The Secret to Writing

I've always known I wanted to be a writer.

I loved reading, I loved creating "Karen's Kronicle" for Mrs. Friesen's sixth-grade class. I saw the power of journalism when my article in the 7th grade newspaper about our ancient multi-use track and basketball uniforms (we had the same uniforms for both sports) resulted in new track-only uniforms (with no numbers, yea!).

Much to my chagrin, Hillsboro High School discontinued its newspaper, The Oracle, right before my freshman year. I signed up for yearbook instead.

At Tabor College, I joined The View staff right away, and spent three years as managing editor and editor.

As an English major, I wrote countless papers. On several Friday nights I remember lugging books up the concrete stairs of the administration building to the deserted second-floor computer room. Deserted, that is, except for Melodie Hofer, head editor and English education major. We commiserated as we knocked out our assignments or wrote the next week's editorial or column.

But once I graduated, I didn't find a way to be gainfully employed while writing. I took a job to help pay the bills and enrolled in a few journalism classes from Les Anderson at WSU.

In my spare time, I wrote and edited Youth Horizons' newsletter for about five years. When I was a stay-at-home mom, I put together a newsletter for our church, River Community, a gig that lasted for at least a dozen years.

But at different points along the way, I would try to get more serious with my writing.
When my youngest started kindergarten, I visited my former Tabor professor, Katie Funk Wiebe, for bi-weekly mentoring sessions in her apartment 3D. I always thought that was the coolest apartment number ever, and would play with essay titles in my head, like "Mentoring in 3D."
I remember Katie asked me when I wrote, and I said I was planning to write in the mornings after my run. The answer satisfied her.

Putting that into practice was another matter, however.
I had always thought I was disciplined, but without deadlines imposed by a professor or someone on the church staff, I was adrift. Working up a freelance article for a magazine that might or might not want to publish it somehow slipped down the "to do" list after grocery shopping, laundry, and driving for field trips.

Blogging came along, and I started this one so I would have a creative outlet. I could write every day!

Or, at least, once a week.

Time between blogs stretched to a month, then several.

My book club read "Surprised by Motherhood" by Lisa-Jo Baker. I think much of the book grew from her own blog, which she wrote after putting her small children to bed. From what I remember she was working full time and had a two-hour commute--each way. "Well, good for you, Lisa-Jo Baker," I thought.

A few years later at my suggestion my book club read "Notes from a Blue Bike" by Tsh Oxenreider. I remember Tsh described how she purposely would go to bed early, soon after her kids, so she would be able to get up and write on her blog for several hours before her kids woke up. Nearly everyone in my book club disliked this book. I didn't like it very much either, mainly because I figured out Tsh started her blog only a year or so before I did, and she was supporting her family with it. How in the world?

A few months ago I was reading several of Delia Ephron's books (she and her sister, Nora, wrote the screenplay for "Sleepless in Seattle" and several other films). In her book of essays, "Sister Mother Husband Dog" she says her shrink taught her how to write. He told her to sit at her desk from 10 a.m. to noon, then do it again from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. Apparently that worked.

My book club recently read "Bel Canto" by Ann Patchett, so I was especially interested when I heard an interview with her on NPR. Ann was mainly promoting her newest and most autobiographical novel, "Commonwealth." but she also answered some questions from listeners. One asked about writing, and she mentioned that she put all of her writing advice in an essay "The Getaway Car," which is found in her book of essays, "This is the Story of a Happy Marriage." I checked it out. She said when people who want to write talk to her, she tells them to write for an hour every day for a month, and then get back to her. Few people do.

She also had a lot of things to say about writer's block (doesn't believe it exists), and how she has these beautiful, ephemeral ideas for a novel that float around like butterflies, then she pins them down and kills them.

Strangely, I am encouraged. Perhaps because over the years and across a range of writers I am seeing a pattern emerge in their advice.

In fact, it's the same advice Nike has been advocating for decades.

Just do it.

A Father's Love

This morning when I was going through my email, intending to read over the Sunday School lesson I would need to present to my 2nd grade class, I got sidetracked by a post from Gospel for Asia. It was about Ruth, who was rejected by her father because she was his fourth daughter and he had wanted a son. In the interview, she says she was a "beggar for love."

But she met some missionaries and eventually was introduced to the one true God who loved her. The women missionaries mentored her and encouraged her to go to Bible college. Before she left, she went to her father to ask for his blessing. When she bowed to touch his feet, a cultural sign of respect, he kicked her in the face.

