inside dog

And so I ran, Part VI.

Well, this is a marathon: It hurts. But out on the LA Marathon course there were A LOT of cool people. My favorites? The ones with oranges. The ones with homemade cupcakes. The ones with tiny cups full of Chex Mix. The ones with trays of Dixie Cups full of beer (I didn't take one because I was afraid I'd run right off the marathon course, but isn't that FUN?!). People just came out in droves to cheer and/or watch the suffering. There were bands playing along the way, kids with funny outfits and signs, a HOT DOG STATION, it was all just a really amazing experience to see all the people who came out. The weather was just perfect too ... great for the runners AND the spectators. It was really, really cool. And I really loved the oranges. A lot. I must have eaten a thousand orange wedges in the middle and end stages of the race.

All of this distraction and encouragement really came in handy during the run. We broke off in pairs a lot, with me pretty much always bringing up the rear with Paul. The guys were so awesome to stay with me, and when Michael and John had to run ahead to check in with the camera crew, Paul stuck by me and talked me through the rougher bits (there were quite a few). As we wound through Beverly Hills, he talked to me about running Comrades (a 56 mile ultramarathon in Africa), and very patiently reminded me in his South African accent that marathons are by definition tough, that it was supposed to hurt. What a dear man. I can almost forgive him for making me look extra frumpy and slow by being tall, slender, athletic, and walking along next to me checking his iPhone as I jogged at snail's pace. Almost.

DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN HERE? I mean, dude. He runs a 3:10 marathon. And is happy about it. I probably looked like an irritable rhinoceros trotting along beside a happy gazelle. NOT FAIR.

Anyway, as we approached mile 16, Paul informed me that we would need to stop short about a quarter mile from the camera crew's checkpoint with the kids until we got the all-clear. I'd prearranged this with the crew: I knew that if the kids saw me first, they wouldn't be so happy to see their daddy arriving as they would be upset that their mama had just taken off. So John went ahead, and we hoped that they'd only have to shoot it once. For most of those second 8 miles, the thought of seeing and hugging and kissing my children helped me block out the pain. I couldn't wait to see my mom (sometimes when it hurts even 32-year-old mothers of two NEED THEIR MAMA).

Paul and I stopped to the side and waited for the call that it would be ok to approach. I decided to sit down for a few minutes and do one of the IT band stretches that had helped my leg so much at mile 8. We kept waiting and waiting for the call for the all-clear, and as it turned out they had to shoot the "scene" twice. It took between 15-20 minutes and it just felt like agony! I wanted to see my babies! I could feel my legs locking up and quitting on me, thinking that they'd just completed a 16-mile training run. I sat there too long. I should have jogged around on the grass just to the right of the road. I should have gone backwards and run up again ... anything to keep moving. But I was so tired. My knee hurt. I was hungry and I knew my MIL had two Snickers bars in her purse for me!

Finally the all-clear came. We started on down the road and OH MY STARS did my legs not want to move. It hurt A LOT. Lactic acid sets in fast! But ahead, to the left, I could see my family materializing. My heart leapt and I limped ahead. I wanted my hugs! My Snickers!

(No) Vacancy

I went to the OBGYN earlier this month for a checkup. Funny side story! On my way out of the waiting room none other than Carson Daly stood up to open the door for me and my stroller. He was there with his pregnant girlfriend and little boy and looked like a tired, rumpled, normal dad. Only in LA!

Anyway, I took Elijah with me to the doctor ... mostly because I had to but also because I wanted to show off my prize! I wanted our doctor and his nurse and the office staff to see the baby (er, 19-month-old) whose life had been saved because of their intervention. Elijah is our miracle boy. I cannot imagine our family without him and when I think about the two times I almost lost him and when I try to comprehend what could have happened ... those are dark thoughts I don't like to think.

So, me and my miracle boy waited in the waiting room, a room that I've been in many, many times in my life. I sat there and could not help but remember all the many phone calls, the weekly visits I made there the first half of my pregnancy with Elijah, the highs and lows I experienced in that office ... all the while carrying the boy sitting in the stroller in front of me in my body. He is 19 months old and so he was quickly done with his restraints. I'd come prepared with a favorite toy, my trusty iPhone loaded with Sesame Street podcasts, a grip of snacks in the diaper bag. Nothing satisfied until he settled happily on a bag of graham crackers that were my last available option (phew). He munched away as we waited, his feet swinging up and down in the way they do when he is content.

