As a tween I was a major wimp. My mom made me bike to school in junior high- a whole whopping 5 mile round trip every day. I know, cru-el! At that time of my life I was also kinda tubby. When puberty hits, we all either get ridiculously skinny or tubby. My genetics demonstrated the latter set of traits, much to my chagrin. We all know that "larger" females, in American teen culture, aren't accepted as much as the thin and trim ones.
Back to me being a wimp... I think it was the summer before 6th grade, maybe the one after, when we went on a horse pack camping trip in the Tetons. My late father is from the Teton Valley and such trips were a regular thing for him growing up. He wanted to give us that kind of experience. So, he and my Uncle Fritz (this uncle was a cowboy in every way), packed up a few horses with all our stuff and we all hiked to our destination. As it would be, I fell behind everyone, significantly. My sister and others were really irritated with me wishing I hiked faster. I seriously couldn't do it. My dad had to keep up with the horses and we lost sight of him. There wasn't really a trail (my father and uncle knew those mountains that well). Us losing my dad escalated the frustration of everyone I was trying to hike with. In the end, we found my dad, had a great time, life went on.
That experience was a turning point for me. I did not want to be the wimp. Ever again. Even with my tubbiness I began to exercise. One of my 5 sisters got me into jogging (I won't call it running, because it wasn't- yet). We lived 1 mile from the Mesa, Arizona LDS temple. We'd go on oober slow jogs around the temple block for a grand total of 2 miles. In fact, she'd run faster, and then keep doubling back to make sure I was doing OK. By 9th grade I wanted to give track a try.
In high school I did track 2 years and cross country for 1. At BYU I ran with a freshman roommate and later spent a lot of time with a "walk-on" to the men's cross country team. Hook, line, and sinker, I became a distance runner.
Since then, I've served an 18 month LDS mission in Brazil, got married, done close to 20 half marathons 7 full marathons, and countless 10k's and 5k's- while having 3 babies and working. Through all of it there have been few constants. Life is like that. Faith, family, a few close friends, and (you guessed it) running, have been my glue. Then, BOOM! I couldn't run like normal anymore.
When something that substantial is temporarily taken, some emotional upheaval is inevitable. Add to the fact that I'm female, and it's a recipe for lots of tears, frustration, and moodiness. Boo, hiss.
It all started on a 21+ mile run April 2016. I was training for marathon #8 down a local canyon. My left knee started hurting, on the front, on the inside. Weird. I stopped a few times to massage it, and it eventually went away. I finished my run and didn't think much of it. My inner hamstring on the same side also started acting up not much later. Lovely.
In the middle of that, I attempted that 8th marathon. Due to extreme weather conditions I dropped out at mile 15. I heard later that the race had a 40% drop out rate. Yep, the weather was *that* bad. Knowing what's happened since, it was probably an act of Heaven that stopped me.
I saw a physical therapist that specializes in runners who helped the hamstring. Months later when things weren't 100% better and they should've been, I returned to him and he discovered my hips were out of alignment. My hamstring was masking a much larger issue. Great (insert grimace). He referred me to a hip specialist.
Sometimes getting to the root of a problem is like peeling off the layers of an onion. Such has been the past several months. Injury is rarely a problem for me, thankfully. I'm regularly faithful with strength training, cross-training, my form is decent, etc. What the crap?! Stuff like this isn't supposed to happen to runners like me. Ugh. One day, before realizing the magnitude of my problem, and waiting for my appointment with the hip specialist, I was dealing with really painful aftermath from a 10 mile run. My husband wisely told me I'd probably have to start all over. My heart sank, but I knew he was right. And so began a long journey to recovery. Back and hip pain cannot be ignored. I dropped to 3 miles at a time and did my best to be grateful I could still run at all.
Lots of questions entered my mind. I could tell my dysfunctional relationship with patience was going to be tested. I was not eager for that dimension of injury. Oh well. Whad'ya do? Suck it up, cupcake.
