Food for Thought

          I started running a few years ago.  My husbabnd (an exhuberently vocal non-runner) asks me all the time.  Why run?  What's the point?  If someone's not chasing you why do it?  In high school, college, even in our first years of marriage I wouldn't have been able to answer him.  Now.  Well, now I have three kids.  Now, as clearly communicated in a previous post, I don't poop alone.  Now, the thought of waking up early, of being the first one up, of feeling the brisk morning air wash over me, of feeling my laces tightend firmly across the tops of my feet is so very alluring.  I confess, I never love the first minutes of a run.   Nothing feels quite right.  Certain joints and muscles like to rear thier ugly head and throw down a silent protest at thier use.   The water bottle I find too distracting to hold in my hand is tucked firmly in the back of my sports bra and it's cold, too cold for comfort.   No sweat has been broken, and I ain't no girly girl I like to  break a sweat.   I don't wake up early for those first minutes.  I wake up early for that feeling.  The feeling you get in the middle of the run, the heart of the run.  When your limbs are warmed up, you got, as my Dad likes to say, "a good sweat going" and you've settled into your pace.   It's like connecting with the  ball right on the sweet spot of the bat, it's like capping of the night with the rich and savorty taste of chocolate when you've been craaving it all day, it's like running your tongue across your teeth after you just got your braces off (I'm reminiscing here about 8th grade) and marvelling at thier smoothness.  It just feels good and right.   My fellow runners, you know what I'm talking about.  Everyone else, well, you're just plain missing out.
             So this year for Lent ( I will take time now to define Lent for any of my readers, which assumes I actually have readers other than my family who feel forced to read this, who are not familiar with the term) Lent is a six week or so period of time leading up to Easter in the Christian Calandar meant for the believer to prepare, repent, pray, and fast etc. in prepration for Holy Week.   This year for Lent, I gave up processed foods.  I too, among many others in my community, chose to read "Seven" by Jen Hatmaker and I too, like many others had my life ruined.  Included in the destruction of my life as I know it, but not limited too, was the knowledge that I might have been eating more disodium phosphate and maltodextrin (what are those you ask?  Not sure you want to know) than cleary is a good idea.  Feeling guilt for not only feeding myself these chemicals but also my children I decided I would swear off any food item which contained ingredients that I could not read and could not define.  
             Lets be honest here, I was worried.  I love wheat thins and because I don't drink wine I like a good package of fruit snacks to wind down at the end of the day.    Since both of those have either enriched flour or high fructose corn syrup in them (clearly these are not items grown on a tree or in the groud somewhere) they were out.  I was going to have to cook more from scratch.  Before I continue, you should know I just started cooking, like legit doing meal plans on Sunday and cooking all week, about three years ago.  My mom does not cook.  The lady is Martha Stewart, without the incarceration part, of course.  She owns more power tools than Ty from "Home Makeover," she can sew underwear and curtains and pretty much anything inbetween (she made Michael the most amazing Tumnus costume five years ago, like I said anything), and she can feng shui a room up like nobody's business.  She is, however, quite terrible in the kitchen.  Needless to say, I am a self taught cook.  So I was little worried about these six weeks of Lent not just for me but for my poor sweet little family forced on this journey with me.
             Easter is over now.   I can say with confidence that we all survived.  In fact, we more than survived.  I feel ridiculously good.  Like I can scale walls and swim underwater for hours on end.  Okay, I can't do these things.  But this is how good I feel.  I am at my lowest weight ever.  In my whole life, lowest ever.  I can make homemade refried beans, tomato bisque soup, whole wheat pizza dough, homemade pasta sauce, crepes, and I am just getting started here folks.  I think the success of the processed food fast can be summed up by the follwoing occurance:  (this is last night as Bible Study is starting)
 Me: "You bought "white" (yes this is what I called it) pasta?  You know I like whole weat."  Meanwhile I stare, horrified, at what I believe to be pasta filled with dun dun dun....enriched flour.  Michael responds quickly trying to appease the beast before I get real worked up.  "It's organic I swear.  I eye him curiously and skeptically.  He senses my un-belief. "Really, it's all real food ingredients.  You can check."   Jen Hatmaker, you have created a monster.
             Here's what's really suprised me.  I like to cook things from scratch.  I actually like mixing the flour with yeast, water, and salt to create the most perfect ball of dough you've ever seen.   There is something so satisfying about chopping the onions,  the peppers, the zuchini into even and equal pieces.  Something soothing about the motion of the knife as it slides over the vegetables.  Something about the sound it makes as it slices through and then touches down on the cutting board.  I guess it's like the motion of my legs as they rotate up and down, up and down, falling into the most calming and comfortable routine.  It's like the sound my feet make on the pavement.  The repetition brings with it a sense of securuity.  It's like the heart of the run.  It's just feels good and right.
             All of a sudden I feel myself changing.   Welsey offers me a taste of his lollipop (I have to say yes to that cute little face) and, to my dismay, it tastes contrived and discusting.   And I am a sweets girl.  I, quite suprisingly, choose to take extra time, which I do not have, in the kaos of a feeding frenzied lunch to make myself an egg white omlette with green peppers, onion, and cheese.  Yum.   What is happening to me?  I am turning into an obnoxious foodie.   The kind I have often snubbed and thought, "Its just food.  Get over yourself."  And here I am having a food orgasim over my perfectly constructed precious omlette.
           Then, I realize, what started as a simple fast.   I mean, really, I just gave up processed food, it's not like I saved a starving village or cured a life threatening disease or anything.  Turns into something deeper.  "My coucil is this; Live freely, animated and motivated by God's Spririt.  Then you won't feed the compulsions of selfishness." (Gal. 5:16 Mes.)   That word there is interesting.  Feed.  Maybe it's not just about the food I choose to put in my body but more so about the food I choose to put into my soul.   "Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit."  Maybe the routine that my physical body desires, the continous motion of my legs and the sound my feet make as they hit the concrete and the motion of my hand sliding the knife throught the vegetables.  Maybe my Spirit longs for the same.   My Spirit needs to keep in step with His Spirit.   Jesus said is this way, "Walk with me and work with me- watch how I do it.  Learn the unforced rhythms of grace."  
            All of a sudden I feel myself changing.  Learning to keep in step, learning a new rhythm, a new routine, an unforced rhythm.   Just like my taste in food is changing so are my spirit's desires.    I'm craving new things.  I had to set my phone alarm to sound every three or so hours just to remember to pray.  But someday I won't need the alarm.  I need an army of supportive and God-fearing women to keep me accountable in my Scripture memorization but maybe someday it will just be second nature.   I need this blog and the knowledge that someone wants to read what I wrote to force me to open my Bible, to focus my mind on His words.   Someday these will all be an unforced rhythm.  But for now, I'm changing.  I choose an apple over fruit snacks and my Youversion app over my facebook app.  And, people, that's progress.