Thankfully there were enough graham crackers to last through my exam (not to worry, we faced the stroller in a direction that prevented traumatization). My doctor and I chatted about health insurance (get it together BCBS and UCLA! GOSH!) and I laughed that I wasn't worried about it anyway because pregnancy wasn't even on the conversation table at our house for the rest of 2012. It was my New Years Resolution to not get pregnant this year! He asked if we wanted more children eventually and I said my standard "Well, probably yes." He went down his checklist of questions and we briefly discussed birth control and he made an offhand remark: "Well, if you did get pregnant, you guys want more kids so it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world." And that took me aback a little.

Nineteen months is the longest I've gone without being pregnant since 2006.

There was the first miscarriage. And then four months later I was pregnant with Syd. And then nine months after she was born I found myself unexpectedly pregnant again ... only to miscarry a few days later. Ten months later I was carrying Elijah, and now he's 19 months old.

My body is unoccupied and it kind of likes it right now.

I remember when Syd was Elijah's age she was so smooshy and teeter-tottery with her chunky legs and biscuit cheeks and her baby babble-talk. She would blow kisses from her high chair and wave and sing and the dimples on her little knuckles just about did me in every day. She was an easy, precious girl who slept through the night, ate well, was social and sweet and DUH, of course we were going to have another one like RIGHT NOW! And so we threw caution to the wind and it took all of two weeks for me to get pregnant again.

After an uneventful pregnancy with my daughter I was (naively) expecting more of the same once I made it past the 12-week mark. Because of the two miscarriages my doctor told me that I would have to submit to some precautionary tests the minute I learned I was pregnant and I trusted him (rightfully so, he's AWESOME) so of course I took them. Long story short, I was not producing enough progesterone to get the baby through the first trimester alive. And then the roller coaster began. I struggled hard with the awful physical side effects of progesterone therapy, the emotional toll of wondering week to week if my baby would be alive when I went to the doctor, trying to deal with bed rest with a toddler who had suddenly gone from teeter-tottery to FULL SPEED AHEAD, and especially the fear that came when my husband was suddenly laid off from his college teaching job just a month after I got pregnant.

And that was just the pregnancy! When we brought the baby home, adjusting to life with two kids utterly blew me away. It was so, so much harder than I expected. Things got better when Syd started preschool. We have had our ups and downs this year but I finally, just now, feel like I am coming out of the fog completely. Elijah is walking and is a bit more independent. The kids are sharing a room and sleeping great. John and I are tighter than we've ever been. The last year with Team World Vision has been phenomenal.

Everything is going pretty awesome right now.

And yet? I find myself thinking A LOT about future babies these days. It seems so ... selfish and just plain stupid to even consider putting our family through another pregnancy again. What if I had a miscarriage? What if I had another difficult pregnancy? I mean, my mother-in-law is NOT available to bail me out this time! Elijah is a mama's boy to the max! How could I do that to him?! And Syd? Well, dudes, she's a handful. She needs a lot of attention and throwing a newborn into the mix would be insane IN THE MEMBRANE. And what if we have more Spirited Girls?! Would we survive? And isn't it nice to eat pretty much whatever I want (sushi! turkey sammiches!! soft serve! WOO!), take honest-to-goodness COLD MEDS when I'm sick and isn't it fun to run marathons and wear my favorite jeans?

All things to consider. In a year. Because for now? The womb is closed. And I'm really, really ok with that.

(just don't let me look at any baby photos, ok? because then I'm doomed.)

And so I ran, Part V.

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

As guaranteed, mile six was challenging. And my body was starting to protest. In fact? I was starting to feel kinda like this guy:

"How did my heart get a knife?!"

My pain had settled in on my left hamstring, which was new for me. Sure, my knee was still a dull, throbbing, uncomfortable ache, but mile by mile I felt my hamstring winding tighter and tighter. When a filming stop put me about a quarter mile ahead of John and the rest of the group, I decided to move to the side and stretch a little while I waited. It felt good as I planted my left leg firmly behind me and leaned down on my knee. Passing runners encouraged me that it was going to be "ALLLL GOOD!" and I laughed and high fived someone. John and Michael and Paul ran up and we moved on.

