OUT OF CONTROL 

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I checked the weather forecast. Multiple times. 

It looked like we were done with freezing temperatures – not that we had many this year. I spent a week hardening off the seedlings I’d planted in January. That means I put them outside for longer stretches each day to get them used to the elements before bringing them back in and letting them cozy up again. 

None of them wilted or withered during their lengthening exposures. 

Things were looking good. So I checked again. And again, just to be safe. 

I even looked at the long-range forecast. Nothing below 32 was expected and we were expecting a lot of rain in the coming week. Perfect! I figured the rain could water in the seedlings if I got them in the ground quickly enough. 

Afterall, they were cold-hardy varieties.

Broccoli, cabbage and lettuce. The tomatoes will have to wait a few more months, but these, I told myself, would be fine. 

A grabbed the seed trays, my garden gloves and a trowel. 

As I dug into the freshly fertilized soil with a layer of rich compost on top, I imagined the salads I’d make from the greens. I pictured myself picking tender broccoli and sauteing it for dinner. Perhaps with fresh garlic and a squeeze of lemon. 

My favorite time of year – the time of harvest – was just around the corner. I was sure of it. 

The first few days went well. The forecasted rain watered the seedlings – a kiss from God to help them settle into their new homes. 

I checked them each day and everyone was surviving.

Then, today, I woke up to snow. At least an inch by 7am. 

I could be fretting. I could rush out in my flannel pajamas with plastic sheeting to try to cover my plants. But I’m choosing not to. 

Instead, I’m tucked under a blanket inside, raptured by the beauty of the unexpected snowfall. 

The coating of white on the driveway, lawn, and trees – up to about 2 inches now – is idyllic. The frosting on my world, covering up the debris from a windstorm two nights ago, brings calm. Unexpected  – but often longed for –  peace.  

In that peace is the reminder that I am not in control. God is. 

I could have waited to plant my first seedlings. 

I could have not trusted the weather report.

But the truth is, it doesn’t matter. 

I can do my best – give my garden everything I can to help it flourish – but the growth isn’t up to me. I have no control over the elements. No control over how cold it gets, how much snow will fall, or conversely, how hot and dry the summer might get. 

And while lack of control often infuriates me (I’m guessing I’m not alone in that), today all I’m seeing is beauty. 

I think that’s the lesson I needed today, in this season of my life. 

No matter how much I plan, I’m not in control. The unexpected will happen and as hard as I try, there’s nothing I can do about it. 

This lack of control is both beautiful – because we are in the hands of a loving and gracious God – and terrifying. 

I often try to control things to avoid pain and suffering. I tell myself if I do everything just right, things will go well…or at least not terribly. And while I bear responsibly for my actions and decisions, I have to remember that I am not in control of the outcome. 

Will all the seedlings I planted die? 

Maybe. But even if they do, I still got the January Magic of watching them pop out of the soil for the first time. 

I still got to watch them grow and stretch towards the light. 

I still got to dig into the rich soil and settle the small tangles of roots into the earth.

I still got to dream about their future.

So today, as I watch the flakes continue to fall, I’m choosing to be grateful for those experiences. While I don’t have control over what happens next, I am choosing to rest in the almighty power of the God who holds all things in His nail scarred hands.

I am choosing delight and wonder.

I am choosing to celebrate the beauty of the unexpected. 

I am choosing to be out of control in the best possible way. 

Will you choose that, too? 

THE GIFT OF LOSS

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 “Six years ago today…” Facebook reminded me, as an old photo of Ala Moana and Waikiki popped up. Curious, I clicked on the memory to see that I’d posted this caption: “Haven’t gotten back into running. Not sure if I will. I’m not mad about all the walks I’ve been taking with Erik.”

Six years ago would have been about five months after having had a heart attack. Running, something that I used to build my days around, was off the table. 

At the time I didn’t know it would stay off the table. But even then, God allowed me to see a glimpse of what could be. 

A peek at a life lived differently. 

Slower. 

With the love of my life by my side.

Before I had a heart attack, I had run four full marathons and several half marathons. 

I was a runner and proud to be one. 

I wasn’t fast, but I knew how to push. I knew how to keep going. Just one more mile. 

Sweat, pain, dehydration. All that could be taken care of later. I needed to finish first. 

