Everything Changes

 

Darkness was broken for a short time as I stepped onto the porch. A tiny sliver of moon sat in contrast on the horizon, slowly waiting for its climb into the sky. I overslept starting almost 30 minutes later than normal. My body needed to run. Music pumped through my buds, and I began the quiet shuffle. Seemingly full of lead my legs were tired and heavy, taking time to warm up. The tiniest pricks of light peeked through the black curtain as I immersed myself in the run. The first half mile was completed before I had to cautiously pick my way through road construction. Working to find my balance I thought of the hundreds of times I picked through road construction during a run. I reflected on how much has changed since I beginning my distance running journey.

My steps began to sing as they find their pace. Smiling quietly to myself I realized I have laced up my shoes for ten years. Settling into a rhythm I thought of the simple training I started and then transitioned when my sister and I decided to race the Princess Half Marathon together at Disney World. I went from a sprinter to a distance runner with a goal. In the beginning I hammered out hundreds of miles on a dreadmill. Now I have coursed thousands of road miles domestically and abroad. The one constant in my decade of running is everything changes. On my streets I see and feel the changes of life.

When I began this journey, I had little boys and now I have men. I chose early morning runs to ensure I was finished and ready before they got out of bed. They have seen my discipline, watched me succeed and watched me fail forward. They understood my dedication and chose to travel and cheer me on during race weekends. Our relationship has changed and evolved as they have grown. To match the growth our family choices and outings have changed. We have gone from naps and Phineas and Ferb, to new traditions like attending the Rockies Star Wars night and hiking Manitou Incline. At times I miss my little boys but am so thankful for the men we have raised. They have hearts of gold and an unwavering sense of family. Every season is peppered with family traditions we all look forward to. They were raised knowing we do things as a family. Our schedules have changed to match their busy lives, finding it infinitely important to meet them where they are and not try to force them into our schedule.   

As I tip toe through more construction, I think about how my town has changed. Roads have been added while others were closed off. Entire residential blocks have been hazed for additional university buildings. Businesses have opened and closed, houses changed hands and schools were leveled and new ones built. Change is necessary for growth, inevitable and easier if embraced.

Starting to feel more of a rhythm, I dance up the first big hill thinking how the last few years have been fraught with change. Stress has been a constant companion. In a year and a half, I lost my brother, I lost my dad and my mom moved across the country. The last seven months I have been trying to balance losing my dad, doing my best to help my mom through her grieving process and help with the thousands of necessary decisions sudden death brings, all while trying to clean and sort through decades of stuff to create a livable, safe space for her. In that time, I was yelled at, screamed at, accused of things that were untrue, all a result of other people trying to deal with change, grief, guilt.  

In the last several weeks change hit full force as my mom moved to Pennsylvania with my sister. Like my dad’s passing this came as a surprise, and I was once again trying to catch up with my emotions and the things that needed to be done. In a few short weeks I helped clean, pack and move as my parent’s house went from packed full, to near empty. Walking through with the auctioneer my heart ached at the change, finding things my dad had written, seeing his handwriting with a list of things he meant to complete.

I realized as the stress level began to drop off, I had created a wall preventing myself from breaking down. I needed to get through everything first. As I stood in a garage that was my dad’s escape, I realized one of the most difficult changes is those in our lives will not be there forever. There are no second chances. Wiping tears away, I vowed that when everything was finished, I could cry. I could grieve not only the loss of my dad but grieve all the things that have happened in the last seven months; the moments of exhaustion, heartbreak, sadness, false accusations, lies, loss, being overwhelmed, heart wrenching change. I will grieve it all.

As my mind wound its way through the heaviness of my heart, I continued kissing the pavement with my shoes on a favorite route. I was thankful for the stability of running, the familiarity of my town, knowing the turns, the cars I might see, the buildings. Thankful that I make the choice to be up and running. Thinking about change and the fragile moments of life made me once again grasp the idea that we have one opportunity at life. Recognizing the finality of everything and knowing how this will end I worked to create the life I want. Our little family is solid. We have our ups and downs, but we work through. Our adult children spend time with us, and we adjust schedules so we can spend time with them. I work a challenging job I love, doing what I am called to do. Many years I worked ungodly hours, 20-hour days for weeks on end for a paycheck. Making the change to write required focus and belief. My career choice has garnered disdain, flippant comments, and the belief that I really don’t work. What I realized, though, was it didn’t matter. Our life is better balanced, we are happier, stronger, and healthier as a family because I shifted to a different career.   

My body was adjusting to the run, hitting the comfortable middle miles. It felt great to stretch my legs and watch the sky. Most mornings I choose to pull myself out of bed and run. I can’t choose what the morning will hold, what the weather will be or how my run will feel. In life we can’t always choose our circumstances, but we can choose how we respond to the circumstances. We can choose the people we allow into our inner circle, choose how we greet the day, choose to live life and not simply exist. I have wanted more, just existing through the daily grind was not enough. In striving to experience a full and wonderful life I have chosen to focus on the positive and to surround myself with like-minded people. I limit time with negative people who wallow in mediocrity, content to stay stuck and complain. I want people who challenge me to be the best version of myself. Those who are there in an instant when things aren’t going well, there to celebrate the good times, those who make me laugh, cry and everything in between. We have found those wonderful people. We have created a life where we surround ourselves with those who see the positive and who live out loud.

