"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.  

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. 

"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. 

"Running on Empty" OR "My Easy Week"

It's the last week before spring break. Also known as the Last Great Battle of the school year.

Sure, there will be troubles to come. After all, KPREP is a mere 24 days away (we're keeping count), and there will be days upon days of dreary review material, during which the kids will hate me and I'll hate Common Core and we'll all pretty much loathe life. But this week is the Last Great Battle, because it is the last week before an extended break. And what a break it is; the first break since returning from Christmas vacation, snow days notwithstanding. Long-anticipated through cold, dark, dreary days.

And this week finds most of us, teachers, running on empty.

This is the week when we try to quickly assess over content we know our students will forget over the long week's vacation. The last chance to get another project finished, to try some new activity to keep our students occupied and happy and engaged for just five more days.

So we scour the internet for ideas. We beg, borrow, and steal from colleagues. We comb the resource closest. Anything and everything is thrown at the wall, to see what sticks.

And as the days progress, students get wilder and wilder and wilder.

As of now, there are three days left in the week. Three days I am not looking forward to. But three days I've got to endure.

Which sort of what makes this feel like the longest week of the year.

I'm right on the cusp of race season; my favorite races of the year are all mere weeks away. But nothing this week but anticipation.

Normally I can occupy myself with the NCAA men's basketball championship. But, this year, the University of Kentucky lost in the second round to Indiana, a team with more sleeper potential than anyone living in the Bluegrass state gave them credit for. With them gone, I've lost all interest in college basketball. Which leaves baseball as the only viable sport to become invested in. But even on its best days, baseball can't hold my attention the way football and basketball can. Since the baseball regular season has yet to start, I've got nothing to distract me from the thickness of this miserable week.

But then I remember what this week is really supposed to represent. Yes, it's a week when I'm still responsible to teach my students the content they need... but, more importantly, it's Holy Week.

Holy Week is the week before Jesus' crucifixion, when He returned to Jerusalem even though he knew what awaited him there. On Sunday, He rode triumphantly into the city, as onlookers proclaimed, "Make way for the Christ! Make way for the Christ! Blessed is he, who comes in the name of the Lord!"

Jesus knew word would spread. He knew the teacher of the law and Roman guards alike would surround him before the end of the week. He knew of his arrest, his farce of a trial, his conviction. He knew he'd endure hours and hours of torture before being subjected to the most painful death imaginable. But still, he rode into Jerusalem for the Passover festivities with his head held high. He knew who'd send him, and what he'd come to do. And he thought we were worth it.

How whiney must my complaints sound to him?

I gave up social media for Lent, and it's been difficult. This last week of media abstinence has me nearly foaming at the mouth to open Facebook, just for the heck of it. It's almost as though giving it up for Lent has actually increased my dependence on in instead of breaking me of the habit cold-turkey.

On this day, nearly two thousand years ago, my Lord was giving one of his last addresses to his closest followers. I can't wait four more days to take a personality quiz?

A woman anointed Jesus's feet with perfume and her tears, overcome by the weight of her sin and guilt in the presence of her Savior. And I'm complaining that I have to teach three more days before I get a week off?

My Friday is going to consist of whatever activity I can throw together to keep my kids occupied until the final bell rings. Jesus' Friday consisted of him crying at a lonely rock, pleading with his Father one last time for some way, any other way, to save all of humanity than what he was about to go through.

On Saturday, my family and I are flying to Disney World, the self-proclaimed 'Happiest place on earth'. Jesus would get no sleep on Friday night, because of his trial that takes place in the dead of night. He endures stones, whips, thorns, and finally the cross.

When I lay it out like that, I know I've got nothing to complain about.

But, darn it. I'm a weak human. I know what Jesus went through for me, and the mark it should make on my life and my thankfulness for my job, and the ever-warming weather, and a week's break. But those happy thoughts feel awfully useless when I'm staring down a room full of thirty-three 7th graders who're losing their minds.

 The three days left this week are going to be the longest of the whole year. And the struggle is going to be remembering that I shouldn't complain about ANYTHING that happens during them, because no matter how many last-minute grades I have to put in, disciplinary actions I have to take, or meetings I have to attend... the end of my Passover week is going to be a heck of a lot easier than Jesus' was.

A while ago I wrote a short story in Cut and Dry, my creative blog, from the point of view of the Apostle Peter, set on Good Friday. If you have a moment, check out "Upon This Rock".

"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.

"The Old and the Young" OR "The Size of Our Footprints"

Sometimes I feel like all my posts on this blog revolve around getting older. I'm 33, so I'm not what I'd call "old", but it's fair to say that I'm not what many would call a 'young man' anymore. Then again, it's probably also fair to say that almost no one really "feels" old. Old is a word reserved for people older than YOU. It's for those people who were older than you back when you were really young. Old is a word we use for our parents and grandparents.

