The Swamp

Deep in the woods there was a stream. When the stream bent to the right, you would go left to visit The Swamp. The Cliffs hugged the hill to the right and were great for climbing and peering under the overhang for critters, namely porcupines or the imagined bear. The Swamp however lay in the valley, spotted with moss covered stumps convenient for leaping across the black murk that bubbled below. Skunk cabbage grew on top of the stumps, low bearing plants that actually flowered. A cruel deception, for when you stepped on them a fetid stench was released, a veritable stink bomb. These mild perils of course only added to the excitement, for every adventure needs at least a flare of danger, be it black muck that swallows your Nike or rancorous cabbage. On the patches of firmer ground between the marshes there grew smoke mushrooms, delightful fungi that when you stomped on them gray smoke-like powder puffed up in miniature clouds. The Swamp had a variety of fun things to do. As a whole Braaten Woods felt magical, and met our unquenchable search for a story to tell, or a mystery to solve. I had always hoped I would find a clue or an old map that would lead to treasure. I never found treasure, well except an old pot or two housing angry bees and one dog skeleton.

Karen and I up top, Julie and Christen
on the bottom floor

Christen and I were down by The Cliffs one afternoon when we found it. The skeleton of a former pet that had taken a last long walk with our Uncle. Could it be Shotzi? The poodle? No, too small of a skull. Or perhaps it was the Samoyed, the dog that growled its last time at my mother when she was pregnant. We knew it had to be one of the Braaten Hill dogs because of the tell-tale bullet hole through the skull. We were not a family that believed in vets after a certain point. When our dogs would become sick, or lame, or had gone wild, well let's just say their days were numbered.

It's a mystery how a dog "goes wild". My assumption was that they would begin to spend too much time in the woods. Slowly, lured by a new taste of freedom they continue to forge deeper and deeper, dusting off their primal instinct to kill and eat, and leaving behind once and for all the Leash of Civility. So, impressionable and dumb to the ways of the wild, our domesticated pets would eventually mingle with the wrong crowd, the Hooligans of the Forest just waiting to woo them to the dark side. I pictured our poodle in a darkened cave smoking Lucky Strikes and playing cards with thieving Raccoons and Coyotes of ill repute. Weeks would go by, and our once innocent poodle would return from the Cave of Debauchery, jaded and hardened with a chip on her shoulder and a snarl in her lip. It was the late seventies, early eighties, when pets were actually considered animals and not "the furry children" that pooped in the yard. If you had a dog that went wild or was too old to walk, or was in a lot of pain, it was that time. Time to dial the Uncle of Mercy on the rotary phone. To quote George in Of Mice and Men, "tell me about the rabbits Lenny, tell me about the rabbits..."

The Evidence, photo taken by
Uncle John

 Christen and I investigated the skull and bones, trying to piece them together. We could hear a low rumble of thunder from a distance, our time was limited, and it was then an idea came to us. A brilliant idea. How cool would this skull look on a stick in the middle of the Swamp?  We found the perfect stick and poked it through the eye socket, then firmly stuck it in the mud in the middle of the marsh. It was starting to get dark, the storm was getting closer. We stepped back and looked at our garish display. It was gloriously cool. Karen, Christen's little sister was beginning to cry and get scared that the storm was getting closer and we were still outside. We began to run back up the Hill, excited, adrenaline fueling our race against the storm.

Later Uncle John found our pole of horror and was of course deeply concerned. At that time Witch Covens were the talk of the town, rumored to have stolen pets for satanic sacrifices. It was also the day of Dungeons and Dragons, and Back-masking, the belief that hidden messages from hell could be heard when you played a record backwards. So when you find a stick with a skull on it in the middle of a swamp, naturally your parent mind would question, "of what witchery is this?" A parent meeting was to be held on Braaten Hill, that is until Christen and I finally confessed to the deed. There was not much more to be said about it. Uncle John was naturally relieved a Coven had not taken up residence in our woods, but I wonder if a new concern was born about his daughter and niece and their definition of fun.

Christen and I at the Crime Scene, most likely it was all Christen's idea...