As I continued to dance in the darkness with the moon and stars, I thought about the time I have left. Tomorrow is not promised, the next minute is not even promised. Life can change in a split second. When it is my turn to leave this world, I want to exit knowing I was better today than yesterday. I want to have lived, experienced, tried and made a positive impact on the lives I touched. I want to have loved deeply and eeked out every single moment of goodness.

Racing down the final hill of my 8 miles I breathe deep. Clicking off my music I smile at the moon realizing it is in a perpetual state of change. I am thankful for the miles and thankful for the opportunity to let my mind meander through the knots in my heart and soul. Change is necessary and welcome. I am imperfect and hope with each passing day, I will embrace change and grow to be a better person. Run happy.

Learning to Fly

Running is my vice, the nectar for my soul, the glue that sometimes holds me together. It waits for me, travels with me and is always ready. The draw on the muscles, the labor of the lungs is intoxicating. It has limped through injuries with me and taught my body strength and discipline. Running doesn’t pass judgement – ever – and is just thankful for the time. It provides me solace and joy, teaches me beauty in everyday miracles. When I first laced up my shoes, I learned to fly and have been flying ever since.
  

The thrill captured my heart when I was young, transitioning 9 years ago into something I never could have imagined. My body slowly adjusted, and I began my relationship with distance running. I went from a mile on the dreadmill for a little cardio to running a 62.18 mile ultra. The beginnings were meager at best, proud of myself for completing anything more than once around a block. Looking back, I can see my defiantly sassy self, swearing I would never do anything over a 5K. Oh girl, if you only knew.

Running is a solo activity, calling to me before the sun begins to rise. For the last nine years I have answered that call. When the sky is black and the town is quiet, I lace up and hit the streets. My soul craves the 3:00 am wake-up call, longing to run on empty roads while everyone else is asleep. I yearn for the hours of solitude where I run my town. I don’t have to share my time or space that early. The air is clean and fresh, free from noise and the chaos of a busy day. The darkness, the shooting stars and the wildlife welcome me.  Alone with my music, the vast sky, and my thoughts I fly.  

I have run tens of thousands of miles, gone through hundreds of pairs of shoes and amassed a wall of medals. What means the most, though, are the quiet moments during training runs. Hours of solitude to look internally, seeing parts of myself I never knew existed and deal with parts I knew were there, but would rather leave hidden.

Running reaches into my soul, shapes me and draws me into spaces I would never go otherwise. It gives me moments to pause and feel deeply. In the warmth of summer, warm breezes kissing my cheeks, I revel in joy and new life. During runs when I am freezing, the snow is pounding me and the ice is building on my lashes, I realize the depth of who I am. It has helped me find beauty in the mis-matched parts that are integrally me. It has taught me I am stronger than I ever realized and to look gracefully on myself. I have learned more about myself in those dark miles than any other time in my life.  

In the quiet mornings I feel closer to God. His presence protects me as I navigate black roads and lonely paths. His grace is evident in the miracles of being feet from mountain lions, deer, antelope, and foxes. He paints the dark skies and cheers me on through the twinkle of the stars. I have played tag with the moon, hide and seek with the clouds and sang as the fog rolled in. I have danced in empty intersections and whispered good morning to wildlife. My runs have been blessed with warmth, wind, rain, snow, ice, and beauty, sometimes all in the same run.

Running has taught me persistence, consistency, and determination. My discipline was learned and honed, in pursuit of my goals. Kissing the pavement, I have realized everything is cyclical. There are good and bad days, good and bad runs, and good and bad years.

As I take time off to heal a stress fracture, I think about, the goals and desires I have for my running in the new year. I reflect on what I have learned and the things that need additional work. I am not good at taking time off to give my body time to heal. The desire has been to push myself as hard and as far as I can. I have learned there are consequences to pushing harder when my body is hurt. Moving forward I am striving to make smarter decisions when hurt, even though I am edgy, wanting, desperately needing time on the asphalt when I can’t run.  

Running is joy for me, life and as much a part of who I am as breathing. It has imprinted so much I can’t think of my future without running. The quiet moments, the feeling of getting my body stronger and faster, the ability to set goals, work for them and reach them. It is seeing weekly progress and knowing I have the power to achieve the incredible, by staying focused and working hard. Running speaks to me in a language that paints my soul, heals wounds and incites joy.

In the quiet of my office, with the snow blanketing the ground and whipping through the air outside my window, I think of the opportunities lying before me and the run.  I am thankful. I am thankful for the experience, the strength, the power not only physically, but mentally I have gained. I am thankful for this one aspect of my life that is within my control. My heart jumps to think of another year of asphalt, quiet mornings, and growth. Joy races through my veins for another year to test myself in races and find myself in the early morning miles. Goals are set, shoes are ready, it’s time to fly!

The Atlantic

She draws me in and speaks to my soul. There is a connection I never knew existed. Sitting beside her, I pause and breathe in, closing my eyes I bask in the sun as her warmth kisses my cheeks. It has been an adventure. I have felt exhausted, exposed and at peace all at the same time. Listening to the beautiful Atlantic, watching the sand roll in and out, I allow her song to soothe me and am thankful for these moments. The clouds majestically bank in three directions and the sun shines through. The music of the waves gives voice to the strong rhythm of a woman on a mission. Every day she moves, one moment calm and soothing with the undulating quiet of rolling wave after wave and the next churned up, dirty and angry. Within her are thousands of lives; they depend on her, believe in her and are thankful for what she brings. 