And suddenly what had been a dull background pain in my left knee became a searing, unbearable albatross. I limped along, hoping that as we got going again the pain would abate ... it didn't. What I hadn't realized was that my tightened hamstring had been somehow compensating for my sore IT band connector. When I stretched and released the muscle? All hell broke loose. The guys could see that I was struggling and we trudged along for another two miles. We stopped once for some stretches where I propped my ankle up on the opposite knee and leaned into it. Someone broke out a Snickers bar. The guys quizzed me about the pain. Finally, Michael had me stop on a median in the middle of the crowd of runners and put my leg up on the concrete step in front of a road sign. I didn't know what was about to happen so I took a huge bite of Snickers in my mouth. Michael ground the bony heel of his hand into the side of my leg where my IT band connected to my knee so hard I screamed in agony right there in the sea of people, a Snickers bar packed into my cheek. It must have been a horrible experience for those unfortunate enough to be passing by at the time, probably reminiscent of Sloth from The Goonies.

But it helped. And it got me through another 8 miles to mile 16, where I would finally see our children and our parents.

And so I ran, Part IV.

Part I

Part II

Part III

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Romans 12:1

They started the elites at 7:30. The rest of us wandered toward the line at around 8:04.

And this is what it looked like. A sea of people and not a drop of rain. Perfect California conditions - cool, dry cloud cover. I started to believe that I could DO THIS. And it might actually be FUN!

The crowd surged ahead. Dudes started running out of the crowd like their pants were on fire. I trotted ahead with a group of friends - Lindsay, Tyler, Rusty - looking behind me for John and Michael and Paul with my phone in my hand. Men suddenly lined the bushes outside of Dodger stadium to take one final whiz (thanks guys!). Finally, they caught up to us and we got down to the business of the first six miles.

Most of our talk on the first portion of the marathon revolved around how we couldn't get over how the weather had cleared out, whether or not I should take a pee (and I made the right call and took one at around mile three), and where the first stop would be with the camera crew (just past mile four). I tested out my knee, which still hurt, but it was a dull throb. Manageable. Up and down the hills we went. I sang the ridiculous LMFAO songs on my iPod mix and acted goofy. I spotted a woman dropping trou in the bushes off the freeway. We laughed at the Vaseline held up by volunteers, smeared on pieces of posterboard. Somewhere in there I ate another Gu. We were running at about a 10:30 mile clip. The crew got what they needed at mile four in one take while I ran ahead with Michael and he blocked my view so I wouldn't get tempted to turn my head around and mess up the shot.

At mile six I looked up, huffing and puffing, and saw what must have been the biggest climb EVER in the history of marathons (not really but YOU KNOW. It was a HILL). "You have got to be KIDDING ME." The guys chuckled, and Paul, who would soon become my new favorite person in all of history encouraged me in his lovely, soothing South-African accent: "This is the worst of it." And as I charged up the hill (I am known to hate inclines so much that I just power up them to get them over with) a guy who was cheering on the side of the road tried to encourage me with "YOU'RE ALMOST THERE!"

"LIAR!" I shouted back through clenched teeth. And the group around me erupted in laughter. Because as usual? I was so very, very right.

And yet? I felt good. I felt alive. I was running a ding dang MARATHON.

The race has been run, but you can still click here to donate for clean water.

Comparison is the thief of joy

(alternate title: I hate it when the clichéd crap we say turns out to be true)

(alternate title: I hope that "Comparison is the thief of joy" is not in the Bible. Because then I would feel like even more of a failure.)

(I checked. It's not in the Bible.)

 

So. I have this friend who is pregnant with her second set of twins. That's right! Just 17 months after having her first set of twins she is 30 weeks pregnant with another set! Unfortunately, she is also on bed rest, or "couch rest" as she likes to call it, trying to keep those babies in the hatch for at least another month, hopefully more.

I would also like to mention that in addition to the 17-month-old twins she and her husband already have, she also has three older children aged 7, 5, and 3.

It's a full house, y'all. This lady has her hands FULL.

And it's very, very tempting to be all "OH MY LANDS" and to feel sorry for these people and to wonder why in the world they did this to themselves and to the children! And to say "holy mackerel I could not DO THAT!"

