathon weekend. They provided a fun atmosphere in a beautiful area of the country. There were plenty of hydration stations along the course (completely necessary, for the level of humidity as the race progressed), and lots of spectators and volunteers dressed up in costume to make the race feel as authentic as possible. 

I've often thought about organizing a race myself, one day, but the insanity of my life right now (full-time teacher, dad of two girls, soon to be dad of THREE girls) currently has my hands tied. Not to mention that I wouldn't even know where to start such a thing. I guess that's why there are people smarter than me at such things who put everything together, so people like me can run and sweat and laugh and goof off to our heart's content.  

If you organize such an event, be sure to include costumed participants. And mason jars. Mason jars are cool. 

It was a long, tiring weekend. But it was a GOOD weekend. I managed to squeeze in one last race before fall, the girls got to go swimming one last time before Zoe's surgery, and we all got to spend valuable time with family, which was the best reward. All without a single sunburn. 

Two tired kids = peaceful trip home for Mom and Dad 

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I'm pretty much the most blessed man on the face of the planet. To have spent such an amazing weekend with my family, to invest in an area of Kentucky that will always feel like home, and to have the opportunity to do it again once we make it through Zoe's heel cord release surgery... I've been dealt a hand far greater than I deserve. 

Pray for us this week, reader, and especially pray for Zoe. The people at Cincinnati Children's Hospital are awesome, but parents always worry. 

God is good. All the time. 

"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. 

"Double Booked" OR "The Plate-Spinner"

I used to hate winter. I self-diagnosed myself with Seasonal Affective Disorder a long time ago. And yes, it's occurred to me that the winter depresses me simply because I believe winter should depress me. But I think it's simply the cold, the dark mornings, the dark evenings, and the gray sky that doesn't budge for three months.

But, as I've gotten older (and gotten in better shape), I find myself liking winter more and more. Winter, I've found, has some of the best running weather of the year.  

Yes, running in the morning is out because of the extreme cold (or at least the perceived extreme cold), but I can run pretty much any other time of the day. I'm never forced to stay inside because of rain. In fact, when it starts snowing, that's when I want to lace up my shoes and get out the door.

But, although I've grown to somewhat like winter in the last few years, I'm never sad to see it go.

The weather for the last week has been downright phenomenal. Sunny. Mild. The sound of birdsongs in the air again. It feels like spring is right around the corner. And that means, for me...

RACE SEASON.

This spring's race season looked to be the same as almost every year past. The Shamrock Shuffle 3K in downtown Lexington. Run The Bluegrass Half Marathon at Keeneland. Derby Festival Mini-Marathon in Louisville. And, of course, The Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati, Ohio. My standard spring races, and all my favorites.

It's also Lent, which is one of my favorite times of the year.

For those of you who don't know, Lent is the forty days (not including Sundays) leading up to Easter. It begins on Ash Wednesday and, of course, ends on Easter. It's celebrated in remembrance of the forty days before Jesus' crucifixion, when he returned to Jerusalem one last time to preach and teach, even though he knew it would lead to his death.

Growing up, I was never a big observer of Lent (actually, I was never a big observer of anything in church). Even when I got older and started growing in my relationship with Christ, Lent still seemed like something only for Catholics. But a few years ago I went to my first Ash Wednesday service, and it really struck me just how significant Lent should be to a Christian's life.

It's tradition to give up something during Lent. Not necessarily something bad, but something you could do without for forty days (not counting Sundays) in order to grow closer to God.

Hillary and I decided to give up social media during Lent. In addition, we also decided to take on a book study. We began reading Breathe, by Priscilla Shrirer. The book is about what it means to live a life with God's Sabbath in mind. Not necessarily living for Sundays; simply living life with a margin of rest around it. It's about knowing what things steal our contentment, our peace,  and our rest and keep us from living life.

Ironically, we've had a hard time keeping up with it.