Regardless of what storms come, the beautiful mother ocean will continue. I stood in her small waves, being respectful of the big waves full of strength, power, and determination, and wonder if I have that in me. Do I have the power of the ocean? Does she share her power as she caresses my toes? Does she share with me the strength of the life she supports? For the first time in ages I feel calm and at peace. I realize I missed and needed the Atlantic when I hadn’t even met her. I needed the music and beauty, the ever changing canvas on the horizon, moment after moment of waves. 

Her life force moves in first one direction and then next. Watching her I feel, deep in my heart, the constant motion, not content to be still, not content to simply watch, but to move, wave after wave every second. Pipers, on spindly legs, play tag with the waves, finding life within the foam. She shares the water and then draws it back as they burrow their beaks in the sand capturing food. Pelicans ride the gusts, soaring into the grey sky and then dipping down to tickle the waves. Seemingly with ease they feed from the Atlantic plucking fish from the constant motion. From darkest depths to the white capped waves it is a circle, life never more present than this single moment. Even when the beach is quiet and night shrouds her beauty she moves restlessly, calling, soothing, challenging. I want to share her energy and strength, the love she carries deep within in her soul. 

The Atlantic has no favorites in the world she forges. She provides for all as they need, encouraging and pushing for them to rise up and fight for what they want. Life is not easy and is full of challenges within the Mother Ocean. Shell after shell drifts in, exoskeletons of tiny squid and crabs all become part of the sand, evidence of life that didn’t survive. The skimming of a dolphin, the graceful soaring of a fish and the tiny burrowing of a crustacean are beautiful examples of those that have survived. A squadron of pelicans in a perfect V formation flew over, headed who knows where. The silhouettes beautiful and precise against the backdrop of the sky. A solo bird trails further behind, trying to catch up or maybe flying to his own rhythm. 

My time here has been precious but difficult, unpacking things buried deeper than the depths of the Atlantic.  With each thought, memory and experience I realize there are some I need to keep and some I need to let go. I release those that have shaped me, but no longer serve a purpose, acknowledging the part they played in my life. I am thankful for the time to reflect and be me, understanding I don’t need to hang on to everything. The Atlantic doesn’t keep every shell within her depths. When they have served their purpose she discards them on the beach and continues to move on. I realize those things I have unpacked are the same way. They will always be part of me, but they do not need to control me. 

For the first time in forever I release fear based patterns and think about not trying to fit everyone else's expectations. Nobody expects a pelican to climb a tree, a bear to soar in the heavens or the Atlantic to stop her music. I am thankful for these moments of discovery, to dance with the waves and share in this circle. The moments on this beautiful sand, wanting to capture every shell, feel every tiny grain of sand that at one moment could have been at the bottom of the ocean and is now stuck between my toes. My time with the Mother Ocean has helped me know I am not a mistake nor am I a burden. I have purpose and a place. As I sink my hand into her warm waves, running wet sand through my fingers I finally give myself permission to be unapologetically me.

I have to say a big thank you to my beautiful friend Angie Krey who captured stunning images during my time, to Mel Charbonneau for challenging me to find the best version of myself and to the amazing Jen Patterson for opening her heart and home to me! 

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Butterfly

Unlocking the front door and stepping out into the darkness, the heavy air enveloped me. Cuing my music to low, I stepped out of Just Breathe for my last morning run at this address. Houses were dark, corners softened in the lazy, muggy morning.  Heading west my tie dye shoes contrasted with the black, wet asphalt. I let my legs ease into the short run, soaking in every house, every black and grey cloud, every single moment. A heavy, misty rain began to fall flashing like tiny diamonds in the streetlights. Wind scurried in from the Atlantic, tossing drops across the path, splashing me as I ran. It was glorious.

Finding my rhythm, I began to think about the last few days, the culmination of work that started a long time ago. My soul was healing and the static that usually filled my mind was quiet. I knew in my heart this was the final stop on this road of my journey. For years I have wandered, struggling with direction, feeling powerless at times and in a constant state of chaos. The last eight months magnified the feelings. My mind has been working overtime to free my soul and find direction.

As my body warmed up, I smiled out of sheer pleasure. My pace was slow, imprinting every aspect of my surroundings, feeling the humidity on my skin, and listening to the song of the Atlantic. In the rows of sleeping beach homes, a few broke through the darkness with warm lights. Cars were running with open trunks as they loaded bags preparing to leave. I empathized as I knew I would be doing the same thing in 8 hours. This was my last run on the island.

Four days ago, after arriving, I said hello, dropped my bag, and ventured to the beach. I savored the feel of the sand between my toes, the sound of the waves crashing and the distant cry of the sea birds. The clouds were building on the horizon as the water became choppy with white caps. Rain was coming and I embraced the heavy, wet, warm air. Enjoying the freedom of exploring, I watched the sand, kicking shells over until I found a tiny shell, shaped like a butterfly. It spoke to me more than any other shells that littered the beach. Carrying it carefully in my hand, I protected it as the sky decided to open up and cleanse the beach.  I smiled like a crazy person as the rain soaked me. I was truly getting a fresh, clean start.

My toes danced with the road, as I realized how deeply the butterfly shell spoke to my journey.  For years I have felt like the sluggish caterpillar, wandering in search, but not quite sure what I was searching for. I would shed versions of myself as I grew and changed, but I always seemed to be searching. Fear shaped decisions and life-long insecurities dictated the woman I saw every morning in the mirror. Time continued to pass as I existed, fighting fears, battling darkness, but showing up and doing what needed done.