(Let's be honest. Because that is what I think about sometimes too.)

But you know what? She and her husband, who is a firefighter, LOVE IT. And despite what you might imagine about a family this large - a family that has a 1st grader, a kindergartener, a preschooler, two toddlers, two more babies on the way and a mom that is on BED REST - this gal has it TOGETHER. She is calm. Her kids are happy and loved. She and her husband are crazy about each other. She HOMESCHOOLS. Everyone is fed and gets baths at night and somehow they are making it through (she has been on bedrest already for 4 weeks). Their house is indeed messy but is still cute and fairly clean and there are no holes in the wall and it's decorated floor to ceiling with photos of their adorable family. They have extended family in the area and they have an amazing church family picking up the slack while the dad is gone for a 48-hour shift every four days. They bought a 12-passenger van. And from what I can tell? No one is panicking. There is joy and excitement and just general reveling in the pile of kids they have and anticipation about the ones to come.

It's awesome.

And it's also discouraging.

Because sometimes? I can barely handle the two kids I have. I mean, I ONLY have two of them! Sometimes it is really, really hard and I feel really, really sorry for myself. And in my head I think "Oh man! This can not be normal! How can a three-year-old ask me the same question one hundred times and even though the answer is 'no' every time she will never, ever give up?" I get tired of never being able to go to the toilet by myself. I mean, even when I have left my two children out in the backyard to play with their dad  suddenly the bathroom door handle is rattling and there is my preschooler, busting in on me once again. It wears on me how sometimes my daughter does EXACTLY what I told her not to do 30 seconds earlier when I caught her trying to do it the first time. It grates on my nerves that I can never just say "no" to either kid and not have it argued with or worse melted down about. I hate disciplining. I hate it. I just want everyone to get along and be safe and have fun. I want to be a loose, carefree mom. I want to have more fun with my kids. I don't want to have to take away fun stuff because someone hit her brother with the wiffle ball bat not two seconds after we go into the backyard, an activity she begged me to do for two hours beginning the moment I rolled out of bed. I don't want to be a warden, constantly on watch all the time for the next injury or infraction. That part really, really sucks.

You see what I did there? The woman with five kids and two on the way is doing WAY better than me and I SUCK at being a mom and why can't I just be like HER?

Because I'm so sure she never, ever has to discipline her children.

Because I'm so sure her kids never, ever get on her nerves.

Because I'm so sure she's never had to take away a fun activity because some little person could not just suck it up and BEHAVE.

My goodness, she probably never had an inconvenient diaper to change, a kid pull over something breakable or messy in a store, a kid break out the front door of her house and toddle on down the sidewalk, yogurt on her walls, laundry up to her eyeballs, someone getting hurt because they would NOT LISTEN, someone stop her in Target just to tell her how TIRED she looks and how FULL her hands must be, etc, etc, ETC.

I mean, honestly! Her life is perfect! I can just tell!

When I do this I lose sight of how awesome and amazing my kids actually are.

I mean, COME ON.

I sometimes choose to put all the good stuff into a corner. I forget about my sweet girl throwing her arms around my neck and telling me "Mama I'm gonna love you forever and ever and I'll always be your best girl and you're my best mommy in the whole world." I forget about my precious boy crawling up in my lap with a book and settling against my chest for me to read to him. I get so focused on how awesome other people must be doing because their children could not POSSIBLY be so challenging that I forget that everyone has their own shit to deal with. That parenting is hard and is draining because it is IMPORTANT. And if it seems easy to you you're probably doing it wrong.

And because it's hard that doesn't excuse you to have a crappy attitude about it all and THAT Is what I need to learn right now. I need to learn that I have things to offer my children. I need to learn to take better care of myself. I need to remember that even though she is so dang smart it's infuriating, and so very strong-willed ... I need to remember that she's three. And soon she's going to be four. And I never get this back. And I have to teach her how to be a member of the human race. And I have to fight harder for the good things and receive the things that are challenging as a gift.

Because one day they'll be grown up and gone and I will miss them. I will miss their little hands and I will wish to hear "MAMA! COME AND SEE MY POOP!" echoing through the halls of my house. I will get lonely in the bathroom and my house will seem too quiet and too clean.