Nostalgia can be a powerful thing. The week before I left for Connecticut a friend of mine (who happens to be a psychologist) said, "It will put you back to the age you were and there is nothing you can do about it." "Nothing?" I asked. "Nothing." He said. He said it with such finality, as if he lumped this thing, this force called Nostalgia with the other inevitable dooms of life like Death, Taxes and Bad Health Insurance. Since I've been on Braaten Hill he was right in a way. This is not to say Nostalgia is a bad thing. It brings back all of my favorite memories, however can be all consuming in nature, like a wave swallowing you whole. You lose your footing and either have to yield to survive or foolishly fight and sputter, gasping for some semblance of reason to ground you. But your feet will never find ground because memories are unreasonable things. They demand attention, your full attention, and will haunt you until you look them in the eye and say, "what?! What is it already?!" At least this is my experience. So I will write to purge the beast, or persistent kitten, depending on the nature of the memory.

The Parents, Poppi Jens and Gramma Tomina
(and my two older brothers before the "rest" of us arrived.)

I grew up on a hill in Connecticut. I lived next door to my Grandparents, Tomina and Jens Braaten. Next door to them lived my Aunt Marilyn and Uncle Bob, then Aunt Lynne and Uncle John's house, then Uncle Paul and Aunt Laurel. I had nine cousins to play with.
The property of the families combined consisted of mainly woods, two hundred acres or so. In the woods we had a small pond, a swampy marsh, rock cliffs and seemingly endless stone walls that furrowed the woods with ancient boundaries. This was our playground. Since the Hill was fairly isolated our parents didn't worry about "Stranger Danger", or little else for that matter. Well except the firm belief that you'll get worms if you pee on a rock or run the Hill shoeless. I pretty much disregarded both warnings. In the summer I'd bolt outside before my parents could busy me with chores. To ensure a summer void of responsibility, you needed to know Two Things: One; never say, "I'm bored" to your parents, a death knell to your freedom, and Two; make your way across the hill before the morning dew dries. If you miss that window of escape your parents will keep tabs on you the rest of the day, a horrible fate especially on "Dump Day" when Dad is loading up and sorting garbage, this being an all day affair. I labeled it "Chump" Day for only a Chump would linger at home too long on a Saturday morning. Basically I was the female version of Huck Finn. My brothers would agree. I'm not proud of my chore dodging abilities at a young age, though it took careful planning and military stealth, ironically a lot of work to avoid work. Needless to say as a mother and wife, there is no dodging now.

"The Cousins"

Watching my son play with his cousins Owen, Bjorn, Nora and Arkin on the Hill is sending me deeper into a time warp. He is learning the same principals of fun that I lived to the depths of my being. Hit the dirt early and don't look back. Already they have moved across the Hill like a massive amoeba, barefoot, filthy, hunting bugs and new game ideas. I love it. A friend of mine wrote me and said, "Don't try to recreate your childhood for your son." And she's right. I'm not trying. Its just simply unfolding in front of me as we stay here for five weeks. Noah is five and a half, and is asking me questions about my childhood. Did I play in the woods, did I get ticks, was I afraid of the dark, did I sleep in the very room he is sleeping in, all "Yes" answers and he is asking for more. I have sort of buried the Hill stories as deep as the stone walls that carve through them. Moss covered, shrouded in brambles, but still there.

This was the first story I told Noah. When I was his age, around four or five, my Father told me never to cross the stone wall behind our house. The land beyond the wall belonged to the Hibbard Sisters and I was not to trespass. I faithfully obeyed for awhile, but curiosity began to eat away at my God given conviction and I knew I had to cross that stone wall or I would surely whither up and die. I had to see what was on the other side. Like Eve in the Garden I stepped on top of the wall, and slowly jumped to the other side. It was a field as far as I could see of small Christmas trees a little bigger than I was, only in perfect rows. I had never seen anything like it. Right then and there I decided that I must have crossed into Heaven. Where else would trees grow in perfect rows? So I began to set up camp. A small fire that I thought would simply ignite itself, some walnuts perhaps, though why would I get hungry in heaven? So many questions. I wondered when Jesus would stroll through the trees to greet me, or where the angels slept. I was alone, and sooner or later Heaven's Armies would be alerted to my unexpected arrival, after all I had found the one porthole into Heaven no one knew about. Well, except my Dad apparently. Then I heard my mother calling. Excitedly I climbed back over the wall and ran to Mom to tell her the good news, "Mom! I've been to Heaven! I've been to Heaven!" Later my Mother told me my little jaunt into Heaven made her nervous. As did a few other of my imaginings. She replied, "Oh?" while slathering peanut butter and jelly together, eager to stop her little girl from further admissions of the afterlife. Noah liked this story as did his cousin Bjorn. I hope to remember more.