Two years ago, I moved from the wandering caterpillar to the protected, hidden, and isolated chrysalis. I retreated from the noise, the anger, the sadness, the darkness, I retreated from all of it to protect my heart. The shell formed, protection against the storms of life that battered incessantly. Eight months ago, the storms reached a pitch that couldn’t be ignored.

The morning embraced me while my footsteps echoed in the quiet. I thought about the last few days on Emerald Isle. I arrived, seemingly protected in my chrysalis, with only small cracks left from storms and my feeble attempts to break free. I understood like real butterflies we need to experience our own breakthrough. If someone else removes our shell before we are ready, we are left with crippled wings, unable to fly. If we don’t tackle the strength of the shell and the issues we hide from on our own, then we could be locked in the chrysalis for eternity. My body tingled as I realized the time spent this week reflecting, thinking, sharing, discovering, and reacting were my final stages. The aha moments cast off the remaining pieces, freeing my soul.

Dodging large puddles, I smiled while the ocean wind tugged at my ponytail. The run was perfect, challenging my body and mind. Courage led me down this path, to this island and to the beautiful souls who had risked, just like me, to search for more, to find more and to realize our greatest power lies deep within our hearts. We searched the depths to shed our fears and find the strong, beautiful, independent women we were meant to be. Each of us stepped into this environment not knowing what to expect but hoping for transformation. Our souls are forever forged by a situation that terrified, overwhelmed, and left us trembling with raw emotion. Their stories shaped me, touched me, and made me acutely aware of how broken we could become. I was broken.

Turning around and heading back I savored every step knowing today was the last day, the last run and the last few moments before things changed. My thoughts were interrupted as a shadow crossed in front of me. Glancing over a buck stood, quiet, still and observing in the pre-dawn darkness. Antlers rose regally above his ears as he watched me. My heart soared as I whispered good morning. My steps were lighter realizing this was the perfect culmination to my run.

Finishing up I quietly entered the house. Leaving my shoes in my room I mounted the stairs and headed to the beach to cool down. The beautiful Atlantic was waiting for me. She was churned up this morning sneaking further up the beach, leaving shells scattered through the sand. Would she miss my heart song as I walked the beach after my run? Would she miss covering my toes in surf and sand and splashing me with errant waves?  Listening to her aria, I kicked the sand and danced in the waves. Glancing down I saw another butterfly shell, this one lighter in color than my first. How fitting. I broke free, standing like a new butterfly, wings crumpled, wet and waiting. As I welcomed the cleansing rain and walked along the beach, strength coursed through my wings.

One final look at the beautiful Atlantic as she rolled in and out, pulling the sand and the shells, changing, churning, and giving life. My journey led me here, to this moment, to this time to find the final pieces. My wings are ready, my soul is at rest, my heart is calm, and I found the truest version of me. Blowing a kiss to the Atlantic I stepped toward my future.  

First Day of School

 

The town was quiet this morning as I headed out for my run. Things are very different for me than in previous years. Both of my boys are starting college today. For the last 16 years I have made sure one or both were awake, everything set for school, first day of school pictures and then off to school. Our routine was set; waking up they would sleepily hug me and then stumble into the bathroom. Early on I made breakfast and as they got older, they made their own. We always said prayers and they would sleepily finish breakfast. In elementary school, I would double check their backpack, making sure they had everything for the day and as they grew that was their responsibility, backed up with a simple, “Have everything?” from me. Both Sweet T and Rockstar are responsible and except for the rare occasion they would leave prepared for the day. Just a couple times in their junior high and high school career did I have to drop off a forgotten book or notebook.

We were blessed and made it a priority to be able to take the boys to school and pick them up. I cherished those 30 golden minutes of chatter after school, listening as they would share everything that happened; what they played at recess, who they ate lunch with, what their favorite part of the day was. When T turned 16 that changed, I stood on the front porch and waved as he drove to school. My heart ached at the change, but I smiled at his new-found independence, knowing that was the next step of many steps of independence to come. As T would drive off, I was thankful we were still able to drop Rockstar off at school. After school, when it was nice, I would kick off work early and walk to meet him. Walking home together he would grab my hand and talk about his day. I cherished that until Austin turned 15. At 15 and 18 they both were high school students. The first day of school when Rockstar was a freshman and Sweet T was a senior, I watched those sweet boys drive off together. They waved, I waved and when I shut the door I cried just a little. Things were changing again. I knew from that moment on, I would never be picking them up or dropping them off again. Those talks in the car or on walks were replaced with homework and chatter at the island, after athletic practices as I made supper. 16 years goes by in the blink of an eye.

 

This morning I thought of them on my run, saying a prayer for a good first day and a great semester. They sweetly kept with tradition, my oldest sending me a picture on his way to class and my youngest swinging by between classes so I could take a picture. With each step I thought about so many of our wonderful memories, knowing we will create new different, memories. I am so blessed and thankful to be their Momma for this journey. Each stage prepared me little by little for the moment when they would soar on their own. The transition from kindergarten to field trips to overnight sleepovers, multiple day athletic trips and world travel without us.

They are in their own places, beginning the next new, exciting chapter and I couldn’t be prouder. I have learned from my boys every step along the way, just as they have learned from me. They are independent, strong, and compassionate individuals, bringing their grace and understanding to our world and community. They are thoughtful, careful with their words and very aware of how they impact those around them. They stand respectfully strong when their heart is convicted, always researching, understanding, weighing costs and benefits trying to make mostly good decisions. We never saddled them with the moniker of perfection, always asking them to do their best in all situations, knowing sometimes their best could change from day to day.  They understand faith at a deep level and make decisions with faith as a foundation. They aren’t overly vocal, preferring to show their faith by actions rather than words.