Several years later, after she graduated, her pastor asked her to return and work in her home church. She declined, saying that her dad was not kind to her. The pastor said her dad had changed. He now believed in Jesus.

When she got off the bus, her dad was there to meet her. He greeted her--for the first time ever--with a warm embrace. "I feel like Heaven has come down," Ruth says.

I was in a puddle of tears by this point. You can hear the story for yourself on my link from earlier today.

But as moving as her story is, I think, "How lucky am I?"

I haven't gone for a day without knowing that my father loves me. I haven't ever thought of questioning it. He's always provided for me. He's corrected me when I needed it (we had a dreaded spanking stick with a hole at the end, so it could hang on a nail, always at the ready).

He went with me to the Pioneer Girls father-daughter basket dinners (note to self, see about having something like that with our church youth group), he read us the Christmas story every year before we opened our presents, even though it was late on Christmas Eve. He sat with Mom when she read my sister and me Bible stories at bedtime, and prayed with us every night until we were well in to elementary school. He read devotions every morning when we were eating breakfast.

He didn't make it to most of my basketball games or track meets, but he didn't miss many choir or band concerts. And when he couldn't attend, I never doubted that he didn't love me. I knew he worked really hard and would have come if he had been able.

And after I'd gotten married, he heard Dobson or someone talk about how you should take your daughters on dates, and I think he felt bad that he'd missed an opportunity. And going on dates with him would have been nice, but I still knew I was loved.

But I think in part to make up for lost time, he and Mom have made a great effort to attend my kids' events. They have been to countless wrestling meets, swim meets, football games, basketball games, band concerts (no choir concerts with my kids), and graduation parties. And they were there in 2009 when I finished my first marathon.

Because I always knew I was loved, it wasn't hard for me to see God as a loving Heavenly Father. So while the Gospel for Asia's story about Ruth is an amazing story of transformation, my story of lifelong love and acceptance is equally amazing.

I remember the moment before my dad led me into the sanctuary at my wedding. He was escorting me and we paused at the top of the stairs. He smiled at me, and while I was clutching his arm, with his other hand he patted my hand. I am so thankful that the very alert photographer captured this moment, because it encapsulates my relationship with my dad perfectly. I am blessed.

Family Promise

I am so excited about a really cool opportunity our church has to help homeless families by partnering with Family Promise of Greater Wichita. When our pastor, Dave Mitchell, first mentioned we might be housing homeless families in our Sunday School rooms my reaction was, "What!?"

Of course, I had visions of trying to teach in my 2nd grade Sunday School classroom with bedrolls and clothes stashed in the corner next to the drawers of crayons and construction paper.

I quickly learned that would not be the case. In the program, Sunday is a transition day, so the cots used by the homeless families would be packed up before church services, and then taken to the next church in the rotation later in the day.

Speaking of cots, they will look like this:

And what's so cool about these brand-new cots is that they're paid for!

The program is planning to serve 14 people at a time, so they needed 14 cots. Our church had a bake sale this summer to raise money for the cots. I meant to bake cookies, but with our lawn service, summer is a busy time and I didn't get any made. However, I was so happy when Dave said he thought our family should donate enough for one cot, because that's what I wanted to do too!

We were not the only West Ridgers exited about this project. The bake sale raised $3613.72, more than enough for all the cots. And you thought Girl Scouts were the experts in cookie sales!

Our church was blessed over two years ago to be able to buy the former Crossroads (and former Country Acres) building near 13th and Ridge. On Sundays we use every inch of it, with babies packed in every nursery, and kids crowded in every Sunday School room or chasing balls and each other in the gym.

But during the week, it's kind of empty. I see the Family Promise concept as part of the new "sharing economy" sort of like Uber and Air B&B. We have the resources, let's put them to use more of the time. The families in the program will hang out at the hosting church in the evening. (Each of the 13 churches will host four times a year, once every quarter). Church volunteers will prepare meals each night. Some might play with the kids. Two church volunteers will be there at all times for security.

During the day, the families will go to a day house, which brings me to another really cool thing.

