Thirteen Things I Wish I Could Say

1. To the girl on my left in Research Methods – If you must chew gum, please close your mouth.

2. To my Oceanography professor – You sound exactly like Ricky Ricardo!

3. To the cashier at Wal-Mart – aren’t you supposed to smile or at least say thank you?

4. To my plants – I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. Pray for rain.

5. To the girl in the 3rd row in my psychology class – please do not use this time to see what is wrong with grandma. It isn’t that I don’t care, I do, but... well... I don’t think we’ll be tested over that.

6. To the guy on my right in Research Methods – you must be really, really smart to be able to take notes and play pool on your phone at the same time.

7. To the guy on my right in Oceanography – if you must fall asleep in class, please turn your head the other way so that you are not breathing on me. And those breath strips really are quite economical.

8. To the man in front of me at the red light – if you can’t drive and talk on your phone, please hang up. Or least let me pass.

9. To my Oceanography professor – I’m sorry I fell asleep today.

10. To my next door neighbor – My plants are quite jealous of yours.

11. To the lady I passed while running on Wednesday – I am sorry I sound like Darth Vader. If you are out there tomorrow when I attempt to run 2 miles, and if I go down, I don’t have insurance. Please don’t call the ambulance, just slap me around a bit.

12. To the guy who keeps asking ten thousand, three hundred and four questions in Oceanography – please stop.

13. To the girl who saw me staring at the red marks on my Methods homework and asked me gleefully, “Oh! Are you a math major?” – Uh…. Nooooooooo!

Monday's Reminder

I’m not quite sure how this week got away from me. Already today is Wednesday and I haven’t accomplished anything of value, at least not of physical value.

There were no tears. Well, maybe a few. But nobody saw them except Jesus. Certainly a few heart strings were stretched thin, but I managed to get through the day. In all the rush and excitement I forgot my camera. I borrowed another mom’s camera and snapped a few shots. (As soon as I get those pictures I’ll post them here. The picture to the right was taken Tuesday morning.)

After getting Keilani moved in to her desk, and giving her several hugs good-bye, I was on my way back home. I expected Keilani to wince, “That’s enough, Mom!” But she didn’t. And it made me want to hug her all the more. Why is letting go have to be so hard?

I grabbed some Sonic on my way home, and settled in the cream chair and did a little homework. Two hours later I headed out the door for campus. I had been looking forward to my Family Violence class all week. I was curious if I would still feel as strongly as I did last Monday. And I did. And my professor? Well, she was still an inspiration and motivation for me.

I went through a gamut of emotions in the 3 hours I sat in that stiff chair. As much as I want to accomplish what my professor has accomplished, the path to get me there frightens me beyond belief. And the subject matter, Violence in the Family, is heavy and its reality sits thick in the air. Did you know that aside from the police and military, the family is the most violent institution in America? Did you know that battering is the major cause of injury to women, resulting in more injuries than auto accidents, mugging, and rapes combined? I won’t even go into the statistics of child abuse. And as of yet, nothing I have learned is new information to me. Working at an abused women’s shelter, and my own life experiences reminds me of the accuracy of the statistics.

As soon as class was over, I turned off those emotions almost as easily as turning off a light switch. I hurried to the church to pick up Keilani. Something within me wanted to hug her and never let her go. I really missed her. And as her sweet soft voice began lifting with excitement as she told me about her day, my worries began to diminish.

We piled into my Toyota and headed for Wal-Mart. We grabbed a few groceries and then headed home. We had plans since Saturday that I would go swimming with her on her 1st day back to school. Keilani had not forgotten. Her eyes were lit up like two little stars, “Are you still going swimming with me?”

“Yep!”

“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”

I hadn’t seen her that excited in a long time. It melted my heart and convicted me. What she wants from me is my time. No, more than my time. She wants, needs, and deserves, my full attention. Quality time. When its more than just tolerating doing what she wants to do. But when I want to do something she wants to do. Not because I feel like swimming, but because I want to be with her. Nothing is more validating than wanting to be with someone just because you love being with them.

And I do enjoy being with her. I enjoy talking about the things she wants to talk about. I enjoy watching her try something difficult and clapping crazily because she did it.

She learned how to swim on Monday. She swam round and round and round without ever touching the bottom! And I did scream crazily! We couldn’t wait to tell Daddy so he could say in his own stoic manner! “Good job, Keilani! I’m proud of you!” And he did. And her little eyes lit up like diamonds.