It seems like the more we try to eliminate things from our lives to make room for time with God, the more we encounter things that simply have to be done. And yes, it feels like a trick of the Devil, trying to suck away our time with our Creator, but I'll be darned if it's not effective. It's not like I can just decide not to grade tests, or create lesson plans, or do all the other little non-classroom things I have to do for my teaching job. And Hillary can't simply stop seeing patients, or stop completing long, irksome charts for those patients. Couple that with time with the kids, time to maintain our own relationship, cooking dinner every night, and various other commitments, it feels like every minute of our days are spent simply preparing for the next day. Just so we can wake up the next morning and do the whole cycle over again.

I want to let some things go. But how?

Yesterday, I was writing all my spring races on a Runner's World calendar my brother, Aaron, and his wife got me for Christmas. I was thrilled to find that two of the races I had signed up for were actually pre-written on the calendar!

But I was less thrilled to see them on the same weekend.

The Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati and the Derby Festival Half in Louisville. It didn't even occur to me to check, because the two have NEVER been on the same weekend in the past. The Derby Fest is always the weekend before the Kentucky Derby (thus, the last weekend in April). And the Flying Pig is always the first weekend in May. Consecutive weeks.

Not this year. This year, May 1st is on a Sunday. The stars have aligned in such a way that must choose between two of my favorite races. I'm double-booked.

Neither of these races are bad. In fact, they're both great races, and the proceeds for each go to great causes. But I simply can't do them both. I'm going to have to make a choice.

It seems that God's trying to teach me a lesson. It's no coincidence that this perfectly mirrors my current dilemma about making quiet time for Him.

Like one of the races, something is going to have to go. Maybe I have to change the way I'm thinking about my lesson planning. Maybe I have to look for other ways I waste time (although, objectively, I can't see what else I could cut and still maintain sanity). Maybe He'll simply give me some grand revelation about the whole thing, I'll find the answer I'm looking for, and it'll be so simple that I won't believe I didn't realize it in the first place.

I personally hope He goes for the grand revelation. When it comes to discernment, I'm pretty dense.

Until that happens, I'll keep spinning the plates.

"Mister Know-It-All " OR "It's Time to Move!"

Last Father's Day, my wife and stepdaughters got me a really sweet Polar M400 running watch. I use it constantly when I run. In fact, one of my New Year's resolutions was to learn to use the interval function on it. That, and to write one new blog post a week. So far, so good.

It records distance. It remembers my favorite routes. It estimates calories burned. It shows current pace, average pace, and fasted pace for a run. And it keeps me accountable if I'm being lazy. 

If the watch senses it's been too long since I've moved (like if I'm Netflix-binging or something), a message flashes across its screen, proclaiming, "It's time to move!" 

Most of the time, my response is, "Don't judge me, watch." But then I'll usually get off my butt and go for a run, or do a workout video with Hillary, or go to the gym. 

Usually. 

Fast forward to this morning, at Trinity Hill United Methodist Church. As is often the case, I heard the verses at the beginning of the sermon, and readied myself to take some notes, draw some cartoons, but pretty much know what's coming because I've read the verses before. 

Note that, in previous entries about my New Year's Resolutions, I mentioned nothing about a resolution to grow closer to God. You've stumbled across the reason for this: my "already-read-it-so-God-has-nothing-left-to-teach-me-through-this-scripture" attitude. 

Pastor Steve's sermon started with this verse: "For the gate is small and the way is narrow that leads to eternal life, and there are few who find it." (Matt. 7:14). Of course, I tuned this right out; I've been saved since I was sixteen years old (and that's been, ahem, a long time ago). So I set to cartooning about the Broncos/Steelers playoff game today. 

I've had years to develop my skill at drawing while listening, and as pictures appeared in my notebook, I continued to absorb Pastor Steve's message: yes, the day of Salvation is today, but what about all the OTHER days? Christianity isn't about ONE day of salvation, and sitting on our butts for the rest. (I, of course, couldn't be guilty at all of this, because of all the time I'd dedicated to the youth program and all the mission trips and retreats I'd been on, so, once again, I tossed another scripture in the "heard it, mastered it" pile.) 