I texted them both this morning, wishing them good luck and letting them know how proud I am of them, proud of the men they are, and the men they are becoming. My heart sighed with the responses, thankful they are comfortable and grounded enough to chat with Mom. I am glad they know we are a safe place to navigate the changes and that we are always there for them. As the school year starts and I relinquish crayons and tissues for laptops and backpacks I say a quiet prayer of thankfulness for the many memories we have created over the last 16 years, moments etched in time at wonderful ages; painting in art class, zombie tag and wallball at recess, math, chess, choir, band, football, basketball, golf, track, science fairs, field trips, senior years, graduations and now college. I am thankful for the parents who have journeyed with us, supplying hugs as we said good-bye to each stage, who brought tissues when stages got difficult, and who loved our boys as vehemently as we do.

My house is quiet today with no anticipation of hearing how the day went and my heart hurts knowing I will no longer be part of their daily lives, but I smile knowing they will impact the world. Strangely, I don’t yearn for them to be young again. We were present and enjoyed those ages and stages when they happened. Today, with a few tears in our eyes, we celebrate the strong wings of individuality and independence they have grown. They will soar above the clouds ready for the next chapter.

Victim, Victor or Existor

 

Stepping out, I embraced the slight chill in the air. In the last week we had driven over 2,400 miles, my stress level was through the roof, my body was tired, and I didn’t feel like running. But I needed the run, my body needed the release, and I was committed to myself.

Starting out in the early morning darkness, my body immediately pushed back, feeling disjointed and wooden. As I settled into the awkwardness that would be this run, I thought about how easy it would be to make 1,000 excuses justifying why I shouldn’t be up this early running; I had already raced two 5Ks and 2 half marathons in the last week, driven over 2,400 miles, balanced health stuff and hospital visits. Not to mention I had been feeling awful for almost a year. My body had been fighting complete exhaustion. Every day I forced myself awake, battled through my run, got work finished, took care of my family, and somehow made it through the day. I constantly felt like I was swimming through oatmeal with my head encased in cotton. Clear thought was difficult and normal daily routine was a struggle. I chalked everything up to life; it had been challenging for everyone. Depression, sorrow, stress, fatigue, anxiety had become daily companions. I wasn’t vocal about how I was feeling, knowing I was responsible for me. Each morning my options are to become a victim, simply exist or become a victor in my life. 

Despite struggling every day, I did what needed to be done. This morning’s run was no exception. The familiar kiss of my shoes on the pavement helped my body warm up as I breathed in the chilly air. I was not near 100% but believed there was hope for future runs. Required bloodwork showed my autoimmune was going a little crazy, attacking and slowing my body down, causing depression, fatigue, muddled thoughts, and many other things. My levels were double the highest acceptable rate, but we will get it under control.

The miles ticked slowly by as the stars twinkled down, giving me time to think about how easy it could have been to spend the last year with a victim mentality. In life, it is easy to adopt being a victim, a victor or an existor. Sometimes we roll in and out of those three thought processes and sometimes we pour a foundation and take up residence. The difficult truth is we control, create and are responsible for the life we are living.  There are always circumstances beyond our control, but how we react to those circumstances weighs heavily in the outline of each day. A victim mentality severely prevents the ability of finding and seeing joy. There are excuses for everything and a false sense of martyrdom. Regardless of the positivity in the world or the chance to do something different, the victim mentality is always quick to point out reasons it can’t be done; too young, too old, too husky, too skinny, too sick, wrong neighborhood, wrong job, wrong family . . . It draws and thrives on negativity and self-fulfilling prophecy with the belief that nobody understands how difficult their life is. When faced with situations, a victim will settle in with a diagnosis or a life situation and view it as their “lot in life.” You can almost hear the heavy sigh and “poor me” thought process. A victim “reluctantly” enjoys sharing all the things that are wrong with them, wrong with the world, wrong with everyone and everything around them. It is easy to magnify every little problem and feel life is unfair. The victim will wallow in self-pity while putting on the “brave face of martyrdom” .         

A victim mentality would have altered the drive and discipline necessary to train over the last year. The finishes in my first four races in over two years were a direct result of the choice to not be a victim to how I was feeling. It was difficult and sometimes a painful decision to get up and run in all kinds of weather, when everyone was still in bed, running hurt, tired, frustrated, and sad. I ran despite it all, without focusing on excuses. It would be easy to slide seamlessly into victim mode as the world is great at enabling that mentality. I chose, almost daily, not to be a victim. As my steps tapped over the quiet streets, I acknowledged I didn’t want a victim lifestyle nor did I want to simply exist.

Years streak by in a life of existence, and we wake up one day wondering what happened. Existors get up, go to work, get married, have kids, pay the bills, attend the events day after day without truly being engaged. There is no desire to do anything other than what comes next until the journey has ended. It is easy to get caught in a routine that promotes simple existence. Days pass and all of a sudden you wonder, where the last 20 years went, wonder how the kids are already grown and feel as if you missed it all. Memories don’t stand out and everything seems blurred together. In fact, there are few memories other than the daily grind. Everything is done as just the next step or what is expected.  Over the last year it was difficult for me not to fall into just existing. To fight the overwhelming desire to go through the motions required me to be deliberate in my actions. I chose to stop and say good morning to the deer on my run and pause during the day to be thankful for all the blessings surrounding me. Admittedly many runs I have not been fully present, just a conscious thought when I finish and turn off my tracker off. Sometimes those runs are necessary, sometimes those moments are necessary, but life is too precious to make it a habit.