Thursday, November 24, 2016
Monday, November 14, 2016
Because of My Mother
When I was little, I was traumatized by my mother's gray grandma hair and varicose veins (now I sport nasty veins as well- yay...?). All my friends at school had moms who were young. I didn't. I'm the youngest of 6 and my mom was 38 when I was born (yep, I was a "surprise"). I realize that 38 really isn't "old," but when you're 7 or 8, you think having a mom in her 40's really makes you different than everyone else, and that's bad. Sadly enough, my feelings toward her only intensified as a teenager. I mean, really. What teenager thinks his/her mom is cool? Most don't. I was no exception. All growing up I wanted to emulate as many of my father's traits as possible, and to minimize anything resembling my mom. She was so, well, nerdy. I was certain everyone else saw it too.
My first 3 years of college she and my father were serving a church mission in South Korea. The last night I spent in the house where I grew up, before they left, was a memorable one. My mom and I sat on the floor of my empty bedroom, in the dark, staring at all the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling and walls, crying and sharing memories. I knew, that even though I never really liked my mom, I loved her. All those years growing up I never once doubted her love for me. Despite my immature and negative feelings, I always knew I could confide in her, that she cared, and always wanted what was best for me.
Years later, after college, a mission of my own in Brazil, and the passing of my father, I was living with her again. Habits of her's still irked me. I hated it when she'd fold my laundry (she didn't do it right). I got annoyed when she'd want to have group prayer. I found myself getting ridiculously irritated with her over things I knew were pointless. Hadn't I matured at all? Perhaps not. I eventually came to the realization that I needed outside help if I was ever going to love my mother freely.
For a while I saw a therapist. He helped me with various issues, including the incorrect ways I viewed my dear, angelic mother. I remember one day watching her speak in church and it hit me. Here was a woman who had struggled with depression, already lost both her parents, and had been trying her upmost to be a good mom, wife, and woman. Maybe I had been expecting perfection out of her. How unfair and cruel of me. I finally saw my mom as a dynamic person. I saw her for who she really was.
The irony of it all is that through all those years she never let my awful treatment towards her really get to her. She kept loving me anyways. I'm sure she had plenty of moments when she wanted to wring my neck. But I never knew. I never felt anything but love from her. I not once deserved it, and was given it anyways.
She is one of the proofs that God does not give up on us. If someone as ornery as I is given such a mother to perhaps learn to love, than we are all given ample chances to be better. Oddly enough, being the mother to a leukemia patient has provided more such opportunities. We have witnessed some of the best of humanity as people have reached out, given presents, money, time, food, etc. This past fall we witnessed even more.
Derek qualifies for Make A Wish. The evening he officially declared his wish was magical. I have been blessed to have lots of loving people in my life, but not once have I been treated like we were that night. I felt like our little family was the most important in the world. Now, come March, we will head to Florida to party it up in Legoland, Disney World, and Sea World! Wahoo! Honestly, it still doesn't seem real. Weird.
A few weeks ago, Make A Wish called. A local high school is doing their yearly fundraiser for them and they like to have the face of a "wish child" to promote their efforts. I was asked if Derek could be that face. What?! How could I decline? In all of this cancer stuff, I've usually wanted to keep it all in the shadows, not talk about it unless it was on my terms. I knew this was a chance to let go of that and just let it all be.
The Friday before Halloween, Derek and I went to the kick-off assembly. I figured we'd be treated kindly, but my expectations were not only exceeded, they were blown out of the water. Derek was pretty much a celebrity. The student council members wanted to know everything about him- interests, favorite movies, favorite toys, friends, etc. The treated him like their favorite younger brother. As a mother, they won me over (secret: if you want to win the heart of a mother, be good to her children).
When Derek and I went up on stage for me to talk a bit about him, his situation, and such, that whole teenage student body stood and cheered. It stunned me. I'm surprised I didn't break in to tears. Poor Derek didn't quite know how to take it. He clung to me. As I started talking, he relaxed. At one point he sat down, right on the stage, because he was bored. Typical 7 year old. 😊 His humility. His natural love for others. His eagerness to be friendly and accept people. I saw all of that in his simple behavior on that stage.