There was a lot that I loved about running. I loved talking with God, thinking, praying, and processing as my feet hit pavement. Running gave me a place to leave my frustrations and work though my anxiety. A time to be quiet. 

But even more, I loved the feeling of accomplishment. I loved knowing I had run 3, 5, 10, 15, 26.2 miles. 

I’d build up so much distance that I was afraid to stop or even slow down. I was afraid of what a break would do. I was afraid to lose my stamina. My fitness. The identity I had created. 

And so, I kept running. On vacations, every time we moved. Running was a constant part of my life, until my arteries – and my doctor – forced me to stop. At the time, I believed it was temporary. I thought that my heart just needed some time to recovery and I’d get back to my usual routine. To build up my strength Erik and I walked together. We started slow, with short distances that grew longer as I got better. 

When I felt strong enough, I called a friend to ask her to try going on a run with me. We went and I did fine, but afterwards I had chest pain for days. 

I figured I just needed more time to get stronger, so I kept trying. I tried going even slower, taking walk breaks. Even powerwalking. But the pain kept coming back. 

It took me a few years to finally admit I had lost running. 

There was grief. Frustration. Anger. A deep feeling of weakness. 

But through all that, Erik and I kept walking. 

Slowly. 

Steadily.

Together. 

Now, six years later, we’re still walking. 

I lost running, but I gained hours with my husband. Conversations we may never have had. Experiences and discoveries in nature that we’ve gotten to share. 

A spouting whale. 

A scurrying gecko. 

A chirping chipmunk. 

The day we counted 17 rabbits. 

So today, I’m thinking about the gift of loss. The reality that if I hadn’t lost running, I wouldn’t have gained so many other gifts. 

That gives me hope.

In a season of another loss, I think I’m turning the corner from mourning what was and wondering what gift could be next. 

JANUARY MAGIC

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I told myself I wasn’t going to do it again. I’d learned my lesson. I was going to wait for just the right timing. 

I looked at the books. 

I started making a chart. 

I had a plan. 

And then, the sun came out. 

And people on YouTube told me I could do it. They said now was the time. 

So, a few Saturdays ago, with frost making the blades of grass sparkle and crunch under my feet, I went out to the shed and pulled out my seed starter trays. 

I picked up some seed starting mix, and while Erik went to take care of some ministry stuff, I got to work planting my vegetable seeds.

In January. 

Probably way too early. 

It’s possible nothing will survive. But I can’t help it. 

I get so excited about gardening that I just can’t wait any longer. Especially on a sunny day. 

This year I am doing things a little different – hopefully that increases my odds of success. 

In addition to starting a number of plant babies inside, on a heating mat, under grow lights, I decided to try “winter sowing.” 

Apparently, when you plant in a mostly enclosed plastic container and put it in a sunny location, in effect, a miniature greenhouse is created. Because the containers are mostly sealed (They do need a little airflow, and of course, drainage holes), they stay moist and don’t need constant watering. Plus, the ebb and flow of daily temperatures is supposed to “wake up” the dormant seeds in their own timing. You leave them mostly alone, making sure they stay moisturized, until the garden soil warms up enough to transplant them.

They don’t need any hardening off because they have already been exposed to a variety of temperatures and direct sunlight. 

Sounds pretty amazing, right? 

I thought so, too. Especially the promise of getting to start this year’s garden earlier than my garden book said I could. 

Because the truth is, I’m impatient. 

Really impatient. 

And my garden is just one of the places it’s most evident. 

To hedge my bets and try to get the most out of my spring and summer garden this year, as I mentioned, I also started seeds inside. 

Nestled in my dining room, under my 20-year-old black console table, is my “incubation station.” 

I started the same seeds there that I did outside, I hope doubling my chances of success. 

And inside, in the room I walk through dozens of times each day, is where the January magic started happening. 

I planted and labeled the seeds. 

I tucked in cool weather crops like broccoli, lettuce and spinach alongside heat-loving tomato seeds. I watered everything and covered it with a plastic dome. Two days later, I decided to take the dome off to make sure the soil was still moist enough for germination to happen. 

And that’s when I saw it. 

Not one, or two, but at least half a dozen little leaves popping out of the soil and straining for the light. 