God clearly knew that my head was a many-layered thing, like an artichoke, that needed to be repeatedly peeled before the heart was exposed. So he hit me with another scripture, and this one got my attention. 

"Through these* He has given his very great and precious promises, so that through them you MAY participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires." (2 Peter 2:4) 

*These, which Paul mentioned in previous verses, refer's to God's power, giving us life and the ability to live Godly lives. But that's not the part that Pastor Steve focused on, much to my benefit. He focused on the use of the word MAY; moreover, that Paul doesn't say WILL, or another word that implies a guarantee. It's a conditional word. 

God knew what he was doing, because this caused me to set down my pen. And, while he had my attention, he hit me with a haymaker, in the form of another scripture which I'd thought I'd already learned. 

"For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being INEFFECTIVE and UNPRODUCTIVE in your knowledge of Jesus Christ" (2 Peter 2:8) 

I hadn't been sitting long enough for it to kick in yet, but at that moment I wish God would have made my watch flash the "It's time to move!" screen. 

Because I hadn't been moving spiritually in long time.  

If Christianity is really a race, as Paul describes it, then I'd stopped at one of the mile-markers and decided to feel proud of myself for making it that far. I could look at at my watch, admire what I'd done and how far I'd come, and kick my feet up. After all, how many people hadn't made it that far? How many people hadn't even laced up their shoes that morning? I was beating all of those folks! 

But God reminded me, as he usually does, that following Him is not a spectator sport. It's not a race you run for a while, and then admire your pretty medal or personalized race bib for the rest of your life. Like running, like anything worth doing, it takes time and energy and practice and grueling dedication. 

But it's the only life truly worth that kind of dedication. 

Part of me only really learned about God the Father after I became a father, and I find myself drawing parallels between my relationship with the girls and God's relation with me (only on a Divine, cosmic proportion). I would be a pretty crappy parent if I did everything for Faith and Zoe and never asked them to lift a finger. Never asked them to educate themselves, to give their best.

And God calls me to do the very same. He calls me to educate myself in Him by scripture reading, following devotions, discussing verses and themes with fellow believers, to not be afraid to take all my prayers directly to God. He calls me to give my best, by devoting my time/energy/finances/prayers/presence to my church, showing love to particularly irksome students, and staying in such close contact with Him that His will is never unknown to me.

But lately all I've been giving him is my laziness, my complacency, and worst of all, my know-it-all attitude. 

So, it's time for Mr. Know-It-All to get off his butt and move. My spiritual butt, that it, and to move spiritually. I've been sitting at this mile marker long enough, and I've got a lot more running to do. 

"Choosing Not to Share", OR "Butter"

"I feel thin, Galdalf... like butter, scraped over too much bread."  - Bilbo Baggins

This has been the theme of my life, as of late. And I hand't actually realized it until very recently. Within the last week, to be exact. 

Two weekends ago, Hillary and I went to Cincinnati for the Flying Pig Marathon weekend. Among the festivities were a 5K, 10K, kid's 1 mile fun run, 2 mile "run with your dog" jog, half marathon, and full marathon. For the truly insane, the Flying Pig offered the Skyline Chili 3-way and 4-way challenges: to run the 5K, 10K, and half marathon or full marathon, all in the same weekend. 

I was registered for the 4-way challenge, plus the 2-mile dog run; a grand total of almost 38 miles. Because I have a death wish or I want to start hating running or something. 

We might have gotten up a little early for Rory's tastes. 

The races on Saturday (10K, 5K, and dog run, in that order) went off without a hitch, pretty much. I had some minor hamstring pain because I didn't stretch properly, but Hillary and I wound down that afternoon by watching The Avengers: Age of Ultron in the Newport, KY theater. Sitting on my butt for 3 hours watching superheroes knock each other senseless was just what the doctor ordered. 

Not to mention a late brunch at First Watch. Rory sat in the booth like this the entire time. He ate bacon. 