Once again, the generosity of strangers softened my naturally thorny heart. I guess the hardest part of all of it is this: I'm not that nice of a person! Why are they being so nice to me? If they really knew me I don't think they'd bother. But it's for Derek! I can't deny him because of my faults.
I'm learning to be gracious (well, awkwardly). I have a desire to pay it forward more than I knew was possible. I've seen more of the connection we all share as children of God. We honor it when we love and forgive. We deny it when we bicker, blame, and hold on to grudges. I want to do more of the former, not the latter. Denying that connection between us all does not make me happy. Honoring it brings me the most joy and happiness I've yet experienced. So, one day at a time, I'll try to find opportunities to serve, pay it forward, and make people feel special. Who doesn't want more of that?
My first 3 years of college she and my father were serving a church mission in South Korea. The last night I spent in the house where I grew up, before they left, was a memorable one. My mom and I sat on the floor of my empty bedroom, in the dark, staring at all the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling and walls, crying and sharing memories. I knew, that even though I never really liked my mom, I loved her. All those years growing up I never once doubted her love for me. Despite my immature and negative feelings, I always knew I could confide in her, that she cared, and always wanted what was best for me.
Years later, after college, a mission of my own in Brazil, and the passing of my father, I was living with her again. Habits of her's still irked me. I hated it when she'd fold my laundry (she didn't do it right). I got annoyed when she'd want to have group prayer. I found myself getting ridiculously irritated with her over things I knew were pointless. Hadn't I matured at all? Perhaps not. I eventually came to the realization that I needed outside help if I was ever going to love my mother freely.
For a while I saw a therapist. He helped me with various issues, including the incorrect ways I viewed my dear, angelic mother. I remember one day watching her speak in church and it hit me. Here was a woman who had struggled with depression, already lost both her parents, and had been trying her upmost to be a good mom, wife, and woman. Maybe I had been expecting perfection out of her. How unfair and cruel of me. I finally saw my mom as a dynamic person. I saw her for who she really was.
The irony of it all is that through all those years she never let my awful treatment towards her really get to her. She kept loving me anyways. I'm sure she had plenty of moments when she wanted to wring my neck. But I never knew. I never felt anything but love from her. I not once deserved it, and was given it anyways.
She is one of the proofs that God does not give up on us. If someone as ornery as I is given such a mother to perhaps learn to love, than we are all given ample chances to be better. Oddly enough, being the mother to a leukemia patient has provided more such opportunities. We have witnessed some of the best of humanity as people have reached out, given presents, money, time, food, etc. This past fall we witnessed even more.
Derek qualifies for Make A Wish. The evening he officially declared his wish was magical. I have been blessed to have lots of loving people in my life, but not once have I been treated like we were that night. I felt like our little family was the most important in the world. Now, come March, we will head to Florida to party it up in Legoland, Disney World, and Sea World! Wahoo! Honestly, it still doesn't seem real. Weird.
A few weeks ago, Make A Wish called. A local high school is doing their yearly fundraiser for them and they like to have the face of a "wish child" to promote their efforts. I was asked if Derek could be that face. What?! How could I decline? In all of this cancer stuff, I've usually wanted to keep it all in the shadows, not talk about it unless it was on my terms. I knew this was a chance to let go of that and just let it all be.
The Friday before Halloween, Derek and I went to the kick-off assembly. I figured we'd be treated kindly, but my expectations were not only exceeded, they were blown out of the water. Derek was pretty much a celebrity. The student council members wanted to know everything about him- interests, favorite movies, favorite toys, friends, etc. The treated him like their favorite younger brother. As a mother, they won me over (secret: if you want to win the heart of a mother, be good to her children).
When Derek and I went up on stage for me to talk a bit about him, his situation, and such, that whole teenage student body stood and cheered. It stunned me. I'm surprised I didn't break in to tears. Poor Derek didn't quite know how to take it. He clung to me. As I started talking, he relaxed. At one point he sat down, right on the stage, because he was bored. Typical 7 year old. 😊 His humility. His natural love for others. His eagerness to be friendly and accept people. I saw all of that in his simple behavior on that stage.
