My memories are all in sound.

Pink Floyd's über classic, The Dark Side of the Moon, turned 45 yesterday. When it plays, I am always taken to our home when I was little. Sleeping family-slumber-party style in the living room. My dad put this record on. We just listened. The proper way. The only movement being sound waves. 

These memories are a kindness. Small graces.  

The connection with my dad was lost for a long time. Through that period, it was easy to hear everything, played  backwards, as "Paul is dead." To let bitterness grow from sorrow. Muting any sweet sounds. Hearing only scratched records. 

But I put on Pink Floyd or George Harrison and Eric Clapton, and I am taken back to the little listening parties. The father and daughter. The loving and tender moments. The two like-souls who have the same trouble with vocals. And I remember how much I love and need my dad. Even if I'm still a bit of a crummy daughter with old habits still to be broken. 

So, I am thankful for a heart that's been tenderized. For my parents' love of music. For all the sad songs that say so much. For nights on the living room floor and breathing in the air. For sounds when words won't come. For patched connections. 

For the remastering of our album.  I love you, Dad. 

I thought we would be together for much longer. I've thought about you all week. Wanting desperately to spend some time with you when I was at the end of my rope. To just step outside and pick up where we left off. You and I have been companions for over 35 years. I'm not sure who I am without you to step into.  So much of whom I am is you. Insecurity could always be eased by a few more miles. One more challenge. One more race. Pushing a little more, a little more, a little more. When the world has fallen apart, we could always jump some hurdles, run a marathon, take on those earthly hills. I love you, running. What happens when I can't push anymore. When my limbs are rebelling against my drive. My joints are raging mad. When I've pushed them right to that edge. 

I didn't think the Ragnar Relay would be my last distance running event. I thought it would be a fun way to keep my going as I chose to put all personal training down to take on the new role of homeschool mom. An efficient way to drop all of my sugar-seeking winter weight. I had it perfectly planned out. That's not the way it went. Unexpectedly sideways. I wasn't expecting shooting sciatic pain. A calf that frequently went numb. A lower back that just wouldn't cooperate. A hamstring that would not chill out. The new grinding in the hip from bearing the brunt of the compensating work from my bad knee. A leg that literally did not have full range of motion some days. I hit the wall of the 40+ in one fell swoop. Twice weekly chiropractic visits just to fix what I jacked up during those training runs. Just to make it to the start line. Palliative care. What the heck?

The first leg of my relay was pretty okay, even if I did get passed up ing a guy running in a full-on horse costume. The adrenaline carried me so much better than I was anticipating. That second leg, though. Hips to knees. It starts. Here comes the rust....and buckling and swelling. That small, teeny, little three mile third leg. I ran until the pain made me nauseous. Then I cried and yelled at my body and pushed to the brutal and beautiful finish. Then I had a good cry over what I didn't really think would come to stay. Limitations. Physical limitations. They're just obstacles to overcome, yes? All the time, right? Running has always been an escape, a release, a compensator for all of my lack. Disclosure. I'm not fast. I've never been fast or a super athlete. It's not like I'm even giving up something I'm any good at. Seriously. It's simply coming to terms with not being able to do something. A smidge of John Locke. "Don't tell me what I can't do!!" But even he had the island. I'm such a big baby. These are such small things. I know that. Some of you wondering what screw could be loose that I don't grab that excuse to not do these crazy things anymore.  

Evidence of worth. Something to prove.
Still. Striving. Still. At 41. Still. 
Fighting without my usual arsenal. 
That's the latest challenge. 

I could push past not being the intelligent one. Push past not being the creative one. Push past not being the pretty one. Push past not being the educated one. Push past not being the accomplished one. Push past not being............................Now what? How I am wrestling again with God. Relearning all the things I should know by now. All the truths and lies and nonsense. And asking if I believe all the things for me that I believe for others. And asking forgiveness for my ridiculousness. Because I know it's ridiculousness. 
Still. When I can no longer push past. When my body says no more. 
Who am I? And why do I always get stuck in this place? Stay tuned. 

No, I'm not crying at Starbucks. You're the ridiculous one crying at Starbucks over running! 