Sunday morning found Hillary running the half, me running the full. I didn't see her after out separate corrals split, but I managed to snap some pretty good pictures. 

And yes, I took pictures of many of the other mile markers, but this was the one that mattered most. Mainly because of how much pain I was in when it was taken. 

When all was said and done, I finished the marathon in 4:51:39; more than TWENTY MINUTES faster than when I ran the same course last year. I felt much worse after this race than I did the last one, though, which I guess is a side effect of pushing myself harder. If "no pain, no gain" is a universal truth, then the flip side, "have gains, have pains" is also true. 

Hillary was long finished with her race by the time I crossed the finish line. Because I was sore, tired, and more than a little sick to my stomach, I wanted nothing more than to find my wife and begin my recovery. 

She had set up camp in Panera Bread. A mile from the finish line. So, medals jangling around my neck, I trudged one more mile through downtown Cincinnati to find her. 

What feels like an bajillion agonized steps later, I turn the corner to Panera Bread. As I make my final approach, a voice calls out to me: 

"Hey, what're those?" 

I stop and turn. There's a homeless man, whom I must have overlooked because my sights are set on the restaurant that contains my wife. He's sitting against a road sign and pointing at my medals. 

"Oh, they're medals," I say to him, gesturing. "There was a marathon in town today." 

"Oh," he replies. "Can I see?" 

I am in an unfamiliar city. I am physically exhausted. And I have no idea who this guy is. Why does he want me to come closer? Is he going to stab me and try to take my precious, coveted medals? The things I worked so hard for? 

"Sure," I say, against my better judgement, and take a few steps toward him. He approaches me, but I stay outside his arms' reach and display the medals. 

He looks at them with interest. "What do they say?" 

I'm not sure if he actually can't read, or I'm just standing too far from him. But I read the inscriptions to him anyway. Then, as quickly as possible, I step away from him and toward Panera. My wife is a mere few dozen feet away. 

"Hey," he calls to my back. "Are you going to be here this evening?" 

I have no idea why he would ask this. But I hastily reply, "No, me and my wife are going back to Kentucky in a few hours. I'm a youth group leader at my church, and we have a meeting tonight." 

It wasn't until I was inside the restaurant that I realized I had said the worst possible thing. 

It wasn't a coincidence that the homeless man spotted me where he did. Cincinnati is a huge city, and it has more than its fair share of homelessness. When I was running the marathon, and thus during the trek to Panera, I didn't have a dime to my name. But God chose to have the homeless man cross my path right when he did: when my wife was mere feet away, with my wallet, inside a restaurant. It was literally the only point in the day when I could have purchased a meal for this man, shared some testimony with him, maybe learned a little about him. 

Instead, I let the opportunity pass me by, fueled by excuses of "I was filthy, exhausted, hungry and sick to my stomach". But those things were temporary, because a shower, a soft bed, a good meal, and time with my wife were in my near future. It would have taken no time at all to invest in that man. 

Instead I chose to tell him who I worshipped, who I represented, and then did the exact opposite of what my Master would have me do. 

Needless to say, this experience (or lack thereof) has had me examining my spiritual walk over the last few days. No doubt it's not where it should be, or else I would have been much more ready (and able to  hear) the Holy Spirit's call to the opportunity. So where is the disconnect? 

Aside from the needing a long holiday from which I don't intend to return, I really identify with Bilbo. Lately I have spread myself over so many tasks that none of them are really getting the full attention they deserve. 

Husband. 

Dad.

Runner.

Teacher. 

Assistant youth pastor. 

Amateur Writer. 

So many hats, and so little time. Literally. So much of my time is eroded that my personal spiritual walk has suffered. I rarely make time for scripture or study. My prayer life has suffered. And when my spiritual life suffers, all of the aforementioned pursuits go with it. Wash, rinse, repeat, in the same vicious cycle. 

It's very clear to me that something has to give. But what? 

The fact is, I'm not going to be able to tell where my energies need to be directed unless I fix this problem at its source: my walk with God. He knows much better than I do where I'm going to be most effective. And, until I clear up the communication issue with Him in my heart, I'm not going to be able to hear his prodding. Missing my opportunity with the homeless man proved that. 

