When Winning Isn't About Getting There First

When I was a runner, I didn't do the whole distance thing.

I put on my shoes, I got my rear end out the door, and I ran hard for 30 minutes.

And then I met John. He's a distance runner by nature so my fast spurts didn't really appeal to him.

Nonetheless, the boy was smitten with me so he laced up his shoes and hit the pavement with me often.

If my motto was get going and get it done, his was most certainly slow and steady wins the race; and he is as slow and steady as they come.

During one of our runs, where I told him he was dragging his heals and prolonging what I wanted to be done with, he kind of smiled at me and started talking about his days of playing tennis in high school. Apparently they called him the bulldog because he play slow and steady, and he could wear out his opponent even if the rival was a "stronger" player.

I think I smiled adoringly at him, told him that was great and then told him to pick up the pace because we had places to go and things to do, so move it, Mr. Worth! {I'm always super gracious, you know.}

So I married John knowing that he was Mr. Slow and Steady, except when it came to marrying me; then and only then was he fast-paced and quick acting.

Buying anything, picking doctors, mapping out trips, planning for the future, buying a house -- all slow and steady.

It used to drive me a little nuts, but lately I've been learning why the old adage -- slow and steady wins the race -- is likely true, especially if that race is a long and daunting one. Especially if that race is the race of life.

I've always been fast paced, a doer who gets it done; it worked well for a long time until it didn't. After I gave birth to our second boy, I realized I was running on fumes. I needed more down time. I needed less busy. I needed more rest. I was sick. I was always tired. I was never rested enough. Slowly I began to give myself fully into rest times, vacations and relaxation, steadily letting go of the busyness and fast pace that was killing me.

Going at a million miles per moment had left me tired, sick and malnourished in so many ways I didn't even fully understand until I started to become healthy, maybe for the first time in my life, physically, emotionally, spiritually and mentally. It's been a long road of rebuilding, and I'm still on it. There is no "get it done" to this; it's slow and steady all of the way. The road to real health often is.

This morning, I'm snuggled up against my youngest boy, and I'm a little bummed. We're missing day two of Christmas choir shows as well as our normal church service because he fell to the flu this past week; I've been dancing the line of sick and well for the last 24 hours.

I internally groaned when I started feeling like I was also getting sick because now is not the time for illness, I'd said. It's Advent season, and I want to engage fully in everything fun. We're also only a week out from our host daughter arriving from Eastern Europe, and I have much to prepare. I'd planned on going full-steam ahead from now until she arrived.

But yesterday I had to make a choice. I could run forward and run myself into the ground and full-fledged illness, or I could slow down, take it easy and go at this slow and steady, resting more than moving and listening to what my body needed. This morning, I'm asking my brain to slow down, too. I'm inviting it into rest and relaxation so that I can burn brightly instead of burning out.

This slowness isn't just affording my body a chance to heal; it's also giving my mind and heart a chance to focus on making space for Jesus as we prepare to celebrate the greatest gift the world has ever received.

Slow and steady may not be my natural inclination by any means, but it builds endurance and that in itself gives the strength and perseverance needed to run the distance. And I've come to the conclusion that winning isn't about getting there first; it's about getting there well.

'Twas the Write Before Christmas: All is Calm

It's unbelievable, she thinks

and no one would understand

try as she may to explain

that beneath a star bright shining against an inky sky

amid the busyness of crowds moving through the streets

surrounded by bundles of hay

that stillness

and peace

and beauty

shine brighter than any star in little eyes staring widely back into her own.

It's unbelievable

really

as the world rushes by

how the moment she held him in her arms

fresh from her womb

fresh from heaven

it all seemingly stopped spinning.

Breathing in His scent

in the midst of the chaos

in the craze in the dizziness of life

how all is calm in the moments

she spends meeting His gaze with her own

and

holding open her palms to be filled with Life.

Bigger Picture Moments: Pushing Away from the Table {I Lost It}

In the early-morning rush of getting the boys out the door, I lost it over cinnamon apple oatmeal.

I lost it amid the heat rising from the hot bowl of breakfast he irritably pushed away from his place setting at the table, amid the heat rising from my own flushed and rushed body, fluttering about in a hurried shuffle to get in the car and begin an over-scheduled day.