Hello
I'm the guy who sits next to you
And reads the newspaper over your shoulder
Wait
Don't turn the page
I'm not finished
Life is so uncertain

​Ain't that the truth!
What to say? What to say? Will I have enough to say? 
​Um, yeah. 
Will it be coherent? That's another thing, entirely. 

It is not good for man to be alone. And yet, we so readily isolate. Physically, emotionally, or spiritually. I am a rock. I am an island. Well, not so. Not so. 

I can be just self-sufficient enough to sink that island kingdom of self. Gah. The thing I've hated the most is admitted my need for others. Crazy! But not a rarity. 

It's been a week. I thought we were safe from tornadoes here in Cali, but in fact, they just whip through looking a little different, sweeping y'all to Arizona. 

God willing, I'll be home to speak at our Women's conference tomorrow. The theme? 
Refuge, refuge, refuge. God's refuge in relationships. Coincidence? Well.............
I've been working on just what to say the last few weeks. What part of my testimony to share? Now, I need to edit furiously. Twenty minutes is just a warmup. Where do I even begin? 

Too much too much too much.

In these last few stressful days, we have taken so much comfort in the refuge offered in this refuse heap. I may go bald from all the hair-pulling (for real, I don't have enough to begin with), but I've been helped to calm through those praying with us. Focusing on difficult decisions and conversations, because of the family looking out for our boys without a thought. Fellow trainers, stepping right up to cover, when I was supposed to be covering them. No question. Friends answering our annoying questions. Nurses putting up with our ignorance. God has bombarded me with examples of the importance of community. Being knit in. Being shored up in order to shore others up on our end. It's a might fantastic machine we've got boy. Forget the island, I already had a mountain of a witness to the story of OUR lives emerge from the last two years. Can we do a part two? Nah, no one needs to be subject to that much of my rambling. 
Look out for each other. Run to each other. Don't hide away from one another. You may become your own Bikini Atoll. Bombs away. No safety there. 

What Cornflakes are to Post Toasties,
What the clear blue sky is to the deep blue sea, 
What Hank Williams is to Neil Armstrong, can you doubt we were made for each other? 
Lyle Lovett- Here I Am 
​

 Hey, Hurley, have we traded places today? The cursed numbers are back and threatening. They keep tick tick ticking up. That should be encouraging, right? We're going in the right direction, up, up, up as we build back a hollowed shell. Strength upon strength. But, my mind says, "stop! that's quite enough now. are you kidding, me?! What are you doing?" 
The panic has been manageable so far, but today....today, my throat is tightening. I almost cried this morning when my trainer said, post-workout, I still needed more fuel. Red alert. All the panic buttons are sounding. But he's right. My body was shaking from depletion, which I could barely believe possible.
I'm eating #allthefood. And #alltheproteinshakes. And #alltheenjoycupcakes.
At least, it feels that way to a gal whose thinking has always been counter to this.
For the record, I didn't cry. C'mon, I'm tougher than that. Well, I pretend to be anyway. 
The mental/spiritual exercise is more exhausting than the rigorous training I'm putting my body through. 
My calves cry, "eat more." My energy level says, "even more, girl." My trainer says, "now, some more." Habits are so hard to shed as I try to see the nutritional information as a positive; a force for good. Does it have enough of what I need?...instead of desperately calculating the day's calories-numbers as the enemy. 
Too much, too much, always too much.
Now, struggling to put in enough, to keep up with demand. My mind is having a hard time keeping up. But, that's a big part of taking up this physical challenge. A push to break destructive habits. Laying the anxiety down at Christ's feet; asking Him, "Take this please. Run with me though this." The putting on of nourishment to the putting off of restriction, spiritually and physically. The numbers are not my master. Not my curse. 
God, keep my focus on your grace and kill their hold on me. 
Help me run this race well....
oh, and that marathon, too. 