Once again, the generosity of strangers softened my naturally thorny heart. I guess the hardest part of all of it is this: I'm not that nice of a person! Why are they being so nice to me? If they really knew me I don't think they'd bother. But it's for Derek! I can't deny him because of my faults.
I'm learning to be gracious (well, awkwardly). I have a desire to pay it forward more than I knew was possible. I've seen more of the connection we all share as children of God. We honor it when we love and forgive. We deny it when we bicker, blame, and hold on to grudges. I want to do more of the former, not the latter. Denying that connection between us all does not make me happy. Honoring it brings me the most joy and happiness I've yet experienced. So, one day at a time, I'll try to find opportunities to serve, pay it forward, and make people feel special. Who doesn't want more of that?
Saturday, October 8, 2016
Circle of Life
I come from a large family. Both my parents come from large families. I'm the youngest of 6 girls. My dad is the 5th of 9 children. My mom is the eldest of 8. That means I have a lot of cousins. I mean A LOT. I think my dad and I counted once and putting both my mom's and dad's sides together, I have somewhere around 70 cousins. Yep. I know. It's crazy. What can I say? Mormons usually seem to have lots of kids. Fertility is commonly genetic. There you have it.
Where am I going with this? Because of the nature of being part a 2 extremely large families, I've been to a lot of funerals over the years. My Grandfather Waddell passed away when I was in 6th grade- the first grandparent I lost. I've been to funerals for uncles, aunts, grandparents, friends, etc. So far this year, I've attended 4 funerals. 2 were for uncles who lived full and abundant lives into old age. 2 were for young fathers who each left a wife and small children behind. The latter 2 I mentioned have awaken a fear that's been my worst ever since my husband and I devoted ourselves to each other when we got married; what if he dies while our children are still at home and I'm left to be a single mom? It's really hard not to let that eat at me, let my imagination run wild, and be crippled by fear. Maybe it sounds ridiculous. I can be pretty ridiculous at times. But oh well.
Death is hard for those left behind. It's so, well, final. I have no idea what it's like for those who have passed on. No one has come back to enlighten me. My own father has been gone from this life over 11 years now. Is he gone? No. I feel him close quite often and know he's watching over me, my sisters, and my mom his sweetheart.
So what about those funerals? My Uncle LeMoyne was rough around the edges in his youth and over time he changed. He learned temperance, love, forgiveness. He was a highly-decorated Vietnam veteran. My Uncle Fred was what some might call eccentric, but he owned it. He was a fantastic musician, loved trinkets, and was big in to adventures. The husband of Tyler's cousin lit up all around him, was always helping someone, and loved his wife and children like no other. Tyler's high school friend was naturally happy, made his business (literally) to help others change for the better, and was determined to make the world a better place. Since none of us know when our time is up, all of this got me thinking: what are people going to say at my funeral (not that I'm planning on expiring any time soon)? Do I love as much as I'm capable of? Am I changing for the better- at least most of the time? Do I make it a priority to do what I love and do it often? Do I invite happiness in others? Am I service-oriented?
The one theme I noticed was each man knew what mattered and lived accordingly. Each man also was true to himself and let his individuality shine. The thing I love the most about this is that their priorities were the same: faith and family. I remember reading where C. S. Lewis talked about how Christianity makes a person more their true self. He compared it to salt. With salt broccoli tastes more like broccoli, a potato more like a potato, roast beef more like roast beef (yummers). And so it is with us. When we put Christ at the center of our lives we slowly become more of our true selves. I know, sounds a little contradictory, right? Well, the 4 men whose funerals I attended prove otherwise. Besides, I've witnessed it in countless other cases. I see it in myself, friends, family.
Self is probably the most elusive of said cases. Sometimes it's hard to feel original and important in a sea of billions of people on the earth. It becomes easy to wonder: does my life matter, can I really make a difference?