And then I'll just be mad at myself all over again for being so busy comparing myself to others that I missed out on the joy right here, right now.

Dumb stuff Ironman triathletes say.

I can't believe this, but I forgot to mention that Michael is an Ironman. Which, apparently, is different than a regular triathalon.

That's a mistake I won't make again. Here he is explaining how IMPORTANT Ironmen/Ironwomen are. And how important Rolos are too.

(don't take a mouthful of liquid during this unless you are prepared to spit it all out on your computer.)

(because this is exactly what it was like running a marathon with him. FOR SIX HOURS.)

And so I ran, Part III.

Part I here.

Part II here.

There is more that I need to tell you about my friend Michael. In the last nine years? He's been running. A lot. He's run so many marathons and triathalons that he's lost count. He's run the Comrades race in Africa multiple times. During the Chicago Marathon this year he ran 100 miles with three others, the last 26.2 miles of which was the marathon course. HOLY CRAP is right. He is, uh, athletic to say the least. He runs fast marathons. There is no chance (unless I wake up one morning and am miraculously an elite athlete) that he and I would ever run a marathon together. Because over the last nine years? I've become a (round) wife and mother. I've been busying myself doing important stuff like eating tacos and perfecting my butter cake and not running and not working out too hard. Ahem.

There is no chance we'd end up running a marathon together unless? He's running the race with his friend Paul (also a veteran of Comrades and a person who ran 50 of the 100 miles in Chicago last year) and a walkie-talkie specifically to keep in touch with a film crew who is using my husband as their subject. Unless? My husband has decided to run the marathon at MY (stupid knee's) pace because we knew at the outset that we'd be running this race together. And it was SUPER helpful that the film crew was hoping that we'd run about an 11-minute mile pace so that certain people could be at certain places at certain times to get the footage they needed.

So, FINALLY, why the film crew: During the race a production and film crew was making two promotional spots for Team World Vision (the same people who made the "Why I Run" video I have featured on this blog). Through a series of events, John was chosen to be the subject of the video. Here's my summary of the reasons why they chose him:

1. He looks exactly like the actor who plays Captain America.
2. He was running his first marathon (part of the "story" of one of the spots).
3. They didn't have to pay him because he's already on the payroll. Ba-dum-dum!
4. Professional actors in LA are NOT CHEAP.
5. He is one of the most facially expressive people on the planet. Also he is very handsome (see #1).
6. He said yes. And also volunteered his wife and children to be in the shoot.

ANYWAY! That's why we ran with a film crew. And yes I am probably also going to be on television too (which is why I am SO GLAD I was grimacing and scowling in PAIN the whole time and also why I am so glad no one told me to FIX MY HAIR, which was sticking out of my hat all weird, ahem. But my kids will probably also be on television and at least THEY look super cute). More on that when the project is finished and televised, which is probably a long way away.

And so it happened that I would be running my first marathon with the person that got me to run my first half marathon nearly a decade ago. The person who first showed me how to do what I have been called to do and the person who brought us into Team World Vision a year ago.

Full circle is the only way to describe it. And that cold morning? I was suddenly recharged and AMPED to run the race.

Also John is good at amping people up.

Finally we packed up the tent into the truck and wandered over to the start line. The sea of people was crazy. Everyone stood around blowing into their hands and smiling and jumping from foot to foot in anticipation.

I hugged my husband about a million times. I ate a Gu. I exclaimed that "I couldn't believe I was about to do this!" about 65 times. I walked ahead at an appropriate distance while footage was shot of John. And then, with our friends (and a film crew! Weird!), we began what was about to be a long, long six hours.

The race has been run, but you can still click here to donate for clean water.

In which I bungle up a foolproof recipe. Twice.

Well, I don't know about you, but I'm STILL obsessed with The Pioneer Woman (my obsession is well documented here and here). Even now I have her Spicy Dr. Pepper Pulled Pork in the oven and my house smells delicious. I am not ashamed to tell you that when I grow up, I want to be Ree. Every recipe of hers that I've made has made me a hero. When I read her blog I feel happy about life (except I never win one of the iPads or Le Creusets she gives away what is UP with that).

Oh my goodness! She LOVES me! Do you SEE THAT?