The "Entrance to Heaven" today...thirty years later and I still look a little guilty

The Beef

 My Father is a mechanical engineer. He lives in a world of right angles and numbers that add up. But God decided to give him four creatively inclined children. It didn't take him long to realize that our numbers were not adding up to concrete skill sets we could actually use in the world. I majored in Dating, with a Minor in English Literature. “Mamby-pamby, is that how you want to go through life?” Often my brothers and I heard this refrain. In my world of candy coated dreams those words fell silently to the ground like snow and there died, with all other refrains of reason. My Father's advice was wise, but at the time I saw it as stifling to my creativity. To tether an artist to reality was in my view nearly as cruel as smothering a puppy with a pillow. Perhaps my Father envisioned me living on the streets of Boston, a starving Mime in painted tears silently peddling for tips from inside a shrinking box. A terrifying thought for any parent. 

I think he was fearful we would all flounder forever. Our home became the Tower of Babel, everyone had a different plan to reach the top but no one was speaking the same language. My Father used words like, “Milk Toast” , “Bum”, and "Destitute". All terms we deduced from context were bad things to be. His strange tongue railed on about the value of a dollar, and we tried to listen at the dinner table with furrowed brows and cocked heads, like four curious birds evaluating a shiny foreign object. (Side note: If that furrowed brow ever turned into an eye roll, that was a death knell to borrowing the car ever again...)  Discussions between us became an art form, a tactical game of risk. Home from college I had dinner with Dad and my Stepmother Cindy. 

“Red Skelton, ever see him?” asked my father as he dug into a spoonful of basmati rice, the latest fad in healthy living.

 “I think so.” I said.  

My father feigned shock, “You think so? You’d remember him kiddo! He is only one of the funniest comedians who ever lived!”

“Very funny.” Cindy encouraged him.

“Not like this crap today.” He said.

“It’s unfortunate.” Cindy said shaking her head.

 ”Comedians today are nothin’ but perverts. Not like back then, funny was just…funny!” Cindy nodded. 

In conversations like this it is always better to nod in agreement. Even though what your hearing is alien, the consequences for rebuttal are far worse than just flat out lying. 

“Absolutely Dad. Pie in the face humor is always funny.” I said.

“Yeah, nothin’ but crap and smut on the ol’ Boob these days.” He added. 

The Boob. Brought me back to Saturday mornings when my little brother and I would watch a few hundred cartoons and right in the middle of Scooby Doo my father would switch off the T.V. and say, 

“You’ve had enough of the Boob. Outside.”  

I learned quickly that other families don’t use this handy little nickname. Just like every family has a special name for passing gas. My cousin’s family called it “winder”. Or I’ve heard “Bunny”, “Toot”, “Fluff”, or my family’s term, “Beef”, which I find the most grotesque of all. But what choice did I have being the only girl, the only voice of civility? Certainly my brothers would not concede to referring to their flatulence as a “fluff” or a “bunny”. Inevitably, car trips were the worst. 

“Who beefed? You beef?” My father pointed to my oldest brother in the rear view mirror. “You? You beef?” My second oldest brother shook his head. “Well someone beefed! Who was it! Right now! I want to know who beefed!” Most likely it was J.P., the baby of the family. He was two at the time, and the stench he could produce through a pair of pull-ups and church pants could curl steel. It certainly was not me. I’m no idiot. If I ever let that happen my brothers would make my life a living hell. “That’s it!” He pulled over. “I’m not going another inch until SOMEONE admits to the beef!” 

”Ron, honestly.” Said my mother. She looked sadly to the back seat at her four children in their Sunday best. Slicked hair, shiny shoes, and dried toothpaste stuck on their faces. These were clean children and she did not want to be having this conversation. However, there was no arguing the tone in her husband’s voice. He chose this moment to teach a lesson. 

“Someone is lying Sherry! I’m not going to allow this. No sir, we are not breeding liars in this house!” He turned around and looked over all of us very carefully, asking each one over and over, 

“You?! You?! You beef?!”