 Lorraine Avenue Mennonite Church donated this house to be used for Family Promise. I grew up in a Mennonite Brethren Church, so it's really cool to see a church from our sister branch of Mennonites lead out in this way. Their branch has historically been more focused on social issues, while the MBs focus more on a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. But it's my relationship with Jesus that makes me want to extend a helping hand and share Jesus' love with these struggling parents and kids, so I am thrilled to be joining them. I completely agree with the title of Hillary Clinton's 1996 book "It Takes a Village" to raise a child, but if Clinton is looking to the government to be that village, that's where she and I differ. I've always heard that the church can run programs more efficiently and effectively (and offer real hope and real solutions besides) so I am anxious to see what God can do through the people at Family Promise.

I remember reading articles in The Wichita Eagle about the challenges of educating the roughly 2,000 homeless school-age children. One of the biggest hurdles was getting them to school, and keeping them in the same school. One of the really cool things is the school bus will pick up the school-aged kids from the Lorraine Ave. day house. No matter which church they are staying at for night, while they are in the program they will have the stability of the same school.

But how will the families get to the day center? In this 15-passenger van, donated by a family from West Ridge!

At the day center, volunteers will work with the parents to help them find a job, or figure out what kinds of training or classes they need so they will be able to support their families.

As if all of those things aren't enough, last week Family Promise of Greater Wichita named Jacqueline Cook Green as the new Executive Director.

Jacque married our friend Chris Green about a year ago, and I've loved getting to know her. Since moving to Kansas she's been working for a different nonprofit, but before that she worked for Family Promise in Texas, and it's been her great desire to see this awesome program help at-risk families in Wichita. I was so surprised and pleased when I heard that she would be joining them.

Our church isn't scheduled to host until the week of Thanksgiving. I can't wait to see what will happen next.

Worrier or Warrior?

I've always been able to sleep really well. On vacations in unfamiliar hotels or camping, I count on getting a good night's sleep, and I do. When my kids were little, Dave often nudged me awake, "Karen, the baby's crying," so I would breastfeed her or him, then go right back to sleep myself.

Now my kids are grown, nearly out of the house, and I'm finding sleep doesn't come so easy. They aren't always home when I go to bed, but they are expected back. They are driving their own vehicles and motorcycles, so I am finding lots of things to worry about.

I remember Dave's grandma always worrying about her grandkids for various reasons, and motorcycles were the worst. I determined I wouldn't be like that. Dave and I have had hours of carefree riding on the Harley all over Colorado and Arkansas, but last year when Caleb got a Harley and joined us on a few rides around Kansas, I noticed I was constantly checking the rear view mirror to make sure he had made the last turn successfully and was still upright.

Along with their safety, I worry about their futures. Their choices have been different from the ones I expected, and far different from my own. I chose Tabor College, a Christian school that happened to be in Hillsboro, my hometown. Caleb chose the Kansas Air National Guard to help pay for college, studied a semester at Butler but is now thinking he'll follow my brother David's career path and become a lineman. Harrison leaves in a week for New Jersey to begin basic training with the U.S. Coast Guard. I don't know how it will turn out.

So when I wake at night I have plenty of things to mull over. The other night I was nearly consumed with worry. I thought, "Oh no! I've become a worrier." So I prayed.

My long-time go-to verse is Phil 4:6-7 "Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

I am committing to pray that verse when I wake in the middle of the night. Because I would much rather be a warrior than a worrier.

Brothers and a '57 Chevy

My uncle Al Ediger passed away July 6, and I was able to attend the funeral on Saturday in Grand Island, Nebraska with my parents and sister.

When I think about my uncle, this story that my mom often tells gives a good illustration of the unassuming and thoughtful man he was.

My mom was sixth out of seven kids. Her sister Kathrine was 2nd. The rest were boys. Even though there were five, my mom says, "I never felt like I had too many brothers. I liked them all."

My grandpa Ediger would never be described as "trendy" or "flashy," but he did get a new car every few years, and he was a Chevrolet man. In 1957, he traded in his old car for the latest model. He was surprised and possibly a little embarrassed when his sons expressed keen interest in this fancy '57 Chevy.

At a family gathering about a decade ago, my mom asked if anyone had a picture of that car. I don't know what was said, but months later a package was left on her doorstep. Inside was a framed picture of her family's '57 Chevy. Her brother Al, who drove a pilot car for the last 15 years of his life, had made a detour through Hillsboro to drop it off. My mom was touched by the thoughtful gift, and disappointed that she had happened to run to the grocery store that day and missed his surprise visit.