I recently won a SIGNED copy of her latest cookbook in a blog giveaway and when it arrived I read it cover to cover. Soon after I checked on iTunes to see if her show on Food Network was available for purchase - and it was! - so I bought the first season and watched (and of course LOVED) it. Know who else loved it? My daughter. Dude, is that the understatement of the century. We have enjoyed watching the show together so much that I of course had to buy the second season too, and we have watched every single episode of both seasons probably three times. Such a refreshing change from our standard Yo Gabba Gabba, Sesame Street, and Barney fare over here (ok so maybe THAT is the understatement of the century).

This led very naturally into ... cooking. Sydney and I have been cooking together 3-4 times a week this last month while Elijah is napping and it's just the best. We've made zucchini bread and pizza dough and chicken parmesan and tons of other stuff and it's just amazing. We do something fun together, I get to teach her new things, and dinner is simultaneously cooked! MIND = BLOWN!

A few weeks ago I tried one of PW's most popular recipes: Perfect Iced Coffee. I had no doubt that this one would turn out just as perfectly as every other recipe.

I followed the instructions to steep the coffee ... then forgot about it for two days. Whoops! I strained it anyway and hoped for a miracle. No bueno. I served my poor unsuspecting husband a glass and he nearly horked right there on the spot (and that's saying something. This is a guy who will scrape mold off food and eat it anyway. Oh man now I'M about to hork). But! It was my bad! So a few days ago I tried it again. I steeped the coffee just short of 8 hours, strained it carefully (and made the biggest friggin mess ever in history), chilled it, mixed it with half and half and sweetened condensed milk ...

Yum! It looks so delicious right?!

One sip later? HORK. HORK HORK HORK SO BITTER GAH WHY DOES IT TASTE LIKE THAT!

John agreed.

I poured it down the sink. I think I'll file this one in the archives of "Manda can't do it right."

The end.

(unless someone can troubleshoot this for me and give me hope of having a delicious ice coffee on the back porch of my cottage on my cattle ranch -- oops I mean the back porch of my bungalow in LA where airplanes fly over my back yard and rattle the windows.)

And so I ran, Part II.

Part I here.

I woke up to my alarm on the morning of the race to find the bathroom light on, my husband already in the kitchen, dressed, the coffee pot whirling. (Even though it was 3:45 AM, this is not a new experience for me as he is our resident Morning Person.) I stumbled straight into the shower, my body protesting but my mind racing. I'd gotten some sleep. Apparently a lot of people have a hard time going to sleep the night before a race but I'd fallen out just as soon as my head hit the pillow. I'd had no choice.

After I'd showered and dressed I peeked out the window to see if it was raining.

It was dark and cold out there. But it was not raining.

Huh.

I wandered out to the kitchen and poured myself a huge travel cup of coffee. I made myself a double portion of microwave maple oatmeal, my standard fare before a long run. I slipped my favorite sweatpants and fleece jacket over my "uniform," remnants from my days as a track and cross country coach, gathered my supplies for the race, and wandered out to the pickup truck.

I knew a few things about what the race would be like. I'd discussed the course with my sister and a few other friends who'd run the LA Marathon before. Mile six was supposed to be brutal. The first third of the course was hilly. I knew that we'd be meeting up with a film crew four times (more on that later) and I'd probably have to stop some. Go ahead of John, who was the one being filmed. Run a quarter mile behind him. I knew my mom, my in-laws and my children would be at mile 16. 

And yet I had no idea what to expect.

As we approached Dodger Stadium John's energy level (and, honestly, his anxiety level) was OFF THE CHARTS. My husband is - under normal, daily circumstances - an intense person. We had to make it up to a certain section of the race start area where all the warming tents and port-a-potties are located to set up a meeting area for the Team World Vision runners and we met with a few security guards who were a bit, uh, big for their britches. It was kind of insane. Finally, after not taking "no" for an answer from the final security guard we met, we drove directly into the crowd and unloaded the truck. Some of our friends and some of John's colleagues from Team World Vision were already there waiting for us. We set up the tent and set about filling up some helium balloons as the cold, slicing wind threatened to blow it all away. People started trickling in. My running group friends - Lindsay, Dan, Ben and Andy - showed up and it was such a comfort to me. I was nervous. I was freezing cold. And I'm sorry but I seriously had to poop.