Monday was an emotionally charged day. It was a day that reminded me of why I am alive. And I have to admit that sometimes, many times, in the busy-ness of life, I forget what it is that truly keeps me going.

But Monday... I remembered.

Quite a Day

I had quite a day, and I have so much blog-worthy stuff (I couldn't come up with a better word than "stuff") to share! Keilani's first day in 3rd grade... I forgot my camera... My Family Violence class... Keilani learned how to swim today...

However, I have no brain cells left to contribute to this post. The axons have stopped firing. Elvis has left the building.

So, here is a blond joke (sorry, to all my blond friends) that I just couldn't resist sharing for now.

AT THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE

A gorgeous young redhead goes into the doctor's office and said that her body hurt wherever she touched it. "Impossible!" says the doctor. "Show me." The redhead took her finger, pushed on her left shoulder and screamed, then she pushed her elbow and screamed even more. She pushed her knee and screamed; likewise she pushed her ankle and screamed. Everywhere she touched made her scream. The doctor said, "You're not really a redhead, are you? "Well, no" she said, "I'm actually a blonde." "I thought so," the doctor said. "Your finger is broken."

I'm Not Ready for Tomorrow

I need to pack her lunch. I need to finish organizing her school supplies. I need to set out her uniform. I need to hem her skirt!

But I just can’t seem to move. Just a few moments ago, as I sat on the edge of her bed and I stared into her deep, dark, brown eyes, and wondered how I got so blessed to know such a beautiful child, let alone be called her mother. I fought the tears that burned behind my eyes. Her smile broke the silence and I told her I was proud of her. She is, after all, a 3rd grader!

Silence once again filled the room, and I knew I would cry if I didn’t hug her goodnight and get out of there. So I leaned over and placed my cheek next to hers and whispered in her ear, “I have enjoyed our summer. We had lots of fun.” And as I lifted my face away from hers I saw the tears fall from her eyes.

“What’s wrong, Baby?”

“I’m gonna miss you, Mommy.”

“I’ll miss you, too. But you get to play with your friends again.”

“I want to be small again.”

“Why? If you are small again, that means your aren’t growing. And not growing means you aren’t healthy. And we are blessed to be healthy.”

“I know, Mommy, but I’m gonna miss you.”

"I'll miss you, too. But everything is going to be great!"

"Okay, Mommy. I love you."

Most of her days have been spent with me. Even school days. I was a homeschool mom up until last January, and letting go again is not as easy as it should be for a mom of a 3rd grader. But we did what we felt was best for her. And our shy little girl has blossomed. But my heart is heavy because letting go is hard. She is our only child, and unless God heals me, she is our last child. And I am truly okay with that. But sharing her with the world is not so easy.

I already can't wait until 3:30 tomorrow.

Hello Week Five

Alright. Here is my weekly progress report.

Monday was bad, bad, bad. And yet, not as bad as I thought it would be... comforting in an odd little way. Here was the routine of the week.

Brisk walk 5 minutes.
Run 3 minutes.
Walk 90 seconds.
Run 5 minutes.
Walk 2.5 minutes.
Run 3 minutes.
Walk 90 seconds.
Run 5 minutes.
Die. Fall down right there on the track and give up the ghost.

Monday, Day One - Who knew running 5 minutes straight could feel as if little tiny needles were puncturing my lungs looking for any possible way to get oxygen into my body?

Wednesday, Day Two - Better. I mean, a lot better. I did it. And might have even enjoyed it! The first 3 minute run made me think, "That's it? Bring it on!" I had fully caught my breath in the 90 seconds and entered the 5 minute run with an attitude of gratitude! 4 minutes into it, I was begging God to speed up time. (Don't laugh! He CAN do it, you know!) I might have even shaken my timer to see if that would help. But within the 2.5 minutes allotted to catch my breath, I was breathing easy again. Then the three minutes went by in the blink of an eye, well, one time around the track anyway. And I was more than ready for the next 5 minute run! And guess what, when I the timer hit 5 minutes... well, just call me Forest. Because I just kept on going! (Until 6 minutes anyway!)

Saturday, Day Three - I was ready. And this time when I got to that last 5 minute run... I picked up the pace and ran a whole other minute until it felt as if every muscle in screamed, then begged me to stop! No pain, no gain!! Grrrrr! I am women, hear me roar! Or at least, pant very loudly as I attempt to catch my breath!

By day three of week five, I am running 2. miles. straight.

I hope I can do it!!

What is the probability...

...of me needing lots of Advil this semester?

Welcome to my world for the next three months, my blogging friends.

