Miracles and Marathons

The Children of Israel are easy to criticize. God showed them His power by miraculously by opening the Red Sea so they could cross on dry ground, then sweeping Pharaoh's pursuing army away. Yet three verses later, they're grumbling. They're complaining about getting a drink. They had witnessed the biggest miracle in the Bible only days before, and they're grumbling.

Perhaps I've been too hard on them. After all, the verse says (Ex. 15:22) they traveled for three days in the desert without finding water. Three days is about the limit that the human body can go without water, and I'm sure walking in the desert didn't help matters. They were desperate. This wasn't a mere wish for something cool to drink, it was a matter of life and death.

Even after a miracle, you still have to live daily. This summer I saw God intervene and save me from what could have been a fatal four-wheeler crash (see my post "The Crash" 7/30/10). However, I'm left with a hyper extended knee and an inability to run. I'd been running regularly with my friend Kristen for about four years. I didn't mind taking a break in August, because the weather was brutally hot and humid, but as the weather's gotten cooler it's gotten harder.

When I saw the first billboard for the Prairie Fire Marathon (to be held here in Wichita on 10/10/10), I nearly cried. Kristen and I were already training for it before my accident. We ran the Wichita Marathon last year, our first marathon. She had wanted to do one out of town, but we hadn't been able to come up with one that looked suitable. So we ran the Wichita, and agreed with the critics who had told us that running through the air force base was much too long and windy.

So we were looking forward to the Prairie Fire's new route, which will go through College Hill and Eastborough, which is our favorite choice for our long training runs. On an early Saturday morning, we can run 16 to 20 miles entirely in the shade, plus look at all the historic homes with their beautiful flowers and landscaping.

Kristen's still been training, using her ipod for company instead of me, which makes me sad. I miss our oxygen-starved conversations (we get about 30 minutes worth of real-time talking in an hour run, but it passes the time).

Dave and I were listening to Sports Daily on the radio between lawns last week, and when their guest said the marathon route would go over the Keeper of the Plains bridge, I burst into tears. The Keeper bridge! We run over that every Thursday (or, at least, I used to). After this beautiful bridge and the Keeper Plaza were completed four years ago, I've wondered why the different races didn't work it into their routes. Now they have. Plus, they're running through Cowtown! The Turkey Trot always ends at the Cowtown parking lot--never have we run through it.

So I've been icing my knee each morning, wearing a knee brace to mow each day, and feeling sorry for myself. Wandering in the desert, wishing for the Promised Land. It's hard to keep Moses' perspective. But I try. So I remind myself that the tree that I smashed the left headlight of my dad's four-wheeler into could have been front-and-center. That Laurel, who was on the back, was completely unhurt. That I've been able to continue working with very little discomfort from the beginning.

And I know that God could have provided water in the desert for the Children of Israel on Day One, if he'd wanted to. I think he wanted them to ask. I think he wanted to remind them that they still needed Him daily. And that as he had proven in the past, He could and would provide.

So I'm grateful for miracles, but I'm asking for healing. I'm trying to learn the lessons of patience in the desert, and I'm looking forward to the Promised Land.

Books

I first walked into Wichita's new Barnes & Noble Bookstore 15 years ago, when I was pregnant with our first child. Upon entering the children's picture book section, I was overcome with an overwhelming desire to purchase all of my childhood favorites. This desire was, no doubt, carefully orchestrated by a crack marketing team focusing heavily on my demographic. What I saw was clever cut-outs and artistic displays of Harold and His Purple Crayon--I loved him!, Max from Where the Wild Things Are--I loved him too!, Curious George--he was the best!, Dr. Seuss' Green Eggs and Ham and The Cat in the Hat, and others. I wanted all of them. My baby needed to know Harold, Max, and George. Surely visiting Dr. Seuss was just as important as visiting the family doctor.

I was planning to quit my full-time job to stay home with my baby, so spending a paycheck on picture books probably wasn't a wise idea. I left without buying anything.

Later, I thought about all my favorite books--where were they? My mom had never sorted through our childhood bookcase. All of the books we'd ever owned were still there. But I knew I'd look in vain for Harold, and never find his purple crayon. I'd search for where the wild things are, and never find them or Max. Curious as I might be, I wouldn't find that monkey, George.

I'd never owned them. We'd checked those books out from the library. Multiple times. And read them, multiple times. And they became so much a part of my childhood, that when I saw a display of them more than 20 years later, they were my old friends. I hadn't needed to hold them hostage on my bookcase, I could release them for other kids to enjoy.

So when my kids were little, we faithfully showed up for story time each week at the library, and we checked out Harold, Max, and George, and a host of other new characters that became good friends as well.

My kids do have their own book collections, and when they've culled books to put in a garage sale, I've often taken favorites out and put them back, not ready to say goodbye. However, our house is small and our bookshelf space is limited. I know there is no way that we could ever house all of the books I love and would like to keep. But we don't need to. We can go to the library.