A few years later, Al called to say he would be driving through Hillsboro that evening and asked if he could stop by. She said that would be fine. It was a few days after Christmas, but on the Epp side we don't usually get together to celebrate until the 28th or 29th, so our family was actually all together reading the Christmas story and opening presents when he arrived. I think he was surprised to find a houseful of people, Typically shy, Uncle Al said he didn't want to intrude, but we insisted he stay for a while. His visit made our Christmas extra special that year.

Al was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer June 6, a month before he died. From what my cousins tell me, they used that month to say goodbye to him, to say the things that in our busy, surface lives don't always get said. Al asked them deep questions about their spiritual lives. They reassured him, he encouraged them. He made sure all of his grandchildren knew that they could ask Jesus into their hearts, and at least one of them did. Then he was ready.

At his request, his cremated remains were placed in a stainless steel box crafted by his oldest son, and driven to the cemetery in his pilot car. Al, however, wasn't there. He'd already taken the highway to heaven and reunited with his brother and grandson, and all the others that have passed before.

Kitchen tours and gooseberry pie

A few weeks ago week I had the privilege of giving my first official kitchen tour. It was for the friends of our house's previous owner. I served gooseberry pie.

What? You've never heard of inviting in the friends of the people you bought your house from? You've never baked them a pie? You've never heard of gooseberries? I see I have some explaining to do.

Gooseberries are a marble-sized sour fruit that grow on prickly bushes. 

I inherited half a dozen gooseberry bushes when we moved into our house in Benjamin Hills in 2013. I was familiar with gooseberries because I remembered picking them on our farm when I was seven or eight. One year my sister and I sold them to the The Iron Kettle in Hillsboro. I think we made $3. Then the bush died, and with it, our source of income.

So when we were in the process of buying the house, I was mildly interested to discover I was to become queen of a gooseberry plantation. I like the sour-tasting fruit in pie, but if I had the choice I would probably choose cherry or strawberry rhubarb instead. However, everyone I met connected with the house--next door neighbors, the executor of the estate, and a friend of the deceased owners--talked about the gooseberry bushes and raved about her gooseberry pie. It seemed she had created a group of aficionados.

I dutifully picked the gooseberries every June, freezing them in bags with four cups each. I think I got two or three bags in 2013 and 2014. Last year, however, was a banner year. The frequent rains came at exactly the right time and the gooseberries swelled plumper than I'd ever seen them, and they kept coming and coming. I put enough in the freezer for eight pies, and then gave away bags to my aunts at a family gathering.

So that brings us up to speed on the gooseberries.

At a funeral of a former neighbor, my husband Dave and I spoke with Gyla, the woman who had been engaged to John, the man who owned our house. Now you need to pay attention, because this is where it gets complicated. Gyla had lived two doors down on the same street for probably 30 years. Her husband had died a few years ago, as had Brenda (of the gooseberry pie fame) the wife of John, the owner of our house. So John and Gyla, who had both lost their spouses, after a time decided to marry each other. They were going to live in John's house, but days before the wedding, he died unexpectedly. I think it was a heart attack. So Gyla ended up staying put in her house, and we bought John's house and became Gyla's neighbor two doors down, until about a year later when she moved to a condo.

We hadn't seen Gyla in a while, so at the funeral Dave was telling her about the renovations to our house. Since that was to have been her home, she had a lot of interest in his description of how we'd removed the L-shaped walls between the living room, dining room, and kitchen. She said she'd love to see the finished project. We told her that when the granite counter tops were installed, we would give her a call.

The granite company took longer than we'd planned, but finally the counter tops were in, and then a week later the island top was installed. Gyla said she was excited to see our house, and she knew of a few people who would be interested as well. Would it be okay to invite a few of John's old friends and the executor of the estate? Sure, I said. We set the day for Tuesday after Easter. I figured since we were hosting our Easter family gathering, the house would still be reasonably clean.

I told Gyla to plan on having coffee and dessert at my place. I got a bag of gooseberries out of my freezer and baked a pie.

Gyla showed up with a gorgeous glass gazing ball, done in a mosaic of greens and turquoise as a hostess gift. I loved it. The tour felt a little awkward at first, since I'd just met most of them. However, the couples were appreciative. They told me they had many good memories of the hours they'd spent in my house over the years. Apparently it was the party house, and whomever lost at chicken-foot dominoes would have to take home the dreaded rubber chicken. The chicken was lost for a while, Gyla said. It had been found in our hall closet when they were cleaning out our house for the estate. The same hall closet that we considered demolishing in our recent remodel, but decided to keep because it contains a heating duct (apparently those are important) and because we wanted to maintain an entryway. Plus, I needed a place to keep my sweeper.