Have a peak into my Experimental Design and Research Methods text.

"…the probability of obtaining the outcome A or B is the sum of their respective probabilities minus the probability of obtaining the outcome A AND B."

Uhhhhh... dunno.

"The idea of conditional probability deals with relationships between events. Specifically, using conditional probability we want to evaluate the probability of a specific event occurring knowing that another event actually happened."

Uhhhh... what? Still don't know.

"Supposing that you are told that the outcome of our experiment was a prime number, what is the probability of obtaining an even number?"

Uhhhh... don't know. And don't care.

What is the probability of me needing lots of Advil this semester?

Uhhhh... pretty high.

When I Grow Up

My dad is a teacher. He has held many professions in his life…private investigator, professional photographer, published author, chief editor of several newspapers, et al,… but one profession he keeps returning to is teaching. He has taught from the elementary to the university level.
However, I can almost certainly say that I have never, ever, said, “When I grow up, I want to be a teacher!” Teaching has never been something I have wanted to do. Not for a profession anyway.

Since my early twenties, and maybe even before that, I have wanted to be in a position in which I could help people through life's hardest moments. And over the last five or six years, my desires have become more specific - to be a source of comfort, to provide a healthy outlet, and be a place of safety for those who have experienced some horrific life experience, such as abuse. Ideally, it is most helpful to reach children and adults immediately after the abuse, and stop the abuse, before unhealthy coping mechanisms manifest, but life’s puzzle pieces don’t always fall into place that easily.

I want to be a Christian Counselor. I want to work within the church so our people don’t seek counseling outside the church. I attend secular university, and I know what we are being taught, and it isn’t that there is a God that can heal the deepest of wounds...

I don’t want to be a teacher. I want to be a counselor.

Or so I thought…

Monday afternoon I walked into my Family Violence class. I know this sounds odd, but I have been looking forward to taking this class all summer. Although the dynamics of abuse fascinate me, the alarming rate in which it occurs saddens me. And I want to be equipped to do what I feel God has called me to do.

The room was filling quickly as students plopped down in their seats. It was mostly quiet, although there were a few people chatting in hushed voices. A young woman, with light brown hair that fell a few inches below her shoulders walked through the door. She stepped in front of the computer situated in the front of room. She put her bag on the floor next to her and then logged on. I found myself staring at her. Her looks and mannerisms reminded me so much of a close friend, Deborah, who helped me through my own time of crisis. Deborah was, and still is, an encourager, full of Godly advice. She challenges me to be a better person, all the while still accepting me, and loving me, for who I am. Ever since I have known Deborah, I have wanted to be for someone else, who she was and is for me.

After the professor spent time getting to know who we are, she introduced herself. Her Bachelors and Masters Degree are both in Social Work. And after working in numerous facilities with abuse victims, she decided to get her doctorate in Educational Psychology so she could teach. She is currently the Clinical Director of counseling services at CITY House, a teen homeless shelter, as well as teaching a few classes like the one I attend.

By the end of the class, her humor, passion, and experience in the field, all mixed together, had completely won me over. She has a way of making me feel even more passionate about the things I didn’t think I could feel more passionate about. I might even add that when I saw that a 15 page paper and choice of lit review or empirical study was on the syllabus, I barely cringed. In the first day of class she made me feel like I can make a difference. Not just for the people I want to serve, but for myself.

And then it hit me… BOOM… like a brick dropping out of the clear blue sky. I want to be a teacher. I want to do what she’s doing. I want to be like her. Actually, my initial thought was, “I want to be her!” She is beautiful, smart, funny, witty, passionate…

But seriously, with my Master’s career staring me in the eye balls, in 11 months to be exact, I have been questioning just how far I would take my education. I am so eager to get in the field and work. And I can with a Master’s. Sometimes going to school feels like I'm being slowed down, like trying to run while carrying a 50 lb book bag! And I’ll need a job to pay off my school loans. So the idea of incurring even more bills and spending more time to achieve a doctrate has been something I don’t think about often.

Until now.

I still want to be a counselor, I can't imagine that ever changing. But now I want to teach as well. I want to do what she is doing. I want to help hurting people, and I want to teach people how to help hurting people. I want to take a class full of students and empower them with a desire to change. their. world.

I never thought I would live to say this, but guess what?

When I grow up, I want to be a teacher!