His finger moved from captive to captive. His interrogation style had been effective in past cases such as The Missing Yellow Comb, and The Puncture Hole that bled stuffing out of his leather desk chair. But when you’re dealing with a Beef, there is no greater humiliation than admitting to one. The angrier my father got the more determined we were to link arms and muzzle up. 

“We’re going to be late.” My mother said with a sigh. She turned the mirror toward her and fluffed her hair. “Let’s just roll down a window already and get to Church.” My father still held the stare hoping for some sign of weakness, some inkling of guilt, but got nothing. He trained us well. Slowly he turned back around muttering, “You know you kids, lying is the worst offense! The worst!” Finally we left for Church punishment free, and the sweet feeling of victory lasted well into the week, that is until the case of Dad’s Missing Scissors came into play.

As a woman well past my teens and now with a child of my own, I wonder what phrases my son will find utterly ridiculous. Those “mom-isms” that may one day fall on deaf teenage ears. A frightening time when kids who know nothing of reality start making huge decisions. But my Dad hung with me. He would listen to my stories and endless plays and say, “Keep writing.” He listened A LOT. His motive was never to stifle, but merely to harness a dreamer into reality. A hard task when your dealing with a person who drops out college because, “I’m just not as into it anymore...” If I could go back in time and shake that kid I would. Shake and smack her around a little to wake her up. I would drop Motherly words like, Character, Integrity, and for the Love of God Finish What You Start. But I’m sure she wouldn’t listen to me either. 

My Father scooped up the last of the rice. “Any more rice kiddo?”

“No thanks Pop.” He shook his head, “You know I hope your eating good, and not just crap either.”

“No, not just crap,” I said, “mainly crap yes, but not only crap.”  

“Watch your mouth. Fresh. Such a fresh kid.” He said. He wasn’t fooling anyone. I knew he liked it when I dished it back. At the right time of course. It took me years to learn the subtleties of my father’s stand-offs. He considered the challenges of our conversations sort of a boot camp for the real world. Little did he know he was simply training us for the next conversation with him. 

Fire Line

My husband lost his job last week. We are one week into our Exodus. I picture the three of us in Hebrew garb standing at the foot of a vast desert, our mouths agape.  For our tiny tribe of three, the Clan of Raegan, son of Ray Spitler, life has sort of stopped. The questions have begun, "How are we going to hike through that? Well these flip-flops won't last, did anyone pack a Clif Bar? And oh yeah, water...kind of a big deal. Especially out here. Never knew it was a big deal until now, until we like, didn't have it."

When you feel naked and vulnerable you take note of what you still have that cannot be ripped from you. We have Christ. I've said that my entire newborn life, "Oh yes, I have Jesus" practically in a sing-songy way. Easy to sing that tune from the feasting table. But let's not forget the slumber that comes after a feast, the one that overtakes like a drug, putting you into a spiritual coma that only a crisis can wake up. This slumber never happens intentionally, slowly though, eyes sink to half mast, weighed down by the fattened calf we had taken for granted. Our ears deadened to the Holy Spirit, relegating Him to merely an afterthought. *shiver* What a grave mistake.

We don't need a cloud by day or a fire by night, we have the fire, burning within us, the Presence of Jesus. The Light we had not allowed to burn bright due to complacency, even apathy. Here's the deal, I had no desire to limit God. In fact I want Him to blow the doors off of human reason. I've asked for that. Something has to break for Him to break forth in all glory. We are glow sticks. They don't glow until broken. It hurts, but still there is a glimmer of something. I don't dare call it joy. Or will I? It's an expectancy of something that I can't explain. You may read this and say, "You are an idiot." And you would be right. It does not make sense. Call me naive, foolishly hopeful because after all its early in the game. You could say, "yeah let's see what she says three months from now, a year from now." And I would want you to. Challenge me. For one thing I want to know of the eternal stuff I am re-made. Ask me in a month, "Still hopeful? Still have that glimmer of joy Pollyanna?"