I left the dome off. 

I watered again and walked away. 

That night, more cotyledons – this time lettuce – had been born. 

For the last week, I’ve checked those seedlings and stared at the soil of the “empty” trays multiple times a day. 

I almost can’t get enough. 

It happens so fast. One morning it looks like nothing is happening, then two hours later, you see a white bent-over stem starting to stretch from the depths of the dirt. A few more hours, and yellowish leaves have emerged. The next day, the yellow has turned to green and the sprouts stand taller. They are reaching, straining, yearning for the life ahead of them. 

Magic is the best word I can think of to describe it. 

And this January, I needed that magic. Badly. Almost desperately. 

Will all these little guys survive? I don’t know. Probably not. Even if they do, I probably won’t have room for all of them. Picking who will get transplanted – who will be given the best chance of survival – is an emotional battle I’ll fight another day. 

But today, I’m just going to enjoy the magic of it. 

How out of nothing, comes something.

How in the tiniest of seeds – some as small as a grain of sand – can become something that will one day fill the entire corner of my raised bed. One day, God-willing, it will produce leaves that will fill the bottom of my salad bowl as I pile on other miracles – plants of different sizes and colors that will strengthen me, nourish me, delight me and lead me to give thanks to the Creator for His amazing bounty. 

So, yeah. I did it again. 

I planted my garden early. Probably too early.

 But even if it all dies and I have to hit up garden stores to fill my beds come April and May, I think it’s worth it. 

Because January – especially this year – needed some magic. 

THE CAR WASH

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In my family, washing the car isn’t just about getting dirt off. It’s not only about making chrome sparkle and the glass shine. 

It goes much deeper. 

Growing up, every time my parents got a new car (almost always used), the first thing we would do is wash and wax it. 

That first wash and wax was a way of claiming the car, saying, “This is mine, and I’m going to take care of it from now on.” 

When I got my first car, the first thing we did was, of course, wash and wax it. 

We did it in my parent’s driveway, the plastic five-gallon bucket filled with soapy water and decades old sponges. As the sun shone down, we had to work fast for fear of the soap drying before being rinsed away to seep into the nearby lawn. 

When everything was good and dry – maybe even a day or two later – we’d wax it. I can still smell the scent of the orange bottle “Nu-Finish” wax we poured onto old rags and rubbed Karate Kid-style in small circles on every painted surface. 

It was a liquid wax, so you had to wait for it to dry before you could go back with a clean rag – often cut up bath and hand towels that had outlived their usefulness.

You knew it was ready when the wax turned foggy and frosty, with no shine left. You could test it with your finger. If it wiped away completely, it was ready to be removed. 

I have no idea how long it all took. Probably an hour or two. But it was usually a family affair, all of us putting in the elbow grease to welcome a new vehicle into the family. 

It’s a lot of effort, and the wet days in Washington don’t always leave a window for that act of claiming to occur. But even as he’s gotten older, my dad has found a way to still make sure it happens. 

He takes us to his favorite carwash, pulls out his credit card, and pays for a wash and wax. 

Every time. For every one of us. 

Me. 

My sister. 

My nephews and niece. 

We don’t buy cars too often, so it’s not a major expense. But in many ways it’s a rite of passage. 

It’s dad’s way of taking care of us. Of honoring the car and maybe asking it to keep us safe. Plus, it’s his way of reminding us that stewardship matters. 

Wash and wax your car. 

Get oil changes. 

Pay for regular tune ups. 

Fix things when they go wrong. 

Do all that and your car will last – and serve you – for a long time. 

He’s right.

Just this last spring, we retired a car that had been in our family for well over 20 years. 

A 1996 Toyota Camry. My parents bought it for my mom, used, when she was still teaching. After she retired, she kept driving it for years, toting grandkids to soccer or going to Bible study. 

But as the years went by, my dad encouraged her to get a new car. So she did. A Subaru Outback with safety features that weren’t even a dream back in the 90s.  

And that’s when we got the good ole Camry.

We were living in Hawaii, and one of our two cars was no longer drivable anymore. Mom and dad paid the shipping, and the Camry took a voyage on the high seas to get to us. 

A week of waves meant that when we picked up it, the car definitely needed a wash and wax. It got one. And honestly, it probably should have gotten one more often than it did while in our care. 