From the moment I pressed my feet on the ground beside my bed, I felt a like a whirlwind of movement and thought, and despite trying to order my day by sinking myself into the the Word in the morning, I could not quiet myself enough to stand still let along sink and soak.

When tears of outrage came over the cinnamon apples being mixed IN the oatmeal instead of being served one the side

when the refusal to even try this breakfast came

when the thought of him having to sit through two hours of class in the morning and then the dentist, thus likely ensuing a meltdown before we made it to lunch,

steam began rising from my hot-headed rush

and words began firing out of my heated mouth

and I lost it over cinnamon apple oatmeal.

The heat of irritation, fueled by rush and movement, left my body so quickly through raised voice and regretful words that it left me solid frozen in my steps shortly after I huffed out of the dining room while my oldest cried about how it was "just oatmeal, mom."

It took fire burning strong and hot and fast and furious to bring me into stillness, an icicle of realization grounded in my kitchen that though I've long given care to never ever ever feed the bears spaghetti on days the hard days, the tough days

but have never given really thought to not overfilling my own plate

and making those days more likely.

And, so, today, I scoop onto the plate only what is necessary to sustain life

and tonight, we'll all push away from the table for a longer pause, fasting and resting in what is necessary for life only in the moments spread out before us.

{Oh the humbling experiences that parenting brings; shortly after my flames burned out, I got to eat some humble pie, apologize and reinforce that even when we are piping hot, we still treat each other with love and kindness and respect. I call this lessons from the trenches.}

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Five-Minute Friday: Race

He stands solemnly, stills his growing body, a few paces ahead of me, traces of his breath dancing in the cool October dusk as he deeply exhales a long sigh.

"Oh, mommy," he begins, "All of my favorite leaves are almost gone."

Two straights days of swooping, sweeping strong winds have wrestled the them in all of the bursts of colorful glory from tree branches, sent them rushing down the street and crashing into open stretches of prairie.

"Why does it have to go so fast?" he laments, standing taller, broader shouldered than he was even just a few weeks ago when the green first gave way to deep orange and sunset red. "I wish the leaves would stay a little longer ... they're so pretty like this."

I nod, resisting the urge to inform him that seasons changing are inevitable, that sometimes you blink and you miss the leaves lingering bright and gloriously from the trees at the peak of fall, only catching glimpses of their beauty as they run wildly off into the distance.

We stand together, staring at barren branches, sorry to have not stood here still for longer just a few days prior. I switch my gaze to his face, sleeker and defined more monthly by sharper curves, baby fat having mostly dripped away.

And I linger long in the blazing glory of five

because soon I'll be standing here catching tiny bursts of color racing down the streets.

Everyday Life: Brake

He messages me in the middle of the day.

It's not unusual, but it's more than the characteristic "I love you" or "good morning."

I read heaviness, words hanging like soggy sheets on the line.

I feel like we've gotten beat up in some ways. Maybe it's just that we are walking in fog and need a lamp to guide each step.

It resonates.

These past few weeks have been damp with fine mist, thick and heavy, hanging in the short, hurried conversations, in the rush of meals around the dining room table, in the quick sinking of bodies into the bed at night -- a fog we've been trying to feel our way through.

A fog so thick it's forcing us to slow from the rapid speed we've been driving because highbeam headlights are useless.

And blinding.

That afternoon before he leaves work I call him; we are supposed to go separate ways tonight -- me to an appointment, him to a meeting, the boys with a babysitter.

Instead, though, I ask, could we just brake?

Could we flip off the bright beams and pull over to the side of the road?

Come together and look at each other instead of straining our eyes to see out the windshield a few more miles beyond where we are?

He drops the road map, and we halt to a stop.

We fling open the doors for some air,

whisper prayers for clarity into the darkness, breathe in

Your Word is a lamp for my feet and light to my path. Psalm 119:105

We sit in the soft glow.

together.

in the heavy fog.

in the stillness.

and realize we can see the ground on which we're standing.

And for now

it's more than enough Light to see the next step.