Party on the Patio

Caleb's on the freshman football team, so for the varsity game on Friday he was in the band. He's in the center with the tuba, his friend Sean is playing trumpet.

After the first North High football game of the season on Sept. 3, we invited Caleb's friends and their parents over for a party on our patio. The weather was perfect, with the first hint of cool in the air. The kids roasted hot dogs and marshmallows for s'mores around the fire pit. I'd fixed two pounds of taco meat and had a crock pot of nacho cheese for macho nachos. Caleb wheeled out our garage TV so a few played Guitar Hero. The kids had a cooler full of pop, and adults had a few stronger options. After a while the kids were playing tag in the front yard, with the streetlight as the boundary.

Caleb has a core group of friends from McLean Elementary that went to other middle schools but are now back together for high school. A lot of them also spent summers together at the Twin River Club. We're friends with so many of the parents--I love that.

Friday night was also fun because we played East High, where Dave's cousin Walt's daughter is a freshman, so we invited them too. A good friend of Walt and Dave's happened to be in town from Chicago, and he came over too. The boys' wrestling coach came too.

My big regret is I didn't take pictures. I wasn't sure how they'd turn out in the dark, but I should have anyway, because I love this group and I want it to continue. I might have another chance, because a couple of the moms said they'd do an after party during the football season. If they don't, we will.

Coffee you dream about

This is coffee you dream about. Nestled in College Hill is a quaint little coffee shack that you just have to smell to believe. Each cup brewed fresh, the coffee is so intensely flavorful that I wouldn't dare add cream or sugar. The Fresh Roast Coffee Company, at the corner of Clifton and Douglas, is right on the College Hill running route, which is how my friend Kristen and I discovered it.

We were returning from our Saturday morning long run. After 11 miles, we'd drained our Powerade, but saw a water cooler set up on the street near the coffee shop. A sign said, "If you think our water is good, you should taste our coffee." We refilled our water bottles, grateful for the cool drink on the increasingly hot and humid morning. As we finished our last mile, we decided we should change our Panera plans and instead try Fresh Roast Coffee Co. to say "thanks" for the water. We wanted to support someone who supported runners.

So after our run we drove back to High Voltage. Kristen, who's not really a coffee drinker, ordered an iced coffee drink. After talking with the owner for about five seconds, I mentally nicknamed him the "coffee nazi" and felt quite comfortable ordering whatever he recommended. He suggested his special house blend, which he said was made from coffee from Colombia, Indonesia, and somewhere else, I think. I ordered a "MegaWatt" cup (which is a large. "Watt" is small, or "tall" for Starbucks fans, "Kilowatt" is medium). The order took at least 10 minutes, which we didn't mind because we refilled our water bottles and worked on rehydrating as we sat in his little patio area and watched other runners go by.

And it was so worth the wait. Incredible flavor. Smooth. Hot and fresh (I'll drink hot coffee nearly anytime).

After the next long run, we hardly needed to discuss our post-workout plans. We were back. The coffee was even better than I'd remembered.

Then I went to Colorado and hyperextended my knee. No running for me. A few weeks ago on Friday, I asked Kristen, who is still training for the marathon, where she was planning to run in the morning. College Hill, she said.

"What time do you think you'll be at the coffee shop?"

Somehow it didn't feel right to just drive there, so I rode my bike and met her there--took about 40 minutes. Good workout, good company, good coffee. Hard to beat.

To be published

In February, 2008, Dave took the boys skiing and Laurel and I geared up for a gal's weekend at home. I decided she and I would scrapbook. Being our third child, Laurel's representation in any of our photo albums was woefully inadequate, which was an utter shame, since in my completely unbiased opinion she had been unquestionably the cutest three-year-old ever. Here's proof:

But now she was seven, old enough to do a little scrapbooking of her own, and at the perfect age for "Anne of Green Gables," which my Canadian friends had introduced to me at college. I requested the 10-hour DVD series from the library to watch while we worked, and we were looking forward to our mother-daughter weekend.

As I should have guessed, the request took longer than expected and the DVDs were stuck in transit over the weekend, so we headed to Blockbuster and picked up a bunch of other favorites.

I couldn't resist "Music and Lyrics" with Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore. The beginning pseudo-'80s music video is hilarious, and I love that Grant, the washed-up star of the fictitious group Pop! is booked for a 1987 class reunion (that's my year!), but I really love how the entire movie talks about the creative process as Alex Fletcher and Sophie Fisher try to put together music AND lyrics. The movie is chock-full of great lines, but the best one doesn't come up on any movie quotes websites. Someday I will have to watch it again and write down word for word when Alex tells Sophie that she has too much talent to let anyone stop her from standing.

Then we took a Jane Austen trip with "Emma," "Pride and Prejudice," and "Sense and Sensibility." On a slower part in "Sense and Sensibility," which has our man Hugh Grant in the male lead, Laurel said, "I keep waiting for him to sing, 'Pop! Goes my heart." I had a good laugh at that.