Without a garage, the salt air and Hawaiian sun did a number on its beige paint. But that thing kept running and running. When we moved back to Washington, it came with us. And we drove it a few more years until it was obvious it had earned its final rest. 

As a flatbed trailer took it away, I got a bit choked up. 

Sure, it’s just a car, but it had been a fixture in our family for so long that it was weird to see it hauled away by someone I wasn’t related to. 

Was it that very first family wash and wax that made the Camry last for so long? Of course not. But I can’t help but believe that its initiation, which started with soapy hands and waxy rags, made a difference. 

My husband and I have had our current car for almost three years. We bought it used. And of course, the first thing my dad wanted to do when we showed it to him was treat us to a wash and wax. 

We let him. 

Today, the sun is shining – a rare treat in Washington in winter. I texted my parents to see if they wanted to go for a walk. They did. So I drove over, my car dusty from weeks of rain and the lack of a garage at our rental house. 

When my dad walked outside, he took one look at my car and said, “We should wash that and get the ceramic wax on it today.” 

“Sure dad,” I said. 

So after our walk, we did. And even though I’m 45 and have been married for over 18 years, I let my dad pay.

I know for him it’s a small way of taking care of me. Of showing me that he loves me and reminding me that how you take care of things matters. 

LOST AND FOUND

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We found the lid. Ok, I found it. And I can’t stop smiling. 

Do you think I’m crazy for rejoicing over a tiny piece of plastic that sits on the top of a traveling wine glass? That’s ok. I don’t mind. Because to me it is worth rejoicing over. And I pray that I never forget that the lid was found, even after we thought it was a lost cause. 

Here’s what happened. 

On Sunday we made cocktails in our double-walled metal wine glasses. Erik’s is black. Mine is rose. We slipped the lids right on top and they settled into their grooves, the silicone seals doing their work. Then we grabbed our chairs – the low ones that are worn and stained and rusty from countless beach days – and headed out the door to meet friends at the beach. 

It was wonderful. The wind was howling. The sand kept getting in our eyes. It was Hawaii-cold (75) and cloudy. It looked like it could rain and any minute. The surfers were shivering after they had left the waves in the ocean. But the love and community sitting there was a gift. The best kind of gift. The kind that we’re sad to be leaving behind. 

Erik took off his lid and tipped back his glass to swallow the last of his tequila sunrise with pomegranate molasses instead of grenadine. We stayed a while longer, talking about the cold, the week ahead, the lives that are waiting around the next corner for those of us leaving.

And then we gave in. The wind won and we packed up. Those of us who walked turned to go home, everyone else went to find their cars scattered in the neighborhood. 

Erik and I walked on the sand to the gate, then back to the house we’re renting. I put my cup down and then he did too, only to realize he’d lost his lid somewhere on the walk. 

He turned around to retrace his steps and search for this small plastic circle, clear plastic, almost invisible on a sea of wind-tossed sand. 

He didn’t find it. He asked the four friends who were still there to help him look. No one caught even a glimpse of the lid. 

I got out of the shower, hair still wet, and said let’s go look together. 

As we were walking and looking I prayed we’d find it. A small prayer. Meaningless to some. But they say God cares about the small things, too, right? 

We didn’t find it. Well we tried. 

On Monday we walked the beach. Two-and a half miles like we often do. Our toes digging into the sand, looking over at the expanse of churning turquoise. I don’t remember if I even thought about the lid that day. There were plenty of other things to think about.

Then this morning, we did what we’ve done countless times. Erik made coffee for him and tea for me. We took our mugs, our chairs and while it was still dark walked to the beach to watch the sun come up. 

It was a pretty lackluster sunrise. Hardly any color. Clouds thick on the horizon so that even after the sun rose you weren’t sure if you were still waiting for it. 

And then we stood up, ready to head home and get into another Tuesday. I looked down, and there right on top of the sand, like it was waiting for us, was the lid. 

I grabbed it in astonishment. With excitement and joy I showed it to Erik. He laughed and I just kept smiling. 

We found the lid. 

And here’s the thing. It isn’t even about the lid. But you knew that already, didn’t you? 