P.S. Michael came up with the title of this post.  It's pretty good.  So I had to give him credit.
          

Breath In. Breath Out.

          Talking serpents, a giant Ark, a burning bush, a parted sea, a wrestling match with an angel of God these are a few of my favorite things... Sorry.  I love musicals, I couldn't help myself.   In all seriousness though, these are true events recorded in the Old Testament.   They are Sunday school stories that we have heard, read, even seen portrayed by Hollywood.  They are all too familiar for so many of us.   But every once and a while a moment will fall upon me when my mind will come rest on these transpired events and I am struck with awe and wonderment.  What was it like build a giant ark?  To have your closest neighbors and friends watch with jaws dropped in astonishment as you collect wood, and more wood and more wood and then, yes, wait for it, start to build an enormous ark.  "Why?", they might have asked. "Because God said to," you respond.  "Oh, right. " they might have ridiculed, "Because God said so.  Sure He did."   What was it like to be told to lead a group of people out of slavery and into the desert and just as you feel you are widening the gap between you and a whole lot of mean and angry Egyptians you come to the Red Sea.   "Umm...God?  You up there?  This might be a nice time to intervene" you say as your life flashes before your eyes.   And then you feel a slight small voice say, "Raise your staff and stretch out your hand."  So you do and the sea, the whole sea, parts so you can make your escape.  God has intervened.  He has saved you.
     These are examples of what we call miracles.  They are named such for one; because this kind of stuff (i.e. a sea parting) doesn't happen every day.   But for two; because the God of the universe who, as outlined in Job, "laid the earth's foundations, marked off it's dimensions, gives orders to the morning and sends the lightning bolts on their way," this God actually chooses to intervene in our yes, our, tiny little insignificant and entirely un-worth it lives.  And the kicker, yeah the real kicker, is that He doesn't see it this way at all.   We broke His heart, in the garden.  They broke His heart, they believed that there would be  something better about creation without the One who created it.  We still believe, almost daily, that there is something better about creation without the One who created it.  He could have turned His back but they were naked and He gave them clothes.  He cared.  He intervened.  It was a miracle.  And the good news is that He still cares.  He still intervenes.   There are still miracles.
         So, I stay at home with my kids.  I chose this line of work three or so years ago when I found out, surprise, we were pregnant with number two.   I love what I do.  I'm so thankful I get to do what I do.  The thought of dropping my boys off in the morning and knowing that inevitably, I would miss something be it big or small, insignificant or significant, makes me stomach churn.  (NOT THAT THERE IS ANYTHING WRONG WITH GOING TO WORK OR DAY CARE!  It just happens, that for us, right now, me being at home is the best thing for our family).  Moral of the story, this choice I made, sometime ago, to be at home, most of the time is pure bliss but sometimes...let's just say, I have my days.  And I struggle.  I suppose like may of you do too, with finding time for God when I am reminded, quite frequently, that my time is not my own.    I sold my soul to motherhood, for lack of a better term, and I pay for it everyday.  I am reminded of this while trying to poop with a baby crawling up my leg and a toddler yelling, "You pooping Mama?"  I reminded of it when I reminisce about the days I called showering once a day- a necessity and not a luxury.        
             How do you do this?  How do you balance the 24 hour job of being a mother and still find time to connect with God?   There is no manual.  But thankfully God is still in the business of performing miracles.
          He cares.  He intervenes.  He inserts himself in my house cleaning, toy tidying, grocery shopping, butt wiping, super hero playing life.  He is there.  All the time.  He never leaves.  He watches all I do with loving attention.  It really is a miracle.   And no, I ain't building no arks, or parting no seas, but I am raising three boys.  Is it really any smaller of a task or less of a calling?  He is there.  All I have to do is breath in.  Breath out.  And He reminds me.  I am with you.  Breath in.  Breath out.  I care about your life.   Breath in.  Breath out.  I see all you do.
        I know this.  I know He is with me.  I know this because, with my head jammed closer than I would like to my hall bathroom toilet covered in I am still too short for my privates to quite reach pee with my Lysol cleaner in one hand and toilet brush in the other I found  joy.  Yep, you read it right, joy.  Breath in.  Breath out.  I see you.  Breathe in.  Breath out.   You are serving your family and no one knows about this (until now) and I see you.
     I know this because yesterday, was one of the  "those days" I mentioned.   A few highlights:
my middle son who still has a long way to go in learning to poop in the potty, "Mom, I pooped in my underwear outside."
My oldest son, "Mom, Norma (our dog) is eating the poop."
Me, "Crosby don't pull up on the toilet. "
Me, "Michael, Crosby just threw up all over his high chair."
  I know He is with me when a day like that can still end in a moment of God intervened perfection.  Me, rocking littlest man watching him drift off to sleep. Breath in.  Breath out.  I am watching you.  Watch him.  He won't be this age forever.  Me, singing  "He's Got the Whole World in His hands..." with my big boys each one taking turns calling out the next verses' substitution, " He's got Nana and Papa in His hands..."  Oliver yells out, "all our family."   We sing, "He's got all our family in His hands."  Breath in.  Breath out.  I really do have the whole world in my hands.  Including you.  Breath in.  Breath out.  I love you.  I see you.  I intervene.  I am still in the business of doing miracles