All of us at one point or another will sway into victim, victor or existor, but when you look at your life, what do you see? Are you going through the motions or does bad stuff always seem to happen to you? Does it feel as if you are stuck? How do you get out if you want to leave that lifestyle behind? What prompts you to search for something better, demand something better from yourself and to put in the work to get something better?

Moving into a joyous, victorious lifestyle takes difficult and serious inner self reflection. It takes being completely, brutally and painfully honest with yourself. Begin by asking pointed questions. Do people enjoy being around you and talking to you? Do conversations with you begin and end with your latest difficulty? Do people’s eyes glaze over or do they cut conversations short with you? When you talk to other people, do you listen to what they have to say, or do you interrupt wanting to share things from your perspective? Are you interested in what is happening in their life or is it more about yours? If you are battling different things in your life, what have you done about it? Are you doing things to help make your health or life better? Are you finding positive solutions to what is going on or do you simply just accept? Have you found yourself going through week after week after week without many distinguishing thoughts between them? Are your memories of events fuzzy? Have you done anything spontaneous or stopped to smell the roses? Have you paused in a moment and absorbed it or were you just present? Do you remember the last time you truly felt happiness or joy? These are critical, honest questions that will help you see a  need for change.

The world is incredible and wonder filled with beauty in every corner.  Each day the sun rises and bathes the land in golden light. Warm summer days bring green grass, brilliant colors, beautiful flowers, shorts, dark skin, popsicles, children playing outside and joy. Every season, when you choose to look, has miraculous gifts. Evolving into a victorious life begins with gratitude for these gifts.  Gratitude for a run, even if it is a bad run. Gratitude for each situation regardless of how difficult it may be. Gratitude for the things in life that can be overlooked, a roof over our heads, food on the table, sunshine, flowers, hugs, another day. Whatever it may be, gratitude begins the journey.

As I continued to whittle away the miles, choosing to be thankful for the run, I thought about the victor. What does living a life of victory look like? Of course, I imagine a runner coming across the finish line, arms held high, a combination of pain and exhilaration on their face. But victor is so much more, victor is living a life of gratitude, embracing each moment, living with purpose, remaining positive through the most difficult times, exploring, and experiencing what this world has to offer. Living victoriously is different for everyone, but the common factor is being on purpose, choosing to create the best life possible and having gratitude.  

One of life’s greatest gifts is we can change anytime we want and choose how our next paragraph or chapter will look. We can’t change the beginning of the story, but we can change how it ends. We may have created a life of existence or morphed into a victim mentality, but we don’t have to stay there. We can move whenever we choose knowing there is always room in the victorious lane. Wake up daily and choose to recognize that life is a true and wondrous gift. Go for the walk you have been talking about, take the first step to a better lifestyle. Be the driving force in creating your best life. Choose to make lasting memories, on purpose. Be a positive influence on those around you. Victory lies in the simple pleasures, a smile, a quiet question, a hug, even a bright blue sky. A victorious life can be anything you want it to be.

I push the final half mile of my run, still wooden and awkward, but celebrating the finish. Tapping off my tracker I blow the stars a kiss, and smile.   I am thankful for the hope of feeling better, thankful to be able to run when others can’t, thankful for a gorgeous morning, bright stars and the solitude to gather strength for the day. I choose today and every day to create my victorious life, a life of joy and gratitude.

My Brother

 

December 4, 2020 the world changed forever. Some never noticed, others might have felt a blip in the energy around them and for many others the world will never be the same again. On that day I lost my brother. The demons that plagued him for much too long attacked when he was most vulnerable. They don’t fight fair and work in the darkest places of the human soul. They won the Earthly battle and the world will be less bright. Friday the 4th was one moment in time and I believe one moment should not define my brother. Frank was human, had flaws, made mistakes, and fought daily with the person he saw in the mirror. But he was a good man, a good person, a good husband, a good father, a good brother, and a good son.

My brother was the second oldest in our family of four siblings and the oldest son. He was three years my senior and oftentimes was my hero. I was the runt of the family, small, awkward, dorky, a bookworm, and an easy target. Growing up I was picked on often for being all the things I mentioned  and more. Frank was the big brother every little sister could want. He was big, strong, teased me like crazy, but always protected me with a fierceness only understood by big brothers. In grade school he squared off on more than one occasion to protect me from bullies. He always protected me, made sure bullies apologized and spent time in detention for his efforts. I adored him.  

For a time when we were both in elementary school, we lived on a small ranchette outside of town. It was the type of place that sparked creativity, imagination and hours and hours of time outside. When we moved out there my sister started junior high and my other brother was little and not yet school aged. My Dad taught school in town and my Mom was working in town, meaning every school day they loaded up my sister and baby brother and headed in. Frank and I would get ready and head to our country school, about three miles from the ranch house. During the winter, when the roads were blocked and the bus couldn’t make it to the house, we would bundle up and snowmobile to school. A few times we even rode our pony. Being well before all-day kid TV, cell phones, electronic games, and even regular phones; we shared a party-line with several other ranches in the area, we learned to entertain ourselves. Getting home from school, we would rush through chores, so we had time to play. We made up games that were ridiculous,  with rules that constantly changed, ran wild and laughed a ton. Many of our indoor games, during cold weather, were serenated by my crush from my parent’s era of music. Fabian was very handsome to my little six, and seven year old, self. It drove my brother crazy when I played the same 45 record over and over, and over again; Turn me Loose, Hold That Tiger and Mug Mates. He was easy going though, and rolled with it.  