It’s about God and His goodness. He answered my prayer, He just did it in His timing. It would have been easy to miss the lid. Six people who were searching for it had already missed it once. But it was time for it to be found. 

And right now, with our life on shaky ground and a big question mark up ahead, I needed that reminder. I needed to see God answer my prayer on His time, in His way. I needed Him to let me hold that lid in my hand and see evidence of His working in a way that I didn’t expect. In His timing. I needed to not find the lid on Sunday so that He could show me that even when I feel like He’s silent, He hasn’t forgotten me. He’s still listening. He’s still working. He’s still got this. He’s still got me. He’s still got you. 

And if a stupid plastic lid can show me all that, it gives me hope. Hope that I desperately needed today. And maybe you did, too. 

I don’t know where your lid is. I don’t know where you lost it. But I believe God will help you find it. I just don’t know when. 

STOP

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STOP

2019 was the year I lost my best friend, my dog Jude.
I lost my father-in-law to complications of heart disease and cancer.
And I had a heart attack.

Those three things have been devastating. They’ve been heavy. They’ve been lingering. But those three things have also taught me. They’ve taught me that it’s ok to stop.

It’s ok to stop and cry.
It’s ok to stop and let go.
It’s ok to stop and grieve.
It’s ok to stop and ask for help.
It’s ok to stop and slow down.
It’s ok to stop doing it on your own and seek professional help.

And it’s ok to stop running.

That last one has some extra weight to it because running for me means a lot of different things. I run from my emotions. I run from my pain. I run from chaos. And I run, literally. Or at least, I have.

For the past 10 years, I’d say at least four days a week I’d lace up my running shoes and crank out miles. There were times I enjoyed it. There were times I used it to connect with God. There were times it was life-giving. But there were also times I did it just because I felt like I had to.

But then, on a run one day I started having crazy symptoms and ended up having a heart attack later that day. I literally had to stop running because I couldn’t continue. Then, after surgery, I had to give my body time to rest.

As of today, I haven’t run for three and a half months. While my emotions are mixed about it, the most important thing I’ve learned is that it’s ok. For years I was afraid to stop running. I was afraid I would lose the strength I had gained. I was afraid I’d gain weight. I was afraid I’d slide backwards.

So I kept pushing and pushing and pushing, until I couldn’t anymore. I was forced to stop and when I did I realized that, sometimes, stopping can be a good thing. In fact, it can be a great thing.

I needed to stop running to reconnect with my enjoyment of slowing down and just being outside.
I needed to stop running from my emotions and grief and cry as often and as long as necessary.
I needed to stop trying to fix the pain my husband and I were feeling and just accept it.
I needed to stop and reasses my life and what I wanted (and want) it to look like.
And so that’s what I’m doing. I’ve decided that I want 2020 to be a year marked by rest. Not sitting on the couch, scrolling through Instagram kind of rest, but true, deep rest.

I don’t know exactly what it will look like, but I think it will include more walks, more reading, more journaling, more praying, more slowing down, more yoga, more quiet time with God, more acceptance, and more discovering joy.

After last year, that sounds pretty darned amazing.

83

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photo-1516967124798-10656f7dca28

Eighty-three days ago, I had a heart attack.

It’s hard to write about because it’s hard to believe, and even harder to process.

But facts are facts.

The sun rises every morning. It sets every evening. When it rains, things get wet. And almost three months ago I had a heart attack.

I didn’t realize what has happening at the time. It was nothing like they show in movies. I didn’t fall over clutching my chest. It hurt, but I could handle it. Afterall, it was the middle of the night. So I took some Tylenol and tried to sleep.

I didn’t even tell Erik until the next morning. Concern swept over his face. He wondered if I needed to go to the doctor. I waved off his question. The pain was better. I’d just wait and see.

But then I got to thinking.

I still didn’t feel right. Something had happened that morning while I was running. I almost blacked out. I got crazy nauseas. That’s not normal, but because I’ve run five marathons, I know that some runs are hard.

Plus, it was hot — in the 90s, with a humidity factor like a sauna. I told myself that I must have gotten over-heated. The chest pain later that night must have been from that. Yep. Heat exhaustion. Or maybe I was just anemic. The symptoms matched.

I had some routine blood work scheduled for a few weeks out, but I decided to do it early. I sent my doctor a message saying what had happened and asked him to check for anemia when the tests came back. The nurse called the next day.