I love stories like the traveling rubber chicken, and it's fun thinking about it roosting in my closet for a season. But what I hadn't thought about was how these people had lost their friend with no warning. Even though several years have passed, the ache is probably still there. Seeing their friend's house again, with the parts that are the same and the parts that have been transformed, might have brought a little closure. Having a slice of gooseberry pie, made with Brenda's (John's wife's, remember?) recipe (she had shared it with our next-door neighbor, so I got it from her) might have brought back some memories that had been tucked away.

And I have to hand it to Gyla--she is a "Why not?" person. Why not take someone up on an offer to tour their kitchen? Why not see if you can bring a few friends? Why not make it a party?

In an email, Gyla offered this bit of wisdom gleaned from her experiences:

"One important thing I learned from losing Gene and then John is that new memories can be made after people die.  When you participate in activities about the things you used to talk about or do with them it adds new joy to those memories."

Out of the gooseberries life has handed her, she has made pie.

My kitchen now with "The Big Island," granite countertops, glass tile back splash, open area above original cabinets, separate ice maker, and new lighting. 

I have lots more stories of our remodel, and I will take more pictures. Stay tuned!

Come as you are

Last Saturday when Dave's sisters stopped in unexpectedly I took advantage of the situation and started planning our Easter gathering.

Traditionally, Dave and I have hosted Easter. We started having it even when Janet (Dave's mom) was still alive because it was the one family gathering that we might have a chance of being outside, and we had a small dining space but a nice patio. We also had a nice yard for Easter egg hunts, thanks to my husband, Dave.

So we quickly planned our menu, which wasn't hard. I assigned Julie to bring deviled eggs, because that's what she always brings and they are as beautiful as they are delicious. We decided Jennifer can bring the traditional creamed asparagus casserole, and Julie promised to get her Janet's recipe. I'd already planned on having ham (and Aldi had bone-in spiral sliced double glazed hams half price after Christmas, so it's waiting in the freezer for Dave to fix it) and scalloped potatoes (or hash brown potato casserole if I get pressed for time). My mom likes to bake bread, so we let her bring it. She also is always quite willing to make pies, so I assigned her that as well.

 Thank goodness Jesus' Easter celebration isn't like mine. He doesn't require us to bring anything. Just come. Empty-handed. Bad habits and addictions still in place. He went to the cross to pay for our sins and give us the power to change. We just have to accept it and come as we are.

Shorts and the truth

"Mom, why are you wearing those shorts with tags?" my 15-year-old son Harrison asked me as I was clearing a kitchen counter.
I remember the conversation like yesterday, although it was nearly three years ago. I was embarrassed, caught doing something slightly stupid, something that seemed to happen with increasing regularity now that I had teenagers.
"Well, Harrison," I said, "I am just trying these shorts on. I bought them at Sam's, and I wasn't sure if I was going to keep them."
And then he said two of the the most perfect things he could possibly say:  "I think you should keep them," he said. (YES! Let's face it, ladies. Keeping the item in question is ALWAYS the right answer!)
But then here came the kicker:  "Because they look nice on you," he said.
Because they look nice on you! BECAUSE THEY LOOK NICE ON YOU! I nearly hyperventilated at this simple, unsolicited compliment, delivered casually as he was passing through the kitchen.
Now I know what all of you moms are thinking, and you are correct. Harrison is going to make an awesome husband someday.
I suspected this when he was a preschooler or even younger. He's always known how to give me perfect hugs--not too tight, not too quick. Just the right amount of squeeze for the right amount of time.
And at the right time. He often senses when I need a hug.