More than a couple of times our activities could have landed us in very, hot water. Our old ranch house had, what seemed at the time, to be a huge, very long rec room. The front door was on one end of the rec room and a large couch was at the other end. I don’t quite remember how the game started, but we discovered how much fun it was, with Fabian crooning in the background, to start by the front door, run as fast as we could, jump on the arm of the couch and flip onto the cushions. It was a perfect way to pass the time when we couldn’t be outside. That old couch weathered hundreds of jumps, falls and bounces, until it didn’t. One cold day, mid-way through an afternoon of couch jumping, I bounded off after a very successful flip. Frank was hot on my heels. He jumped, flew, bounced and CRACK! Our eyes grew to the size of saucers and we both went, “Uh Oh.” Like all kids we didn’t want to get in trouble, so began to think of potential fixes before the rest of the family showed up. The first, most obvious thought was, maybe they won’t notice. We stepped back, looked and went, “Yea, they’ll notice.” Deciding to look underneath to see if maybe we could put something under it was a brilliant next step. Thankfully it looked like a clean break right in the middle. Maybe, if we found something that was just about the same height as the legs we might get away with it. We scoured the house, trying several different options, watching the clock and panicking as the seconds ticked by. Finally, we thought about blocks. Running to my brothers’ room I grabbed a couple little blue square blocks. With our fingers crossed, Frank lifted the end of the couch, I placed the blocks right at the break point and he gently set it down. We stepped back and sighed, you couldn’t tell.  The blocks were the perfect height at the skirt from the couch covered them up. We gingerly stepped away from the couch, like it was a rabid dog, and said nothing. For those that are wondering, we did not get caught.

Another favorite game was to run from our faithful basset hounds, Sam and Charles. We would start at the house, get them excited, and then take off behind the house, down the fence line that separated the courtyard from a small pasture, climb up some wood and boxes, jump over the fence, land in a play yard and do it all over again. The fence was a 10 foot windbreak fence so we had to be a little careful with how we landed. Frank was bigger and faster, but I held my own staying as close to his heels as possible. Sam and Charles would give chase, barking, tails wagging, tripping on their ears and loving every minute of it. One brisk fall day we set off for a good round of chase.  The sky was grey, the light was dim and it was chilly so we had on our coats. We made a couple laps without incident and then . . .  Frank made it along the back of the fence, climbed up and jumped over. I  ran, climbed up, jumped over and my coat slid over a fence plank. I was caught. Too short to reach anything to boost myself I couldn’t move and swung back and forth like a pendulum. I called Frank, who was already headed toward the house. He turned around and in appropriate big brother fashion, burst out laughing. He walked back and I thought he was going to help me down. Nope. He grinned, gave me a slight nudge, and started laughing again as I swung back and forth. The dogs had made their way back around and were underfoot, tails wagging enjoying the whole thing. I hung, periodically getting a nudge from my brother and an interested look from the dogs, until they started to bark. Realizing my folks were on the road toward the house, Frank quickly climbed up and boosted me off the fence, all while whispering a familiar phrase for anyone with siblings, “Don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

Frank always had my back, even in the littlest of things. My active imagination, something that has helped me become a writer now, provided times where I conjured fantastical creatures in my mind. One time, after reading The Elves and the Shoemaker, too many times, I swore I saw an elf running around the corner in our rec room.  I confided in Frank and he teased me a little bit, but never made me feel bad. He said, “If you thought you saw an elf, it was probably an elf.” In my little seven-year-old mind I didn’t want my elf to be hungry, so that night decided to leave part of my supper in a drawer for him. My brother, with a very  large appetite, thought it was a great idea. At supper, I snuck part of my pork chop off my plate and left it in the drawer. In all innocence I asked my brother if he thought the elf would know where to find the food. Frank assured me he would know. Waking up early the next morning I ran to check the drawer. To my delight and surprise, the pork chop was gone. I shared the wonderful news with my brother, who was not surprised. His comment was, “See, you did see an elf.”

    Our bond continued as we grew, and our lives changed. He went off to the Army and wrote me every single week. I grew up a little more and was ecstatic when he came back. When I was in college, I would bother him at work between classes. As a manager first at Ideal and then Northridge I would pop in, lounging in a chair or on his desk and talk until I had to leave for my next class. We shared stories, challenged each other’s thoughts, and thought about the future. It was during one of those conversations that he brought up the beautiful, brunette checker at Ideal. He wandered over to the store often to grab one little thing or another and strategically tried to get in her check-out line. Finally, after hemming and hawing for weeks he got the gumption to ask her out. Not to sound clique, but the rest was history. My brother was smitten. They began dating, I believe, in September, he proposed on Thanksgiving and they were married in February. Their romance was a whirlwind and I watched my big brother fall head over heels in love!! Terry was his heart and soul, grounding him and helping him to see his own goodness. I remember watching him when we went to see her sing as the Little Mermaid in the Centennial Singers program. He was all eyes and pride watching her sing. He had complete adoration and love for his Terry Jo.