So, it looks like my next, great adventure lies in lots of prayer, quiet study, and patiently listening for His voice. 

Going Slow *OR* Dad's Night Off

This is my running blog, in case this is your first time here. And I'm addressing this post as though it is to all-new readers because, since it had been so long since my post, I assume all my old readers have headed off for greener pastures. 

Just so you know, I post lots of pictures, and lots of links. 

So, for old time's sake, I'll begin by talking about my most recent race: The Iron Horse Half Marathon in Midway, Kentucky, two weeks ago. Hillary ran it with me. And if this is your first time to this blog, as I assume, then you need to know that she is my wife. And the two of us went along two long, bumpy roads before we made our ways to each other. 

Was that enough links for you? I'll try not to use any more. 

The Iron Horse was a particularly good race for me! I ran my first sub-two-hour Half since 2010! And, though the MapMyRun picture shows slightly more than 2 hours, I'm taking into account that I was at the back of the pack, and that I ran slightly farther than the 13.1 miles (which can happen, because of bends and twists in the road). 

Since that race, I've only managed to run twice. It's party because my new responsibilities as stepdad to two awesome little girls take up a lot of my time. And it's not that I'm sorry for this! Far from it! Hillary and I are simply still learning to balance one another's schedules, plus getting the girls to school and daycare. 

Also, I've been sick lately. 

But, the other day, Faith made a card for me to help me feel better. 

I warned you: lots of pictures 

Since Wednesday night (it's currently Sunday night), I've had something that has left me feeling like the victim of a hit-and-run. Headaches, sore throat, coifing, chills, night sweats, dizziness. I realize the phrase "the whole nine yards" is overused, but I feel like it applies here better than more situations. 

But the weather was nice today. And I was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. So I went for a run, sore throat and all. 

I did get a nice reward for my endurance. 

For the first time in quite a while, I am alone tonight. Hillary and Zoe, our youngest, are on their way to Nashville for Zoe's annual spina bifida clinic. Faith is spending the night with Hillary's folks, whom live waaaaaaay across the other side of our yard. 

So, for the first time in under a year, it's just me and my thoughts tonights. Which is partly what the run was for. 

Anyway, I did the first thing that came to my mind: watch Fellowship of the Ring on Blu-Ray and write a new blog post. 

Me and Strider. 

Right now, Hillary just checked in at a hotel in Nashville. Staying here, at our home, tonight without her feels like the loneliest place on earth. Even lonelier than arriving at the Prancing Pony and realizing Gandalf isn't there (sorry, still watching Fellowship). 

A year ago, I knew I wanted to propose to Hillary. I just hand't planned they when, where, or how. 

The last time Hillary drove to Nashville, in May 2013, her life had taken a terrifying turn to divorce that had left her a single mom. She and I had started communicating at the time, but we weren't dating. I probably can't imagine the fears that swirled around in her mind.  

As she was driving and I was heading to Kroger to pick up antibiotics (pharmacy was closed, blah), I kept her company on the phone. We talked about all the usual things we talk about when discussing our story: the sheer improbability of it, how we never could never have written a story so perfect even given the opportunity, and how much God's done in our lives. She drove by the old two where she lived with her ex-husband for almost a decade, and passed it by silently. No more crying for her when recalling her shattered former life.  

None for me, either. 

So here I am, writing and watching Lord of the Rings, still very much that geeky kid I've always been, but with far more than I deserve and having come through far more than I would have thought possible. Maybe all that flowery language comes from hearing too much elvish, but it's true. And, when I think about it, this house really isn't that lonely without all my girls in it. It's still got the life in it that they provide; it's simply quieter for one night. And, down two cups of tea, several Tylenol (to get rid of the chills), Motrin (to help the body aches), old antibiotics that I found on my side of the bathroom (finishing antibiotics is for chumps).  The nine companions band together to take the One Ring to be destroyed at Mount Doom. And I've been sitting here in my running-filth for a few hours. I need to shower, although I'll probably break into night sweats and have to re-shower in the morning. 