I just went back to winter camp at thirty-nine as the supposed adult, if you can believe that. In the spirit of Rainy Day Woman, I snowshoed back in time, remembering God's provision for a teenager scrambling to be at home somewhere.
Quiet for an anxious, trembling heart.
A little stability, a space to take a breath in belonging.
Some relief from a mad, mad world.
I went up the mountain.
Now, I do not recommend Jane's Addiction as a conduit for worshipping God, but Comin' Down the Mountain is a lyric of thanks for me. It's a memory of friendship born of music. Because remembrances are everywhere-especially in my ears. It's Wayne Everett singing while hanging out post-worship service, as we had a little band named the Prayer Chain that we'd recently begun following, as our musicians at winter camp. I know, don't hate. But that moment stands out as a symbol of God banding together a rag tag bunch of youngsters as a sort of family unit. At least that's what is was for me. Driving some awesome vehicles-Chinook, anyone- to rock shows every weekend and playing our own music (#truth- I only had a minuscule chickbackupsinger role-probably out of pity). It helped push back the tide of overwhelming loneliness that this then fifteen-year-old girl had been drowning under.
Those years were a life raft; they kept me afloat.
I couldn't have vocalized my squall of insecurity; my gawky demeanor of nerves, flitting around looking for calm.
But God is good and He knew.
And still does.
That year, I went up a mountain and came back down with some brothers and a sister for life (looking at you, Robyn).
And a new nickname.
And God has given me a heart for youth, because I remember.
With great affection I salute you, Sgt. Wormwood as I battle in the flesh against that bitter root that always wants to pop up-with remembering His grace in seemingly random playlists of Bob Dylan, Jane's Addiction, and the Prayer Chain. Going back last summer for a meet and greet with my Fab Four was not a simple act of fandom, it was overwhelming thanks to God for my future, because His hand held me in that past.

When the encourager becomes the knife-wielder,
How can I love you or I'm sorry ever leave these lips?
Doesn't a strip of duct tape come with violating the terms of agreement?
These hands that have stripped others raw,
How can they hold another's in distress?
That's a gift too precious to be entrusted to such as these.
There are so many question marks in your use of weak vessels, Lord.
In your use of this one. It would feel more appropriate to find a rock to hide under.
Oh, wait.

The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
Psalm 18:2

You are that rock. Into my unending weakness, you pour your strength. You speak wisdom into my foolishness. You make sense of my fumbling words. You calm the racing, anxious heart. You clothe my ugliness; covered with the light of your righteousness. You tell me, "Walk child. I'm leading. Just walk." You endured all my knife wounds with love. Repaid evil with good. In your grace, you allow what should be refuse to be useful.


Strengthen what's been broken.

God, comfort those I cannot.
​

Dear ones, 

         Sometimes I watch your eyes when we talk. When bruised spots are touched. And I want these words to penetrate. God, help me not say something stupid You are not defined by the blows you've taken or given out. Your hearing is good and you nod in understanding. My heart aches. I want to make it take root in your hearts, cut you free from this anchor. God, give me wisdom to know when to stop speaking my own words, let them be yours Because you don't believe it, yet. God, help me believe it  My eyes want to swap with yours so you could see yourselves as I do. Precious ones, fearfully and wonderfully made. Without lenses of "have-dones" or "should-bes," but as you are. Here. You are loved and lovely right now. And my vision is no where near that of your creator, who sees you and holds you as his child. I understand. I struggle to keep hold of this promise, too. God, you really want to use this lump of clay?  I see the panic. The frustration. The fear. The tears of defeat. I want you to feel the breath of life that comes when you let God's words to you - about you - burn away all the lies. God, burn those gripping me right now  You are no more scandalous than the rest of us. God, help me remember this, too  Christ's covering for us out of God's love for us is the scandalous part. Undeserved and shocking. 

For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will scarcely die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die-- but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Since, therefore, we have now been justified by his blood, much more shall we be saved by him from the wrath of God. For if while we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, much more, now that we are reconciled, shall we be saved by his life. More than that, we also rejoice in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation. Romans 5:6-11

He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? Romans 8:32

So, those moments of cracking the door open to give me a glimpse of your heart, your struggles? They're gifts for this anxious one who needs to remember it all, too. See, God is using you right now. When we talk, I can hear the Spirit echoing all of this back to my own ears. my own heart. This is where we find rest, dear ones. 

^^^Like the shirt in the pic? I put a new post on"Wearing My Blog on My Sleeve," with a link so you can get your own and support a cool organization.^^^

"Ain't it just like grace to come wash away this shame..."
​In Ruin / the Violet Burning