A Deep Down Itch

There is nothing more intimidating then the sight of a blinking curser. Except for maybe the sound of a blinking curser. It's a deafening silence. Especially when most of my days are filled with so much noise. I have three boys, four and under. Need I say more about the topic of noise? But now they are all "napping." This word is in quotes not only because putting words in quotes became a fad in fairly recent history. I think we owe that trend to one of T.V.'s most lovable characters Joey Tribianni. Was it Joey or Chandler? I don't know. I digress.

You're probably wondering why I am even staring at the blinking curser in the first place. Well, I am starting a blog. I am calling it Christy's Useless or Useful Thoughts. Actually I don't know what I am calling it but this seemed appropriate in the moments between now and whenever I give it a trendy (code word for chessy) Christian name like "Submerge" or "Imerge" or "Merge." You notice they use the word "merge" a lot in church or other church like organizations. Don't stop reading. I promise I will not call it that. It's obvious I need help. Please write me with your suggestions.

So here I am. I've been feeling this deep down itch lately. An itch to do something. Write something. Create something. It's the kind of itch that's in a difficult spot. The kind you can't reach without someone else to reach it for you. The kind that doesn't go away unless you find the nearest tree to rub up against. And so, I suppose this blog will serve as the tree to help satisfy the itch. I did try and ignore it at first though. I thought, I don't have time. Did I mention I have three kids four and under? Everyone that knows me has heard this excuse more than once. And look, I've already used it twice in this blog. I might have a problem.

So I was succeeding in living quite comfortably in my sweet ignorance until this morning. Until my girlfriend, who I happen to really like and respect, said to me, "I think you should write a blog." Of course, my husband has been bothering me for months to start writing but for some strange reason husbands are easier to ignore. Sorry babe, don't take it personal. Her words were the straw that broke the camel's back. The final gust of wind that pushes over the boulder perched a top a cliff. The final internal or external shove that propels someone to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. Okay, the analogies aren't good. Don't judge me. But you get the point.

I am really doing it. Will anyone care? I don't know. Will anyone read it? I don't know. Will anyone start follow it? I don't know. Or do you say will anyone start following me? I don't know that either. No, it can't be follow me. That's sounds a little cultish and scary. You follow Jesus. Not Christy Fay.

This is my commitment. I will write. Once a week. More if I feel led. I will make a more conscience effort to listen. To really listen. And if, no when, God speaks to me. I WILL WRITE IT DOWN. And if anyone cares, great. If no one does, oh well. All I know is I have an itch. A deep down itch. And I better figure out how to scratch it because ain't going away on it's own.