When I came back from the port-a-potties I was pulled aside by my friend Michael (who is also the national director of Team World Vision), who was there with his friend Paul and two members of the film crew. We huddled together in the wind and Michael told me that he and Paul would be running the race with John and me. This? Was awesome (and unexpected) news!

For a minute here I need to back up and tell you about my friend Michael Chitwood. We met nine years ago when I was a graduate student at the University of Illinois. At the time he was working with Youth For Christ, and Michael is the person who first taught me how to do ministry with teenagers. He and his wife Dani took me under their wing, and Michael showed me how to do everything from talking to high school students about Jesus to driving a 15-passenger van. I have met a lot of people in this life, and I say without reservation that Michael is one of my favorites. And it's not just because I have never met anyone who has such a similar personality to mine ... if there is a boy version out there of me, it's Michael. He's loud, he's fun, he says "crap" and "d-bag" a lot ... Just like me! See! TWINSIES! It's because (even though he's only a few years older than I am) he was never afraid of my, er, large personality. He empowered me to try new things and made it ok to fail. He followed Jesus even when it made no sense to anyone around him. He is awesome. He is my friend. I freaking love that dude.

After I'd been working with Michael and a group of other volunteers at a nearby high school for about nine months, we all trained for and ran the Indy Mini Marathon in the spring of 2004 to fundraise for YFC. I'll be the first to tell you that I didn't train well for that race. Other than one ill-fated nine-mile long run, I only jogged around my block about once a week for a month. I am thankful that my friend Tiffany, who was a fellow volunteer and also much more prepared for the race, stayed with me and carried me through. I ran the entire way, and then promptly collapsed into a 4-hour nap on the bus ride home afterwards while John (my future husband) and Michael talked over the bus seats.

Soon after that John proposed, we got married, and moved to Texas (all in the span of three months!). Over the years we sporadically kept in touch. Michael started running marathons and he Dani moved to Chicago to start Team World Vision. John and I moved to Los Angeles so he could pastor a church. Team World Vision started in New York, Miami, Dallas, Minneapolis, Los Angeles. A position for Team World Vision opened up in Los Angeles and Michael called us.

I could go on, but what I am trying to say is that Michael is someone that God has used in my life over and over. And this race would be no exception.

The race has been run, but you can still click here to donate for clean water.

And so I ran, Part I.

Early on a Saturday night nearly a month a half ago, I laid out my Team World Vision jersey on my bed and pinned on my race bib. This was it. Tomorrow was the race. There was no more preparation to be done. I'd loaded all the carbs. There was no more training left, no more foam rolling, no more time. My mom and my in-laws had all arrived to care for our children while we ran and everyone was tucked into bed.

I'd spent much of the days preceding out in the rain at the race expo talking to runners about Team World Vision at the orange tent. Well, that, and wandering the flooded parking lot of Dodger stadium in the torrential downpour looking for a miracle product that would heal my bum knee, fretting about how to run 26.2 miles soaking wet. I bought compression socks. I treated myself to a long-sleeve shirt to wear under my jersey. I bought a new hat. I was going to break all the rules for race day (rule #1 for race day: Try NOTHING new!) because I'd never run in a frog strangler before and I was mad about that. I was upset that my knee was screwed up. I was already so tired.

So very, very tired

Hey! We needed carbs!

As I was laying out my race gear, I heard a crazy sound outside. It had been pitter-pattering rain all day, and now it sounded like rocks were pounding down on our house.

John scooped up a handful of hail off the driveway and wordlessly brought it in to show me.

This ... was ominous.

But come hell or high water (or hail. Or bum knee. Or WORSE, heaven help us) I was going to run that race. I obsessively checked the weather, hoping for some miraculous change in forecast. It never came.

I was going to have to accept that I was going to have to toe the line of an already challenging race in terrible weather conditions. I was going to have to accept that my knee was going to hurt. I was going to have to accept that I was already exhausted from the week's activities leading up to race. This was going to be hard.

But it must be done. This wasn't about me. This wasn't about a bucket list.

This was something bigger than me. This was a calling. And no one ever promised it was going to be easy.

The race has been run, but you can still click here to donate for clean water.