But it's not a world I'm able to use for one of my grandparents anymore.

Around a week ago, as I was celebrating my favorite team winning the Super Bowl, I got a call from my dad, stating that his father, my paternal grandfather, had passed away from complications of Alzheimer's disease. It wasn't a surprise; Elmer Smith had been in the care of a nursing home for almost a decade, and his cognition and lucid moments had been ebbing the whole time.

Two weeks ago, it looked like he was in his final days. So Hillary and I drove to Pikeville, KY to be with my family.

Elmer, my grandfather, my Pappaw, had been transferred to Pikeville Medical Center because he was no longer able to take food and water. There was no feeding tube.

By the end of the week, when Hillary and I arrived, he had been transferred back to the nursing home. Because he'd taken a slightly turn for the better, partly, but mostly because his Medicaid would no longer pay for him to remain in the hospital.

Though she'd never met him, Hillary had heard great things about my Pappaw from her own grandparents, who had been very close friends with him earlier in their lives. In fact, when I had told her grandfather, Ronnie Hensley, that Elmer Smith was my grandfather, he'd been astonished at the coincidence. But upon reflection, all of us acknowledge that such events are rarely coincidence at all, but the hand of God pushing things into place.

When we arrived at the nursing home, Pappaw wasn't awake. Apparently he hadn't actually been awake for a long time; my own parents had said they hadn't seen him open his eyes in over a year. Still, I spoke to him. I held his hand. I introduced Hillary, and told him about the two beautiful great-granddaughters he now had. Hillary spoke to him, and touched his face.

And he opened his eyes.

I'm not sure if there was anything behind those blue eyes, but they were open. He mumbled a few words. He even laughed, although I can't be sure if it was because of something one of us said or simply something in his mind. But it doesn't really matter, because I got to interact with him one last time.

When he passed last Sunday, Hillary and I took off from work to drive in for the funeral. But, after dropping off the girls at school and daycare, a band of snow slammed the area, and we were forced to stay in town. I had no peace about it for the whole day. How could I? Where can someone find peace in knowing they've missed the celebration of a life of someone so prolific?

Over a belated brunch, when we realized we couldn't brave the interstate in the weather, Hillary reminded me that Elmer Smith was not being laid to rest. In fact, he wasn't there at all. Elmer Smith knew Christ on a deep level, and had spent a large portion of his life preaching the Gospel to others in  a little Primitive Baptist Church in their hollow of Blackberry, Kentucky.

Alzheimers had taken Elmer Smith's memories, withered his body, and dulled his mind. But his soul belonged to God, and everything else that had been taken from him had been completely restored. He was not only more whole than he had been in a decade; he was more whole than he had ever been on earth, even at the height of his youth.

It's comforting to know that I will see him again one day, in a way I never got to see him on earth. 'Old' was a word I'd reserved for my grandfather when I was a little boy. The next time I see him, 'old' will not even be in my vocabulary. But it's still not much consolation to those of us left here on earth, staring at footprints that seem so large, far too large for us 'young' people to fill.

I am thirty-three years old. I have two stepdaughters, six and five years old. I am a little younger than my dad was when my brother and I were the age of Faith, my oldest child. When I look at my father, he still seems the same to me that he was then, and sometimes I still feel like the same child who ran around in the hills of Turkey Creek. I don't feel as old as my dad seemed when I was Faith's age. He seemed almost like one of the Greek heroes of legend, able to do absolutely anything.

I certainly don't feel like a Greek hero, although I may be in the eyes of my kids. I can't ask them; it's not really a fair question, not to mention that they might not have any idea how to answer it. And it might simply take the context of years to really put something like that into perspective. No doubt, she at least sees me as old, even though I don't feel it.

When I was kid, growing up, and I didn't understand my parent's seemingly pointless motivations for making me go to bed or eat my greens or whatever, I'd roll my eyes when they'd say, "You'll understand when you have kids."

As the 'young' are apt to do, I thought they were too old to understand.

But they were right. With kids of my own, it all suddenly makes sense.

Maybe my own footprints are getting bigger all the time. Right now, when I compare them to the people who came before me, the old people, my footprints seem so small. But, to those younger than me, how do my footprints appear? When my time comes, will my footprints still seem small to me?

Elmer Smith was a humble man, but I think he had an idea just how large his footprints seemed to us young people.

I recall one summer, when I was a teenager, a family gathering at my parents' old house. Pappaw was there, in full health. There were maybe thirty people there, once all the sons and daughters and cousins and grandkids were counted. I remember, standing next to Pappaw, and saying, as I gestured to the clamor and excitement of all the extended family, "You know, Pappaw, all of this is your fault."

He laughed, and said something to the extent of, "I know. And I'm darn proud of it."

You're missed, Elmer Smith. We'll see you soon.

Elmer Smith in the US Navy, circa 1950, Korean War