Harrison giving a hug to his sister, Laurel

Last spring, Harrison's power of perception stopped me in my tracks.
It was mid-morning on a Saturday, and I had returned home from a 10-mile run with my long-time friend and running partner, Kristen Doerksen. I was discouraged because I was having trouble getting back into running after taking off much of the winter to recover from a hysterectomy.
We were in the kitchen (where apparently, most of our important conversations take place). Harrison asked, "How was your run, Mom?"
"Oh, it was awful. I had to walk a lot. I'm surprised Kristen puts up with me, I'm so slow," I complained.
Harrison said, "Mom, you and Kristen have been friends for a long time, and I bet she's just glad to spend time with you."
I stopped and looked at him, thinking simultaneously, "He's right," and "Where did this guy come from?"
His response made me replay my griping in my mind. I hadn't fully meant it, not really. Just sort of. It was just a lie I was entertaining inside my brain. Harrison's astute assessment smacked of truth and made me pause.
On our next run, I relayed this conversation to Kristen, and as Harrison had predicted, she confirmed she was happy for my company and our friendship spanning more than two decades trumped any speed records she might or might not be setting on training runs.
So the takeaway value for me was to be more vigilant on the random thoughts I allowed into my mind. I was discouraged because I believed my forever friend was barely tolerating me because I couldn't keep up. But that was a lie.
I also saw that I need to recognize truth when someone speaks it into my life,even if it come from unexpected sources. Although I have to admit, my son is pretty perceptive.

Kristen and I ran the 10-mile Turkey Trot before Thanksgiving last year.

  

Kicking it in Cancun

Two days ago my husband and I returned from a vacation in Cancun. On our last day there, something unexpected happened and I am determined to write about it before my tan fades.

My story, however, starts five years ago, on our first trip to Cancun to celebrate our 20th anniversary. On our way from the airport to our hotel, I noticed a terra-cotta path running in front of the hotels, all along the boulevard. So for my early morning jogs, I would set out one direction or the other and enjoy watching the groundskeepers tending the shrubs and watering the grass as I went along.

Groundskeepers tidy up the areas in front of the hotels every morning.

Dave (my husband) had the idea that I could run my six miles in one direction and then take the bus back. That way I could see more of the sights along the path. I had wanted to check out an athletic park I'd spied closer to the city center, so I tucked some pesos in the pocket of my running shorts and that's what I did.

We returned to Cancun two years ago. We stayed in different resort, but it was also on Kukulcan, the hotel zone boulevard, so I ran on the path for my morning runs.

On Sunday morning as I approached the downtown area, I noticed more people running than usual. As I got closer, I saw they had race numbers. Happy for the company, I joined in and ran with them. After a few attempts asking other runners in my limited Spanish, I determined that they were running their choice of either a 5K (one loop) or a 10K (two loops). The morning was unusually hot, so when we passed a water station with incredibly cold water bags, I took one.

I happened upon this race on a Sunday morning in 2014.

Intrigued, I followed them to the finish area and discreetly checked it out. They had banners, refreshments, medals--everything I would expect from races back home.

They had a pretty fruit table.

They had cool medals.

This year, when we decided to go back to Cancun, I remembered the race and wondered if it would be the same weekend we were there. I studied my photos and saw the name of the race. I Googled "Unidos Por La Pas" and found it. Yes, it was to be Jan. 31, our last day there.

Because the race price was in pesos, I didn't register from at home. In hindsight, I probably should have.

A few days after we got to our resort, I went to the front desk area and showed one of the gals my printout. Their internet service wasn't working at the time, but she pulled out her personal smart phone and found some information. Apparently I could either go to the Red Cross downtown or to Innovasport in the La Isla mall to register. Since I needed to get the kids some Cancun tank tops, I decided to head to the mall.

I had a map, and the buses are fairly easy to navigate. Still, I got confused, thinking the mall I was headed to would be before we passed our 2010 hotel, but I saw our Gran Caribe out the window as we whizzed by. At the next stop some people were getting off at a large mall so I decided to get off too and shop a bit before I tried to go back and find the mall I needed. Imagine my relief when I saw the sign "La Isla" and realized I was at the right place after all!

I found a directory and this store:

 A girl helped me "inscriber" (register) for the race, which took about 20 minutes of opening various windows on the store computer and consulting a few fellow employees. I used my credit card and the pesos changed to dollars through the magic of international banking. (I have checked my bank. The charge was $15.38 which was correct).

Packet pick-up was Saturday. The printout the Innovasport employee gave me after registering didn't say where it would be, and the other employees didn't know. I mentioned the gal from the hotel had said the other location was the Red Cross, so we assumed it would be there. She had assured me it was an easy bus ride because it was only a block from Wal-Mart.