My Reward is Him

It was 6:30 Sunday morning. The sound of the shower caught my attention. Not that I was sleeping, I haven’t slept well for weeks, but the sound of water splashing caused my eyes to open. I laid there staring at the ceiling fan above me. That same blanket of discouragement that I so ably tuck away when the house is not so quiet immediately shook me. I’m not sure which way the cycle works, do I not sleep well because I worry, or do I worry because I don’t sleep well?

I ungracefully tugged at my lead legs and pulled them over the side of the bed. I shuffled down the hallway to Keilani’s room and slowly opened her door. Two big brown eyes quickly shut tight. Somewhat relieved I smiled and asked, “What are you doing awake?” (Most days I have to coerce her out of bed!)

“I dunno.”

“You wanna come sleep with me?”

“Can you carry me?”

“Suuuure.”

She wrapped her lanky arms and legs around me, leaned a mess of hair upon my shoulder, and I carried her back down the hall to where ChaCha, our 3 lb Chihuahua was curiously awaiting us. We linked arms (and paws), and before too long, she and ChaCha were fast asleep. (See picture) I, on the other hand, attempted to lay very still, staring at the ceiling fan once again, and wondering when this feeling of melancholy would leave me. For good.

After about fifteen minutes I manipulated my way out of the daughter/puppy huddle, and headed for the living room. I opened up my Methods homework and completed a few computations before giving up once again and staring at the ceiling fan in that room.

Kevin was ready to leave for church. Sunday is a work day for him while Endtime University is going on, and so we have to drive separately if I want to come home between services. We said good-bye and he exited through the garage door, leaving the house very, very quiet. So quiet I could hear my heart beat. I fought the urge to wipe away the tears that began to slide down my cheeks, but instead I simply said, “Jesus.”

Just, “Jesus.”

Nothing earth shaking. Nothing profound. I just simply called His name.

I could have listed my concerns, but I didn’t have the energy. I simply wanted Jesus to be there. Not to fix things. Not even to fix me. I just wanted Jesus. Plain and simple. I wanted to wrap my heavy arms around His neck and lean my head upon His chest and hear His heartbeat.

Tenderly, yet powerfully, the scriptures I read yesterday came flooding through my mind. I picked up my Bible and turned once again to 1 Peter 1:6-7.

So be truly glad. There is wonderful joy ahead, even though you have to endure many trials for a little while. These trials will show that your faith is genuine. It is being tested as fire tests and purifies gold—though your faith is far more precious than mere gold. So when your faith remains strong through many trials, it will bring you much praise and glory and honor on the day when Jesus Christ is revealed to the whole world.

Just as Job said, I believe He knows where I am going. And when he tests me, I will come out as pure as gold. That’s the plan anyway. But I really like what Peter said, my faith is "more precious than mere gold."

So I’ll keep trusting Jesus. I know life is not always fair, but He is my Best friend.

His intentions for me, and all of us, are pure. Always. And our reward will one day, be Him.

If I...

If I would have known that the older lady, who had a slight limp, who I followed into the ladies room on campus on Thursday, was my Experimental Design and Research Methods for Psychology professor, I would have made a little small talk to show that I am a friendly person who deserves an A.

If I were thinking, I would have offered to move my hand in front of the sensor so that her paper towels would have been waiting for her as soon as she finished washing her hands so that she would have thought of me as a diligent student, who deserves an A.

If I thought it would have helped, I might have even dried her hands for her. I surely would have waited to open the door for her on the way out, so that for the rest of the semester she might have looked at me and said to herself, "My, that sweet young lady is a kind and thoughtful student. She deserves an A."

If I could have the opportunity, I would rename this course, "Statistics for Psychology II" - a.k.a. "You Will Wish You Are Dead Before the Final Exam."

If I could do it all over again, I would have gone to school when I was younger and my brain worked better.

If I were skinny and never gained weight, I would survive on chocolate until this semester was over. Wait a minute... I would survive on chocolate for life!

If I were good at math... well, that's a silly thing to say, scratch that...

If I were a diligent student, I would go back to computing measures of dispersion instead of blogging an If I post...

If I believed in Jeanie's and were granted a wish, someone would hand me a piece of paper that congratulated me for earning my BA in Psychology. Tomorrow.

If I had a second wish, I would wish that I could eat chocolate and receive all of the necessary nutrition in every delicious mouth watering bite and never gain an ounce of weight. Ever. (And Diet Coke would be just as healthy as water.)

If I had a third wish, I would still go to school and learn, but never again have to take another exam. Never. Ever. (Oh, and some nice rich person would pity me and pay off all my student loans.)

If I...

If I...

If I...

Oh well... back to reality...