A million years ago I saw a little video clip of Steven R. Covey talking about priorities. He had a rather large jar (probably about 2 gallons), a bunch of rocks, pebbles, small stones, and sand. He claimed it all fit in said jar. It looked a little sketchy. I think he asked the audience what he should put in first. I don't recall the order specifically, but I think the sand was put in first, followed by the other geological items. They didn't fit. Then he did his magic, but order mattered. The largest rocks had to be put in first, followed by the small stones, then pebbles, and then the sand filled in the nooks and crannies (kinda like ice cream after a large meal). He then compared the jar to the amount of time we have and the rocks, stones, and sand to thing we do. If we don't put the largest ones in first, the rest won't fit. It's the same with priorities. We have to put 1st things 1st. Sounds pretty rudimentary, right? Well, I've tried to put the sand in my jar first countless times and of course it always fails. I keep thinking "This time will be different." Um, anyone recalling the definition of insanity? Yep, that's right.
What are those bigger rocks? I think they're things like faith, family, and personal care. I'm sure some of them are a little more individual than that. The fun part: the smaller stuff is where our personalities can really shine. They are different colors, shapes, designs. Each jar can be like those super cool colorful sand jars, but with different sized and colored rocks, jewels, stones, etc. The trick is that if those 1st things aren't put in 1st, the rest doesn't all fit. The fullness of our true selves doesn't get to shine.
The struggle I have is with the monotony of the larger rocks. I know they're crucial, but they're not always very fun. I don't always have an awakening when I read my scriptures. Every prayer doesn't result in a life-changing revelation. Getting my boys breakfast, dinner, doing laundry, getting them to school and such are especially monotonous. Nor are Tyler and I aren't madly in love with each other every second. So why bother? Well, when it comes to laundry I keep asking Tyler when we're moving to a nudist colony, but he hasn't found one for us yet. Still waiting on that, I guess.
I wish knew all of why these larger rocks can be so boring and tedious. Perhaps that's a question for my Maker (my 2 big ones for when we meet are 1. Why are some people fertile and others aren't, and 2. What's up with entropy- why?). Like most moms I want my Alice (think "The Brady Bunch") but I don't want to pay for her, not to mention the fact that she's not real. I get tired of cleaning up dinner bombs in the kitchen- especially when it comes to the wake of the toddler in the house, rushing to be on time for church, finding time for pondering on the Word, making lunches, meal planning, and so on. I could go on for pages, but I'll refrain.
Right now I think I'll go swim some laps. It's Saturday morning and since I can't be out on a long run, I'll go swim back and forth in some water and chemicals. That's close to the same thing, right? Perhaps another day I'll touch on the mental anguish that is my running injury. Let's just say I'm at least moving in the right direction, but painstakingly slow. Patience and I aren't really friends. It makes things a little difficult. For now, I'll go get wet and enjoy the Thomas the Tank Engine that my Benjamin has transformed into. Costumes are amazing like that.
Where am I going with this? Because of the nature of being part a 2 extremely large families, I've been to a lot of funerals over the years. My Grandfather Waddell passed away when I was in 6th grade- the first grandparent I lost. I've been to funerals for uncles, aunts, grandparents, friends, etc. So far this year, I've attended 4 funerals. 2 were for uncles who lived full and abundant lives into old age. 2 were for young fathers who each left a wife and small children behind. The latter 2 I mentioned have awaken a fear that's been my worst ever since my husband and I devoted ourselves to each other when we got married; what if he dies while our children are still at home and I'm left to be a single mom? It's really hard not to let that eat at me, let my imagination run wild, and be crippled by fear. Maybe it sounds ridiculous. I can be pretty ridiculous at times. But oh well.
Death is hard for those left behind. It's so, well, final. I have no idea what it's like for those who have passed on. No one has come back to enlighten me. My own father has been gone from this life over 11 years now. Is he gone? No. I feel him close quite often and know he's watching over me, my sisters, and my mom his sweetheart.
So what about those funerals? My Uncle LeMoyne was rough around the edges in his youth and over time he changed. He learned temperance, love, forgiveness. He was a highly-decorated Vietnam veteran. My Uncle Fred was what some might call eccentric, but he owned it. He was a fantastic musician, loved trinkets, and was big in to adventures. The husband of Tyler's cousin lit up all around him, was always helping someone, and loved his wife and children like no other. Tyler's high school friend was naturally happy, made his business (literally) to help others change for the better, and was determined to make the world a better place. Since none of us know when our time is up, all of this got me thinking: what are people going to say at my funeral (not that I'm planning on expiring any time soon)? Do I love as much as I'm capable of? Am I changing for the better- at least most of the time? Do I make it a priority to do what I love and do it often? Do I invite happiness in others? Am I service-oriented?