Frank and I were blessed, when he returned from the Army, to follow a similar timeline with milestones in our lives. He and Terry were married a year before Jim and I and we made incredible memories as young married couples together. Trips to Breckinridge, sharing a condo, playing games and skiing. Dinners at each other’s houses, a few drinks and dancing like goofs to old songs. Fishing trips, to catfish at night while the rain pounded on our tents. Playing cards by lantern light waiting for the rain to let up just enough to fish. All of this was flavored with his ever-present grin, his wild humor and laughter.

When Frank and Terry started a family, I watched my brother fall in love all over again. There was such pride and the look of being completely humbled when he held Ben for the first time. Those feelings grew exponentially with each kiddo. He loved Ben, Josh, Sarah, and Rachel with everything he was. Every conversation he talked about how proud he was of them. When the boys were little, he would bring them by trick-or-treating, all of them dressed up. We got to babysit and share in his love for his children.  

Frank and my husband were incredible friends and would spend hours and days fishing together. Frank would come into the house, “What’s up, Jim Bob Kelly Sue?”, his favorite thing to call Jim. Frank introduced Jim to ice fishing for the first time and Jim knew it was the one time he could fish and not come home on time without getting in trouble. They hunted together and Jim marveled at Frank's ability to scale a mountain straight up, walk around the backside, hunt, and haul out an animal all in a short period of time. He was strong and in perpetual motion.  

My brother had an incredible appetite. Our cook at our country school adored Frank and would make extra food, just for him. I remember one-time, he sat down at lunch and ate 26 pieces of chicken. As long as he continued to eat, Mrs. Beidleman brought it out. He was comfortable in my home and would walk in, give me a hug and go straight to the refrigerator. Finding leftovers, he would fix himself a plate, heat them up and then start to visit as he ate. I loved the comfort level that prompted that and the fact that he would clear my fridge of leftovers.

Even as our lives changed, we saw each other often and talked on the phone regularly. We covered theology, politics, life, kids, laughed at stories and grew learning something new from each other. When we talked he always paused and genuinely wanted to know how I was, how Jim was and how the kids were. We attended events for our kids and always seemed to end up poking each other, whispering goofy things as we cheered and celebrated our kiddos. He loved my boys as fiercely as he loved his own. He was proud of their accomplishments and made sure they knew it.  

Frank was a passionate fisherman and would fish until they stopped biting. Sometimes it would mean hours or sometimes a day or two before they stopped biting. Terry was a saint, recognizing and supporting his passion. She understood that a set time for him to be home when he fished was nearly impossible. He shared his love of fishing with his kids and shared moments on the lake with each of them.

Frank was strong and could hike a mountain without a break. He was top in his class in the Army earning medals and awards for his dedication and focus. He would be dropped in the middle of a field, in the middle of the night and he would always be the first back to base. He lived life with a full, open throttle. His heart was bigger than the state of Texas, always being the first person to offer help. He would give you the shirt off his back, his shoes or anything he thought you might need. His smile warmed rooms up and his laughter was contagious. In business he always went above and beyond working tirelessly for everyone who was lucky to do business with him. He didn’t judge and always wanted everyone to feel comfortable. He usually loved people where they were, without expecting them to be something they weren’t. He loved his family with everything he was. His faith was strong and was evident in every aspect of life. Frank was larger than life.

I have already cried more tears than I knew I had, missing him dearly in the few days he has been gone. I think ahead and know I will miss his presence when I am navigating hospital stints with my parents, realizing I won’t have him to lean on, take walks with or help with Mom and Dad. I will miss his calls and how he asked about what was going on in my life and really wanted to know. I will miss him calling me Shanny and Scrappy Do, teasing me for being little. I will miss his ability to love with no judgement and no expectations, just pure love and acceptance. I will miss him every single day. Tears will sneak up and choke me and my heart will ache for a long, long time. I will reach for my phone 1,000 times to call him about something silly and I will see him in places he used to be. I will miss his voice, his hugs, his pokes and him squaring off to pick on me. I will miss how he teased my boys and hugged on my husband. My heart hurts that he will never get the signed copy of my book that he was anxiously waiting for or that he will miss so many milestones. My heart cries for Terry, Ben, Josh, Sarah and Rachel and for our entire family. My mind stutters when I think memories of Frank stopped on December 4, 2020.

I believe life is never measured by the house or neighborhood you live in, the car you drive or the things you have. I believe success is not measured by the zeros on a paycheck or how expensive your clothes are. Success and life are better measured by the people you loved and the lives you impacted. Frank loved fiercely and impacted thousands of lives. He was many amazing things, so much more than his humanity and the final time the demons succeeded.

Now, as the initial shock settles and my brother carries his smile and charm to the gates of heaven, I think of Frank. I cried for the anguish and darkness he was fighting in the final moments and agonized that he was alone. I realized in my heart, though, he was not alone in his last moments. I imagine, The Lord cradled my brother, even if Frank didn’t realize it. Tears streamed down The Lord’s face as he knew and felt the battle Frank fought. He rocked my brother, hoping not to lose his child in the Earthly realm. My brother is now in heaven.

In the peace after the storm, I see the Lord pulling Frank aside and inviting him to fish in His favorite spot. Knowing my brother better than anyone, they sit side by side in a boat with their lines in the water. The water is still as glass with only an occasional ripple and the sky is brilliant. Fish swim around the boat, peering out occasionally. Understanding my brother, the Lord ensures the fish aren’t biting until after they can have a conversation. They talk, they fish, they cry and for the first time my brother sees himself through the eyes of the Lord. My brother is finally at peace. I love you Frank.