So around 11 a.m. I tore myself away from the beach, threw on a cover-up, grabbed my information and flagged down the bus marked "Wal-Mart." It dropped me off a couple of blocks away, but some of the ubiquitous street corner tour guides pointed me in the right direction. Still, when I got to Wal-Mart, I couldn't figure out which direction I needed to go. A guy who spoke English told me the Red Cross was on the other side of the nearby tower, so I crossed the intersection and followed the block around the tower, and there were a handful of people sitting on benches waiting to be seen by someone at the Red Cross. The hotel gal had said the coffee shop right next to the Red Cross was actually the race headquarters, and I felt immense relief when I saw a corner store with two blue "5 ta Carrera Unidos por la Paz" race posters on either side of the counter.

So THIS is where we pick up our packets!

However, they did not have the race packets. They directed me to the Peugeot dealership, which was across the street from Wal-Mart. A girl who had been hanging out at the store walked back with me a block until we had crossed the street and made sure I saw the letters "Peugeot" as she pointed.

My 16-year old tour guide.

Inside, the race people were very organized and another high school aged girl who spoke good English guided me through the process of getting my shirt (thank goodness a mujers grande fit, because that's all they had left), and initializing my chip (they used the ones that you tie on your shoe and return at the end of the race). My name "Karen Franklin Franklin" popped up on their computer, and I was good to go. (At Innovasport, I told them to put "Franklin" twice, because they needed two last names, and I wasn't sure which one comes first, if it should be Epp Franklin or Franklin Epp).

The race was to begin at 7 a.m. I considered just running to the start from my hotel, since it was only 3.5 km away, but since it would still be dark I decided to take the bus. I double checked with a guy at the front desk, and he said I needed to get off on the first right after passing the park. However, the street was already blocked off for the race, so the bus never went right. I finally asked someone because the bus had traveled around the circle and was about to head back down the hotel strip. The bus driver let me off.

A guy named Hector, who was returning home after working all night at a disco, graciously guided me across the busy intersection and pointed me in the direction of the Palacio Municipal.

I made it! The Palacio Municipal. Someone told me the mayor lives here. Yo no se.

An emcee was walking through the crowd, interviewing people at random. He stopped me, I told him I was from the United States, Kansas. He asked how many people came with me. I said it was only me, my husband was sleeping back at our hotel. He laughed and in rapid Spanish relayed the information plus who knows what else to the crowd.

The emcee interviews another participant.

I'm ready to run!

Another guy he interviewed was wearing a triathlon jersey and said he was from Manchester. After the emcee moved on I introduced myself and found out he was indeed from Manchester, England and was on the last day of his honeymoon. He said he tries to find a race wherever he travels. He mentioned it had been a bit of an ordeal with several calls and assistance from his hotel staff to arrange to pick up his packet that morning.

One detail I'd overlooked on the race poster was that there were also races for the ninos (kids). Those were first. So I had plenty of time to hang out. I saw a gal with a labradoodle, which made me miss Odie, our Cavapoo.

I was missing my jog dog Odie.

I started talking to a group of gals with really cool running shirts that had their nicknames printed on the back. They said they run on the path along Kukulcan every day. I had them tell me their ages. Most were in their 30s. One was 20-something, and one was 40, the only one in my age group.

The friendly Cancun running club and me.

They were amazed that I was 47, and they all said I looked much younger, so I liked them immediately. I asked to take their picture, and they insisted that I be in it as well.

When the race started, everyone took off fast. I thought maybe too fast, but no one seemed to be having trouble. I was noticing how humid the Cancun air was, so I was thrilled to see the first hydration station at the 1K mark. I was also excited because I think these Friolin water bags are the coolest things ever. And they were cool--chilled, in fact. Plus, they hold more water than you could ever drink in a race (500 ml), so after biting off the corner and sucking out all the wonderful cool water I wanted, I squirted the rest all over myself. Invigorating!

After the race I caught up with the running club again. While waiting for results, I found out one was a high school teacher in Cancun and teaches web design. Another worked in a boutique at one of the resorts. The 20-something gal said she had moved to Cancun only two weeks ago to take a job at the airport directing airplane maintenance. Somehow she'd gotten hooked up with these gals (I think one of their husbands works at the airport with her, but don't quote me) and she said they had been welcoming and friendly. I could easily imagine.

We took pictures in front of the mural they were painting.

The results came in, and I saw I took second! Angelica, the 40-year-old from the group, had taken 1st in our age group.

Yes, Franklin Franklin Karen is Master Female #2!

Then the unexpected happened. I turned around and one of the gals was handing me one of their club running shirts. She asked if I would wear it on the podium for them.