There was a song we sang in church, something about giving Him our everything for He gave us His everything. And I thought about what my "everything" looks like right now. Made me laugh. Right now all I see in me is frailty. A kids garage sale of weak willed thoughts rooted in nothing. I'm sure you remember, kids garage sales are basically a Crap-for-Crap bartering ritual. In the dead heat of summer when your all bored to tears and no one will drop you off at the pool you have a garage sale. So you take your crap and trade it for even worse crap and actually believe you came out a winner. I came home with a limbless doll once, with hair mysteriously burned into melted plastic stubble. The limbs had apparently been eaten by their family dog, and somehow I thought this horror show was worth a quarter. It's this stuff we hold so dear, we think it carries weight, the useless bumper sticker mantras we all love to say but are nothing more than chaff in the wind. Be careful what you pray for. I prayed for wisdom, I prayed for the Spitlers to be total sell-outs to Jesus Christ. God did not take my husband's job away, but now and then God gives the world an inch to return to us the mile when we come through the refining fire. Suffering then resurrection. Death, then life. When the fire comes, when the Light turns on, all things hidden will be revealed for what they are. I have some bumper stickers that need to be tossed, or better yet burned.

We watched a documentary yesterday about Yellowstone Park. Natural fires occur periodically, but when one gets a bit out of hand firefighters step in. They create a Fire Line, which means they start a ring of fire around the moving forest fire, so where the vegetation is already burned the moving forest fire stops.  Fire meets fire and the destruction stops. We are sealed unto the day of redemption by a Seal given to us by the Holy Spirit. From the day of the Flaming tongues, fire has burned within us. From the day we said "Yes" to Jesus, Death lost its sting, and Eternity like a burning ember glows and grows in our inner man as the breath of God fans the flame. Like the lost limbless dolls without hope, broken treasures ravaged by sin we were left for dead. Then Jesus Christ showed up.

We are redeemed by the most precious treasure ever known to man. Once and for all our Rescuer stopped the haggling over Cost, and bound the forked tongue that once beguiled us. Jesus Christ knew from whence we came and yet He came, He came just the same. Does it not baffle you?

"When you were dead in your sins and in the uncircumcision of your sinful nature, God made you alive with Christ. He forgave us all our sins, having canceled the written code, with its regulations, that was against us and that stood opposed to us; he took it away, nailing it to the cross. And having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross.

Therefore do not let anyone judge you by what you eat or drink, or with regard to a religious festival, a New Moon celebration or a Sabbath day. These are a shadow of the things that were to come; the reality, however, is found in Christ." Colossians 2:13-17 

.....the reality, however, is found in Christ. 

Hang on everyone, the clouded veil will be removed and the glory of Jesus Christ will soon be fully known. Will we care when all else is burned away? When God sees us, it is fire meeting fire, we are His children, and so preserved we persevere unto the end. God will make a way.

"Since then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is seated at the right hand of God."
Colossians 3:1

  

I am now in the camp of promoting Chiropractic care. I don't love going, but in completing eight weeks of adjustments I must admit I've seen a huge improvement in my back, neck, and overall health. It's amazing what you grow used to when your compensating, "Well so what if I can't turn my neck to the left, who needs peripheral vision anyway?" Pitiful really. Clearly I needed help. When I first started going to the Chiropractor I must say it was a bit of a culture shock. A girl in Mickey Mouse scrubs gave me the dime tour. The main room was described as "The Adjustmentorium." This room had people in all manner of interesting positions. The name alone suggests a cross between a Medieval torture chamber and a Sanatorium.

The staff are incredibly friendly, but have no problem strapping a six pound ball to your chin and asking you to hang your head back behind a chair for ten minutes. "There you go sweetheart, be back in ten!" they say cheerily as they leave you in anguish until released from what I have come to name "The Ball of Death". Two minutes feel like thirty. To distract from the pain I would try to read the upside down blurb of fun pinned up for our perusal, like "How to Achieve Your Dreams!" or "How to Become a Positive Thinker!" Both articles made me want to cuss, and I would have if my larynx hadn't been so restricted from the weighted head strap. My feeble attempt came out in gurgled sputters nearly choking myself on my own saliva. There was nothing left to do but submit to The Ball. This is what they call "therapy".

I am grateful however I do not have to use the Walking Head-Brace. Now there's a ritual in public humiliation. It is exactly what it sounds like. After your adjustment they strap on a head brace that rests on your shoulders, and you walk around the office, waiting area, down the hall, around and around slowly for an allotted period of time. It's meant to add more curve to your neck by lurching it a bit forward and keeping it there by way of straps, bolts and padded metal bars. A woman shuffled through the waiting room in that contraption as I was filling out my first patient profile. I was tempted to drop my pen and run. What strange vice will I be strapped into? And more importantly, will I be asked to bare the shuffle of shame through the waiting room?  One wrong move could land you in the magazine rack,  oh horror.