The one theme I noticed was each man knew what mattered and lived accordingly. Each man also was true to himself and let his individuality shine. The thing I love the most about this is that their priorities were the same: faith and family. I remember reading where C. S. Lewis talked about how Christianity makes a person more their true self. He compared it to salt. With salt broccoli tastes more like broccoli, a potato more like a potato, roast beef more like roast beef (yummers). And so it is with us. When we put Christ at the center of our lives we slowly become more of our true selves. I know, sounds a little contradictory, right? Well, the 4 men whose funerals I attended prove otherwise. Besides, I've witnessed it in countless other cases. I see it in myself, friends, family.
Self is probably the most elusive of said cases. Sometimes it's hard to feel original and important in a sea of billions of people on the earth. It becomes easy to wonder: does my life matter, can I really make a difference?
A million years ago I saw a little video clip of Steven R. Covey talking about priorities. He had a rather large jar (probably about 2 gallons), a bunch of rocks, pebbles, small stones, and sand. He claimed it all fit in said jar. It looked a little sketchy. I think he asked the audience what he should put in first. I don't recall the order specifically, but I think the sand was put in first, followed by the other geological items. They didn't fit. Then he did his magic, but order mattered. The largest rocks had to be put in first, followed by the small stones, then pebbles, and then the sand filled in the nooks and crannies (kinda like ice cream after a large meal). He then compared the jar to the amount of time we have and the rocks, stones, and sand to thing we do. If we don't put the largest ones in first, the rest won't fit. It's the same with priorities. We have to put 1st things 1st. Sounds pretty rudimentary, right? Well, I've tried to put the sand in my jar first countless times and of course it always fails. I keep thinking "This time will be different." Um, anyone recalling the definition of insanity? Yep, that's right.
What are those bigger rocks? I think they're things like faith, family, and personal care. I'm sure some of them are a little more individual than that. The fun part: the smaller stuff is where our personalities can really shine. They are different colors, shapes, designs. Each jar can be like those super cool colorful sand jars, but with different sized and colored rocks, jewels, stones, etc. The trick is that if those 1st things aren't put in 1st, the rest doesn't all fit. The fullness of our true selves doesn't get to shine.
The struggle I have is with the monotony of the larger rocks. I know they're crucial, but they're not always very fun. I don't always have an awakening when I read my scriptures. Every prayer doesn't result in a life-changing revelation. Getting my boys breakfast, dinner, doing laundry, getting them to school and such are especially monotonous. Nor are Tyler and I aren't madly in love with each other every second. So why bother? Well, when it comes to laundry I keep asking Tyler when we're moving to a nudist colony, but he hasn't found one for us yet. Still waiting on that, I guess.
I wish knew all of why these larger rocks can be so boring and tedious. Perhaps that's a question for my Maker (my 2 big ones for when we meet are 1. Why are some people fertile and others aren't, and 2. What's up with entropy- why?). Like most moms I want my Alice (think "The Brady Bunch") but I don't want to pay for her, not to mention the fact that she's not real. I get tired of cleaning up dinner bombs in the kitchen- especially when it comes to the wake of the toddler in the house, rushing to be on time for church, finding time for pondering on the Word, making lunches, meal planning, and so on. I could go on for pages, but I'll refrain.
Right now I think I'll go swim some laps. It's Saturday morning and since I can't be out on a long run, I'll go swim back and forth in some water and chemicals. That's close to the same thing, right? Perhaps another day I'll touch on the mental anguish that is my running injury. Let's just say I'm at least moving in the right direction, but painstakingly slow. Patience and I aren't really friends. It makes things a little difficult. For now, I'll go get wet and enjoy the Thomas the Tank Engine that my Benjamin has transformed into. Costumes are amazing like that.
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