I'll edit this post tomorrow. 

Until then... fly, you fools! 

7-23-14: "The Long Run", OR "Beginning Again"

Well, it finally happened.

For the first time since I started judiciously blogging, I am a married man.

Yeah, we were pretty stoked. 

 I started this blog not long after my now ex-wife moved out, around summer 2012. I had a few good posts that summer, but then fall rolled around. With both the summer sun and my wife gone, I lapsed into a series of unhealthy habits and unfortunate decisions, things that didn't reflect who I truly was. I suppose, looking back now, that they were all actions of a man trying to figure out who he was outside of a relationship he had invested nearly seven years into; someone trying to figure out how to "Enjoy his own company", as a therapist put it (and yes, I saw a therapist for a while, with absolutely no shame). 

One of the most moving moments during that time is recorded in cartoon form on the wall of Side Bar Grill, one of my favorite places in Lexington. Someone was nice enough to take a picture of the cartoon and Tweet it to me.

During that dark time, I wrote a lot. It was pretty much the only outlet I had for all that depression that didn't involve a bottle, and it was a heck of a lot more healthy. Many of those writings are only now seeing the light of day. Two of the pieces, titled "Storm Clouds" and "Smash", have been posted on my short story blog, Cut and Dry, if you'd like to check them out. Fair warning: they're pretty dark, because it was a pretty dark period in my life, "Smash" in particular.

Spring 2013, I reconnected with a girl named Hillary Smith that I had been sort of acquainted with in high school. We definitely hadn't been friends; I couldn't recall even one conversation the two of us had shared the three years we were at Belfry High School together. Though she'll deny it now, back in those days she was WAAAAAY out of my league. She insists I should have asked her out, that high-school-me and high-school-her totally would have been an item.

She is far too kind. Anyone I was friends with in high school will verify just how far out of my league she was.

We had been Facebook 'friends' for several years, though there had been zero correspondence between us. I did know, though, simply from her posts and pictures, that she was married to another guy she and I went to high school with, they had two daughters, and they were still living somewhere in Kentucky. But in the spring of 2013, I started noticing a few changes in her posts. She was using pronoun phrases like, "A change in my life", and "My latest adventure", and "My new apartment." It was a change that I had noticed in my own moody Facebook posts and short writings.

I'm not sure why I messaged her that day, and asked her about her life change. Call it fate. Call it destiny. I'm calling it God getting fed up with me making poor decisions and nudging me in the right direction.

Fast forward, a little more than a year later. I'm stepping off a plane onto a tiny runway in the Florida Keys, honeymooning with that acquaintance I messaged out of the blue.

She's still out of my league. As long as she never realizes that, I'm in the clear. 

I normally use this blog to describe my various exploits in running, athletics, or anything else I'm doing that could possibly injure me in some way. I mean, the blog is called "Runner Confidential," for crying out loud. But this post has nothing to do with running, exercising, or being active in any way. Unless you count that we've been riding bikes to get around the Key West, which I totally am. Hey, I haven't ridden a bike in, like, twenty years! It's hard! 

No, this blog post is simply to celebrate how far God has brought me and Hillary over the last two years. In case you hadn't heard, she's had a harrowing year or so, herself. If you're curious, one of the many links above goes to her blog. If you're both curious AND lazy, then click here to check it out. 

For those looking to hear more about my exploits on running, I promise I'll get back at it as soon as I'm out of the Florida humidity. Until then, I'm going to be snorkeling, deep-sea fishing, and peddling around an island with the love of my life. 

In case you're desperate for something to read/look at until I get back to running, you can check out 'A Man's World', where I post silly rules for maintaining my manliness while living in a house filled with women. I post there pretty frequently, because my phone makes it easy. Thanks, technology!  

Also, sorry for the sheer number of links in this post. You should click on all of them; they all go to cool stuff. Well, all of them except this one.