By far the easiest therapy is the Wobble Chair. In a small room five chairs with wobbly seats sit snugly side by side in a half circle. You sit on the wobbly seat and shift slowly in all four directions. It's a strange thing to be doing next to people you don't know. Seems rather intimate really, with no music or television as a social buffer,  just silent shifting forward, back, side to side. I can never let silence go for too long before I offer up some cheesy small talk, "Sure is chilly today huh?" I'm hoping this will become as familiar as two people riding the subway, but it won't. We are in a small room... wobbling. It's worse when the other individual is a man. Then I can't even handle small talk, I just wobble and smile, which is way more creepy, "watch out for that one, she likes the Wobbling Room. Best keep your distance."

The thing is this stuff works. Easy to poke a little fun, but I've noticed a huge difference. And without any need for medicine. I had real pain in my hips, neck and back for a while, but now I hardly have any. After only a few weeks of adjustments I began to feel like a new person.  Like the Tin Man after a few dabs of oil I could move with such freedom, such ease, and suddenly eager to link arms with Dorothy and Brainless to brave the flying monkeys. But you must submit to the program, there are no shortcuts. It can be humbling and weird, but you grow accustomed to your little tribe of weirdos you see every week, and together you wobble, hang your heads, do the stairclimber thingy with one arm raised, whatever it takes to be free of pain and stay that way.

I'm amazed what we will submit to to be free of pain. But yet its so hard to submit wholly to Christ. He promises freedom, peace, joy, life to the full, and yet the day to day time I need to spend with him sometimes gets forgotten. Why? The sad human condition of selfishness and laughable self-reliance. Slowly, I become hunched, rusted, more and more immobilized by encroaching sin and selfishness. And only when it hurts too much, well then I'm screaming for that oil can. Living for self leads to death. Our resurrection has been bought at the highest price. Not only to be saved, but it was for freedom Christ has set us free, and the only thing required is complete surrender under His hand. Continually I pray for the fog to remain lifted, and that God would not allow my deceiving heart to lead me back into bondage. Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

"If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it." Matthew16:24,25

This week I had the wild idea I would juice fast for three days. I lasted six hours. One of the conditions of a juice fast is that you give up coffee. I have one or two cups a day and I relish them. But I thought, "why not? It's only three days." By three o'clock it felt like my four year old had wrangled my head into a vice, and with each waning hour without caffeine granted another turn of the clamp. Finally I cried mercy and reached for a cup. It was so delectable I nearly cried. By four o'clock I cleaned out the fridge, did the dishes, folded three baskets of laundry and organized the utility room. I love caffeine. How dare I turn my back on it when it has been so good to me?

Granted, more than two cups a day turns me into a wild-eyed conspiracy theorist with a facial twitch. Using a legal drug comes with responsibility, we must have balance. Reminds me of the time I was at a church function and I offered to get someone a cup of coffee, and the woman replied, "I don't use caffeine." She doesn't use it. She said it with such emphasis, like I had just offered her a stoke on my crack pipe. What did that make me? A drug pusher? It sure felt that way, and I shrank back like a shamed felon and sipped my coffee in silence among the other users.

Along with juicing I have also taken up running in my quest for better health. I haven't run in years, well apart from running from small angry dogs and deep regret, then I run like the dickens. I don't necessarily enjoy it. I hate it really, but nevertheless I preregistered online for several 5k races. The challenge is good and keeps me training, so essentially these races serve as a vicious form of accountability. At first it feels like a good idea, registering from the couch as I enjoy air conditioning and sip fresh kale, "Well 3.2 miles isn't that far. And by golly I need it!" A swift "click-click" of the space bar and I was committed. Then race day arrived. As I stood in the mingling crowd of intense racers and walking moms, my inner voice quickly changed its tune, what the crap am I doing here?