{This piece was written live at our Creative Soul Writing Circle. More on this tomorrow! In the meantime, join a virtual Writing Circle.}

Everyday Life: So We Eat Cake

He's looking out the floor-length glass windows at tracks as a commuter train sleekly brakes to a halt and then swooshes off toward the city, as if to say that a quick exchange of passengers was merely just a blip in its day.

And I guess that's why we are here, eating lunch together just the two of us, though I don't completely know it until the moment the train jets into the distance, E's small hands pressed against the glass, his blue eyes still glued to the end car that's almost out of sight -- I don't want to be that train.

That's been my whole week, flying off from one destination to the next, slowing only enough to stop for quick pick ups and drop offs and pauses, kisses exchanged deftly before the engine again revs and roars.

But not today.

Not today especially.

He'll be newly three just before bedtime, and I want to linger in two for just a little while longer.

We wander back to our table in the quiet cafe, and soon we are talking about our lunch as we indulge.

There are meetings and there is work looming in the near hours, and I want to throw my phone with its clock and schedule across the room to shatter into a thousand pieces but instead just tuck it away into the depths of my shoulder bag telling myself that truly this schedule won't last long. And truly, we will find ourselves back in the beautiful grooves of tracks that run long, slow freight cars.

I sing happy birthday a few times to his delighted ears and he tells me about light sabers and birthdays in broken sentences while I just eat him up.

I can't resist capturing him still in a few photos, and he looks at me and commands through giggles "no more peetures, mom!"

I sense that it's time to pack up our lunch date and head to the next destination.

But he says "birfday cake on E's birfday?"

There are a dozen reasons not to.

And then there's him.

So we meander up to the counter, pick the perfect slice of lemon and almond polenta cake and return to our seats.

A fork in his hand, he takes a big bite and then scoops one for me.

"You too, mom?"



There are dozens of reasons not to {including not having had anything with more than a hint of sugar here and there for months}.

And then there's him.

So we eat cake

together

train stalled out on the tracks, amid the horns honking, people waiting, giving pause to our runs as the world rushes by around us

and we are better for it.

Just Write: More

I know.

I know that when little ones act up and out that they need more --

More love

More attention

More patience

More time --

More.

More from me.

But I've been driving around this block for weeks on end, and the gas light is on and the kids are still screaming in the background and the radio is blaring and there's so much noise in this proverbial car and in my not-so proverbial head that I just can't isolate anything to turn it off for long enough to realize

that I've got to stop for gas, like, ten miles ago.

Because that last fill up for how long I've been driving

can't last for as long as I've been going.

I need an off ramp

with an Oasis

to refuel so much more often

now that the load is filled with

growing boy bodies

growing hearts

growing lessons

and growing miles to trek.

And sometimes, I guess, we just have to put it in park

and watch the sun rise and set*

remembering we didn't have to push the pedal a little further to the metal

for either to happen.




*Super huge thanks to Corinne for reminding me of this awesome truth. 

Bigger Picture Moments: Solstice

"Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it." -- Daisy Buchanan, The Great Gatsby


And miss it I almost did despite reading a friend's Facebook status with the above beloved Great Gatsby gem. 


I am Daisy in ways, waiting and waiting and then getting distracted and missing what I'd so anticipated. 


Today was no different. 


No sooner than I had realized it was the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year drenching us with the glorious sunshine I crave from autumn until spring, I had forgotten in the thickness of busy. 


The day began spiraling and circling and spinning and doing the things that days do when a business needs immediate attention and there is Bible study to attend and kitchens beg for a wet mop and children need things like lunch and hugs and mommy hands to find the missing green light saber. 

After an impromptu shift at our business, I arrived home, made myself a hap-hazard dinner of green smoothie and perched myself in one of the big blue chairs in the back yard. 

John arrived home with the boys a few minutes later and before I could say the word bed time, E was out the back patio door and swimming in the pool while G was off and picking berries from the bushes along the fence with his dad. 

Sun still bright, hanging in the horizon, I checked the time -- 8:15 p.m., bedtime -- and I remembered the long-awaited summer solstice. 

And so we ignored the clock and remained in the backyard, enjoying the extra moments of added daylight

because they do what everything in life seeming does:

they all too quickly fade into the mental noise

or disappear while we're too busy being busy. 