I remember our church's women's ministry leader Julie LeFevre describing a time in middle school after a sleepover that she knew she and the other girl were really and truly friends because the friend loaned her a hoodie. I felt the same way. Would I wear one of their super-cool club running shirts? Heck yeah! Just give me a moment to choke back the tears.

They handed me one of their shirts to wear for the podium!

We had to take another group picture. The shirt I am
wearing belongs to the gal in the black tank top.
I think she didn't race because she was
watching kids.

The international symbol of
female friendship:
 wearing each others' clothes!

The mens masters (40-49) winners joined us.

I couldn't get over how quickly these women embraced me and welcomed me into their circle. I was amazed. Now we are friends on Facebook!





On the bus ride back, I sat with another race participant, Daisy (in Spanish, her name is Margarita, she told me), who happened to be vacationing with her family from Bogota, Colombia. I have a soft spot in my heart for Colombia because I spent a summer on a mission trip there when I was in college.

I felt like a celebrity walking into our resort. Mary was back on duty. 

She was the one who had helped me register in the first place!

Mary was pleased to hear I had taken second place in my age group.

How many people does it take to run a race in Cancun? 

A lot, but the experience is priceless!

Generation Gulch

This week I reached a milestone. As of Monday, I have officially been a mother for 20 years. Here is proof:

No longer teenagers- Caleb's 20th birthday was Jan. 11, Bailey's 20th was Jan. 12. After the kids had been in elementary school together for several years we figured out that her mom and I had been in the same hospital at the same time.

The proof is not 20 candles on the cake, because I didn't have that many. The proof is my son, Caleb, showing two fingers while his long-time school friend, Bailey, is making a "0."

And the wisdom that I've gleaned after two decades of mothership?

It's not a generation gap. It's bigger. It's a gulch.

The distance doesn't seem so far when I look back. After all, I can remember high school and the nearly 30 years after. I can still relate.

But I also remember being in high school and looking at my parents, who 30 years ahead of me had three kids, jobs, and mortgage payments. I couldn't relate.

I thought I would know my kids. After all, I changed their diapers, read them bedtime stories, sat through parent-teacher conferences. When they could drive, I tried to keep track of where they were going, and with whom. I told them moms never can sleep until they know their kids are safely back home, but I think they knew I was lying. I can be sound asleep by 10:30 p.m., whether they are in or not.

Somewhere along the way, they became their own persons and forgot to tell me. No, they purposely didn't tell me. And all of my questions, driven from both my need to know as a mother and my need for the facts as a reporter, get answered with as little detail as possible and they move on.

When they were little, when we spent our days at the zoo watching the otters and the gorillas, I couldn't imagine a day when I didn't know what was going through their little blond heads. But things got busy, and then they were teenagers, and the gap that I thought wouldn't happen to us appeared and widened into a gulch.

Yet when I remember certain things I went through in high school, I know my parents had no clue. When I got engaged in college, my parents were unsure how I felt about David Franklin, because I hadn't told them.

Why did I think my relationship with my kids would be different?

Today I was remembering when I was 16 and I drove three of my girlfriends to Wichita to see WhiteHeart, our favorite Christian band. A summer thunderstorm was in the forecast so the outdoor location was changed to indoor, but we out-of-towners managed to make it to the new location. The rain was in full force for our supposed-to-be-an-hour drive home, but I really can't blame the weather conditions for my taking the exit to Hutch (apparently there is a Highway 50 west AND a 50 that goes east. Never mind that I'd been to Wichita nearly every month for most of my life, I certainly hadn't paid attention to the directions. I'm sure I was reading a book in the back seat). At any rate, after seeing an unfamiliar flashing yellow light through the driving rain we finally determined that we'd taken a wrong exit and turned the car around.

After dropping off my friends at their respective houses, it was close to 3 a.m. when I drove onto our farmyard. The rain had stopped. I parked in the shed that served as our garage and hiked my boom box (fitted with four new D-cell batteries, just for this occasion) onto my shoulder, still playing WhiteHeart's latest album. Mom met me at the back door. She was less than impressed. I was shocked to realize she was upset with me. It had honestly never occurred to me that she might be worried.

So if I was that self-absorbed, so clueless when it came to viewing things from my parents' perspective, can I blame my kids for being the same way?

I remember Dave and his siblings reminiscing about their youthful escapades one Christmas. Dave's mom kept saying, "That didn't happen! You're making that up!" I thought she was in denial. Now I suspect she hadn't known until then.

I guess I have some stories to look forward to.