Like a dream that throws you into an unthinkable scenario, I had been slapped out of my sophomoric  hope and suddenly knew I was in for a world of pain. I just paid twenty bucks to suffer for thirty minutes. My brother in law, who had also recently taken up running again was standing next to me. He was a track star in high school, so this challenge thrilled him. He wanted to beat his last time, I wanted to finish without hurling my last meal. We are both in our late thirties and I suppose that is part of the reason we find ourselves at the beginning of a race. We have just entered the beginning of the second chapter of our lives a little softer around the edges, a little slower.

The first lap around Central Park went well. I worked on my breathing and hung in there. The second lap was a bit rough. I ran along this other girl for a while and finally mouthed, "I'm dying." She gestured the same breathlessly, in tired runner sign language, a combination of a hanging tongue and a quick eye-roll, and we chugged along together. So far I was content with my performance. That is until a woman pushing a stroller blew past me. My pride spoke up.

"Seriously? Your going to let a woman pushing a fifteen pound baby pass you? "

My body responded,

"Yes. Yes I am."

"Oh suck it up Spitler, the Finish line is just up ahead, if you don't push past her I'm going to take a serious hit. Are you listening to me?" cried my pride.

"Can't hear you over our exploding lungs. Remember the burrito we ate two hours ago? Wanna see it again? Your choice Pride." My Body was unwavering in her response, out of desperation.  

We finished Fourth in my age group, Pride, Body and I. Right behind Crazy Stroller Lady. I felt pretty good actually. I'm not sure why this is but after my pride takes a hit, a new contentment washes over me. Knowing I don't have to shoulder the weight of my own worth or lack thereof, is a relief. And that my Dad in heaven is still proud of me, still rooting me on. The "win" matters to the world, but not to Jesus. The "win" to him is letting pride spout off, then letting it die to make room for Him, our Redeemer, the only voice that matters.

I signed my son Noah up for a kids Fun Run this weekend. He is very excited and tried on his running shoes this afternoon. He plopped down next to me and said,

"Mom, I just prayed to Jesus that he would be right behind me the whole race with all those other boys." 

"I'm glad honey, because He will be there, running right along beside you." 

"Well no Mom, I don't think he'll run. He'll float. He doesn't need to run."

 "Yes, I suppose that's true."

There are some things that can never be erased from memory no matter how hard you try. Back in January my husband Raegan and I were driving around to kill some time before church. We just so happened to be having one of those intense marital discussions, when upon rounding a corner we witness a man’s fleshy backside, only a glimpse before he quickly pulled up his pants. He was apparently taking a leak on his fence. If I could scrub clean my visual memory I would. Disturbing yet pitiful, the vision stopped our conversation in its tracks. Here it was January, the cold gloom that hits after the forced joy over the holidays. Of which this guy’s frumpy pinks typified the general mood of post holiday blues, sad, despairing, like the moment you open your credit card bill.  Let’s face it, most backsides leave much to be desired, comical at best. Time will always have the last laugh and we all end up wilted and withered like two week old lettuce, our own reminder that we indeed are on the way out, that we are mortal. 


After the Fall God handed cover-ups to everyone. We blew it, so now the fig leaf is required. The ugly side of humanity is better left in the dark, clothed, securely fastened by way of zipper or buttons, or the shapeless Snuggie that comfortably hides everything under a lovable fleece sack. The unveiled horror capped our morning perfectly. 

We were discussing why it was we could not get through a day without bickering over something ridiculous. Over whose turn it was to wrestle our second unruly child, "Budget", into submission. Or why someone can’t throw away candy wrappers instead of stuffing them into the couch cushions to supposedly, “be picked up later.” Those cyclical arguments that keep going and going, a miserable Merry-Go-Round, blame and shame divvied out like carnival tickets to be tallied up later, declaring the Winner and the Loser.

That’s when it hit me like a pair of puckered buns, vulnerable and ugly- our fallenness exposed leaves not something, but everything to be desired. Somehow God actually loves us, so much he invites us off the Merry Go Round. He tore up the tally tickets of blame, wore the shame himself and let us off the hook. Alone we are incapable of change, miserable schemers out to win at any cost, (oh how I love to be Right). But up against the white canvas of Christ our “righteous” schemes show up like black blots that mar like violent scars. Sin. All fall short of the glory of God. So we repent, we get it. We get that we bring nothing to the table, and I mean NOTHING. And He takes our hand, our Rescuer and leads us off the cyclical death that leads to nowhere.