No anemia. Everything looked great.

Then the Holy Spirit must have nudged me, because before she could hang up I told her what had happened. I said that I still had pain when I exerted myself, but that it was better. I figured I just needed more rest.

If she could have forced me to come in, she would have. But instead she pressed as hard as she could and then made me an appointment for a few hours later.

Fast forward through some more tests and that night I end up at the ER, being told I was going to be staying the night.

And then the next morning, the cardiologist walks in.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said with a straight face. “You’re too young, too healthy. It doesn’t make sense.”

Great. Then, I’ll just go home.

“You had a heart attack.” Those words came out of his mouth and I would have lost any poker game I’d been trying to play.

“No one told you yet?” he asked.

Nope.

Rushed into more tests and then surgery to have a stent placed to open a blockage, another night in the hospital and the next evening I finally got to go home.

Two nights may not sound like much, but I felt those hours. I know Erik did, too, as he sat next to me in one of those squeaky, vinyl reclining chairs you only find in hospital rooms.

So there it is. I had a heart attack. A mild one, as the doctor told me, but still a heart attack.

What do you do with this type of news?

If you’re like me, you try to figure out whyit happened. But sometimes, there just aren’t answers.

Sometimes you can run 15-20 miles a week, eat healthy, not smoke, not drink much, never set foot in a fast food restaurant, be in your 30s and have a heart attack. And sometimes you just won’t be able to make sense of it except for genetics being at play.

But the thing is, as true as it is, the moving on is hard. My desire to want to control everything leaps to the surface as I figure out how to change my diet, dig into books about how to recover, think about stress management and try to start exercising again.

83 days in, I still don’t feel great. I still have some pain. I’m still tired. I had another test today, I was sure the news would be bad. But the doctor called to say the damage that had been done from the heart attack has reversed itself. My heart is healing.

It’s a strange thing when you brush against your mortality and I’m still not sure what to do with it.

But I’m learning to lean. I’m learning to lean on Jesus. I’m trying to trust that He’s in control. I’m choosing (ok, trying) to believe that He is good. I’m choosing to see my lack of control as something I can grow into, something that God-willing can be a good thing, can give me freedom. What that freedom looks like I don’t know. But I hope to taste it soon.

CLEAN SHEETS

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sheets

I washed sheets and blankets today. And don’t worry, it’s not the first time I’ve ever done my own laundry. But still, today was different.

As I pulled the blankets off of Jude’s favorite snoozing spot I cried. Hard.

I cried because I knew that once those blankets and sheets were fresh and clean, Jude would never again be able to make them dirty. That’s because after 16 years by my side, Jude is gone.

Even writing those words is hard. There’s a part of me that knows how true it is because I was with him when he died. And yet, there are large pockets of my mind and heart that keep expecting him to lick my feet when I come back from a run. I expect him to put his face at the edge of the couch and wag his tail as his puppy dog eyes look in mine.

I expect to hear his collar jingle when I open the front door. I expect to have to step carefully when I get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I expect him to be here.

But he’s not. And while I know that death is a part of life, and a part of owning pets, it doesn’t make it any easier. I’m thankful he lived over 16 years – 121 in dog years – but I still wish he had had more in him.

A good long life is never long enough. At least that’s how it seems to me. Pets, people. When they are gone we always want more.

I’m trying to hope in the day that God sets all things right in this world. I’m trying to believe the truth that He will, because in every molecule of my being I know that death is not right. It’s not how we were created. It’s evidence of how broken this world is.

And yet, it’s hard to hope when you are grieving. It’s hard to wipe the tears as you put blankets into the washer. It’s hard to know what life will look like next. Of course, not everything has changed, but a lot has. It’s a blank slate – a clean sheet – because in some big ways my days will look different now. The friend I’ve had by my side for most of my adult life isn’t here. That hurts. So if that means I cry while I do laundry, I’m going to cry. If that means I have to take a deep breath when I realize I won’t see him sleeping on my couch again, I will.

So as the sheets and blankets spin in the dryer, I’m not entirely sure what’s next. All I know is that the next time I wash them they won’t have dog hair on them. And while I prefer them clean, that reality still makes me sad.