But last night -- those moments were lived in fullness. 

Five-Minute Friday: Gift

Tiny raindrops splat against the window pane, and I, in the early morning fog of just rolling out of a deep sleep and overcast March skies, want to write off the day before it begins.

The floorboards are cold against my bare feet, and goosebumps dance up my arms and spread across my shoulders while I search for the warmth the daytime sun surely isn't going to bring, it being hidden behind thick masses of gray clouds.

I want sun and warm and deep, reviving breaths of spring air in my lungs, and I allow myself to wallow in the disappointment of a gift that isn't mine today.

Nothing miraculous happens outside during the first few morning hours; the sun doesn't break through the clouds and take center stage and the rain continues to drizzle in cold fits to the ground.

But something beautiful emerges amid the clouds and spits of rain; my mind slows down and my body follows it to the recliner chair in the living room where I drape a blanket over my legs.

Two small guests join me, snuggling into the crevices of the chair, burrowing their limbs beneath the blanket, too.

We rock, we talk, we read, and we snuggle;

I breathe in the sweet scent of slow, untie this unexpected gift inspired by the dreariness, and we celebrate the magnificently ordinary that my hands are often too busy to even notice let alone pick up and unwrap.

Bigger Picture Moments: What I Almost Missed

He carefully plucked a tiny violet flower from the Earth and brought it inside as a love offering for me.

At four, not much is done gently, but this gift, he knew, required delicate care.

Here mom! Look! he says bursting in through the patio door, I brought you this beautiful flower so you can look at it inside the house. 


I was in the middle of cooking dinner, my hands in too many pots, trying not to burn and overboil, and I almost missed it.

But then he says,

I'll put it in water, so it can have a drink and stay alive.

And stay alive.

I abandon dinner, turn my back on the too many pots and instead oooohh and ahhh over the flower's  loveliness, its faint smell of spring.

It needs water to stay alive, to revive after the picking, I repeat.



I catch glimpses of its brilliant purple through out the next day.

I marvel over its soft, royal petals and I think to myself, I've almost sold my soul, my heart for supposed gifts that are bigger, flashier but far less lovely.

But this gift?

These gifts that keep bringing more gifts?

They came free, picked just for me by a Loving Hand who seems to keep no memory of the times I've really blown it, the times I've almost sold myself in exchange for what seemed to be silver and shiny.

And I almost missed it all, all of it.



But grace flows, and so I didn't.

Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week.. 

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
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Everyday Life: Fleeting

There's early morning sun gently warming the front porch, making the bricks glow just outside of our foggy, front-hall windows.

I relish it because tomorrow it might fade again into the deep silvers and grays of December. 

There are bathrooms calling, dishes waiting, floors beckoning, lists screaming for attention. 

But my feet won't move, gaze won't stray from the softness of the light.

This time of year that glow is fast fleeting like the month of November

or the morphing of baby to toddler

or preschooler to boy.

So I watch it all carefully

in recognition of the sun's movement

the winds shifting

the bodies growing.

I watch it all happen before wide open eyes. 

Only then does it seem to last a little longer. 

And I'll take even just a little. 

Bigger Picture Moment: Instead

Thunder is rumbling a deep moan in the near distance while a web of lightening spreads across the sky, dances in the horizon.

An early morning thunderstorm lulls a snugly toddler back into slumber, and I quiet, creak, sneak out of bed at the beckoning of a preschooler's loud whisper of hunger and subsequent grumbling from his small stomach.

Holding my hand, he all but drags me out of my room and down the stairs.

We talk thunder. We talk rain. We talk lightening on the way down in hushed voices.

Heading toward the kitchen, I try to talk breakfast while pulling out the rolled oats, but he instead pulls me over to the big red rocking chair in the living room.

"I think I need mommy snuggles more than my tummy wants breakfast," he says through an overzealous whisper. "I think we better snuggle instead."

And so it waits, breakfast, uncooked atop the stove, because willing preschool arms and hearts don't.

Have you caught a glimpse of the bigger picture through a simple moment? Share with us at Melissa's today, and then encourage others on the journey of intentional living.