After reveling in Jane Austen's stories, I couldn't resist finally seeing "Becoming Jane," the story of author Jane Austen's life.

Sometime during the weekend, Laurel developed a high fever, so we were completely home bound. We kept the DVDs coming.

We watched "Little Women," enjoying the story of four sisters growing up in New England during the Civil War. I'd read "Little Women" plus a number of other books by Louisa May Alcott growing up.

Then we got the message that "Anne of Green Gables" was ready for pick-up from the library, and we were transported to beautiful Prince Edward Island and captivated by the story of a red-headed, spunky orphan girl who finds a home in Avonlea with Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert. We loved Anne's dramatic rendition of "Lady of Shallot," and regretted her refusal to acknowledge Gilbert for saving her from drowning.

By the time we'd worked our way to the final DVD, the boys regrettably were home from skiing. When Anne gets her package from the post office and it's her BOOK, her book of stories about the people of Avonlea, and she takes it to Gilbert, who had encouraged her to write it in the first place, but is now terribly sick on his deathbed until she shows it to him and she tells him she loves him and he gets a new lease on life, I am a complete mess.

"Hey look, Mom's crying!" I look up, wishing Colorado had been a few more states away. Of course I'm crying. Don't they realize Anne finally got her BOOK PUBLISHED? Then Laurel, who previously had been my comrade-in-arms tattles on me.

"She's cried at the end of every movie," the little snitch says.

And I realize we've had a common theme. The climax of nearly every movie was a book being published. And yes, I cried when Jane Austen became a published author, celebrated at a book signing, the center of attention in a roomful of people listening to her read selections from her works. Yes, I cried when Jo received in print the stories she labored on of her and her sisters' lives and loves.

And although I was happy for Jane, Jo, and Anne, I couldn't help wondering, "What about me?"

"When will it happen for me?" And the scary one:  "Will it ever?"

Our Adventures with Tom Sawyer

I've always loved reading aloud to my kids. Now that they're older, I don't have many opportunities to do that, so one of my favorite vacation traditions is choosing a book to read to them while we're on the long road to Colorado or making the endless trek back through western Kansas.

This year I started reading "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" before we ever hit Dodge City. It is a delicious book to read aloud, with the Southern dialect and lots of conversation. My boys were saying "I reckon" before the second stop for gas.

They liked the classic scene where Tom, forced to spend his Saturday whitewashing the fence, decides to pretend he's enjoying the work and eventually convinces all of his buddies to pay him marbles, beetles, or whatever "treasure" they had in their pockets for the privilege of helping him.

We camped by a lake, so Caleb, who's always loved fishing, took the first opportunity to put his line in. However, Harrison caught the first fish big enough to keep. Caleb, who also loves knives and collects them, begged Harrison to let him clean the fish. We laughed at the parallels to Tom Sawyer, and told Harrison he should have made Caleb include some marbles, or maybe a beetle or tick in the deal.

When a late afternoon shower forced us into the trailer for an hour, the kids asked me to read. When the rain stopped, we continued around the campfire.

Once we were out of the mountains and headed home, we got caught up in the drama of Tom and Becky being lost in the cave. I finished the book around Garden City, I think, with still plenty of daylight.

So we talked about our trip, and I asked each kid what they liked the best. Harrison said he liked hearing "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer." Well, Harrison, I don't know if I'd go that far. We certainly could have saved a lot of money by going to the library instead of hauling all of our four-wheelers to Colorado. But it was nice to hear.

The Dream Vacation

"Wouldn't it be neat to get a couple more four-wheelers? Then our whole family could ride together," my husband, Dave, said.

It was 2002, we were relaxing at our campsite, gazing at the mountains. At the time, we had only his 400EX, so he'd spent his mornings taking one boy out on a ride through the mountain trails, returning to camp for lunch, then taking the other one out for the afternoon. I'd spent the time with Laurel and the alternate boy, exploring around the lake and holding down camp.

 At the time, I wondered how we would ever manage to purchase not one, but two more four-wheelers (I'm practical like that). Dave's the dreamer, and I hang on for the ride. But for whatever reason--maybe I was tired of sitting at camp while they were riding over mountain passes--this is one vision I caught.
Two years later, we went back to O'Haver Lake in Colorado. This time my brother David and his wife, Jenny, and also his friend, Mike, went with us. David brought his quad, and we had acquired a used four-wheeler and brought my Dad's, so if everyone doubled up with a kid, we could all go on a ride.

In the six years since, we've acquired a few more quads and made numerous trips to the Little Sahara sand dunes near Waynoka, Oklahoma. When the boys' interest seemed to be waning a few years ago, Dave considered selling them all. The only reason I didn't agree to getting rid of them all was the hope that we could take them to the mountains one more time.
This summer, we did.