Welcome Week Four - The Official Update

I took it easier this week than I have the last few months. I did the 5K training on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. And that's it. I didn't play tennis. I didn't ride my bike. I didn't even walk.

(Tuesday and Thursday were pure laziness. I couldn't get out of bed early enough to beat the Texas heat, and running on the treadmill bores me to slumber.)

What has amazed me the most is how much easier it is to run when I am not in pain! My calves don't scream when my feet hit the pavement, and the muscles that line my shins no longer feel like someone is shoving a needing through them. My body has repaid me for giving it time to recover between training days.

I might have, maybe, possibly, enjoyed running today. That would be an emotion regarding running that I haven't felt in a very long time, so I'm not 100% sure about that.

So... I have finished week three and I'm ready for week four. I'm actually a little excited. In just a few weeks, according to the Couch to 5K plan, I will be running, nonstop, for 3 miles.

Un. be. liev. able.

Really.

Here's the official update:

I have lost 20 pounds. And dropped 2 dress sizes.

Please excuuuuuuuuuuse me while I do the happy dance!

Welcome Back

Well, school starts tomorrow. At least my school does. I am now a senior at the University of Texas at Dallas. Two semesters to go. Ohhhhh.... That just felt gooooood to type.

I am trying to get myself excited, at best... motivated.

It isn’t working.

At. All.

In the very beginning of this journey, four long years ago, I was so very excited the day before classes began! I had already read through the introduction of most of my books. My school bag was organized, stocked with a black and blue pen, sharpened #2 pencils, several highlighters, a mini stapler, and plenty of paper. And it sat waiting for me on my way out the front door. My clothes were ironed and hanging on a chair that sat beside my bed. I had a nicely printed schedule that was tucked in the side pocket of my bag for quick reference just in case I needed a reminder of where my classes were, and the exact path I should take to get there.

Today?

I don’t even know where my school bag is located. I have no clue what I want to wear tomorrow, and my clothes certainly aren't ironed and waiting for me! Most of my books are still wrapped in the plastic from the bookstore. I did, just now, check out my classes, so I wouldn't feel like a total mental slob as I wrote this, and so I would know where to park tomorrow.

And guess what?

I’ll be getting plenty of exercise this semester. I’m not sure the 15 minutes I have between classes will cover the distance I have to walk between them. Nothing like a little sweat to provoke me to fall off my dietary plan and buy some M&Ms and a DC to refuel!

I hope I don't have another Professor Biology Guy. Although he gave me great blog material! And I am very scared about Research Methods. Please be [much] easier than Stats! Please...

Oh yeah. I just built myself up!

I'm feeling ready.

I'm excited!

Not.

The truth is, this is what I see when I stare at the big picture - as excited as I am about graduating, I'm equally as scared. Grad school is next. Have I made all the right decisions? Am I in His will? That is the only place I want to be. Sometimes it is hard to discern my will from His. I know he gives us the desires of our heart... but what is His plan for my life?

What I see when I look at the "little" picture is this - I don't seem to have it in me to get this semester behind me. Stats made me cry. Literally! And I have to get past Research Methods (seemingly Stats, round two)... this semester... or I won't graduate in the Spring. I'm feeling the pressure. And I have committed to writing a thesis this year as well. My professor is already breathing down my neck and school hasn't even started! (She must not take summers off!)

Every semester I leave myself an "easy A" class, but I am not sure I have one this time. I have a feeling I will be fighting for all 16 credit hours.

And I want to be a good wife, and mom. But I'm not sure I can do it all. At least not do it all well.

I'm scared, people.

But... nevertheless... I'm diving in head first. What choice do I have? I can't quit. I've come too far.

Well, I better find my backpack...

Welcome back.

In the Quietness of His Presence

A quietness wrapped itself around me like a warm blanket in the middle of a midnight chill. I recognized its embrace the moment I felt it, but I refused to acknowledge Him. Sometimes I just don’t feel like crying, and I knew the moment I let my defenses collapse, the emotions I have been successfully ignoring all week would take over. But the more His presence ushered into the sanctuary, the more my resistance weakened. Church is the one place I cannot hide from God. Not that there is ever a time or place when or where we can hide from God, but I seem to fool myself into believing that He can’t see through my façade when I go through the motions. Sometimes I think I can pretend it all away. But He waited patiently for me to acknowledge Him. And I really did need to feel the comfort of His arms - so I closed my eyes, and slowly exhaled. I tuned out everyone around me, let my pride drift away, and let the tears drip down my cheeks.

I couldn't quite put my finger on it. And the more I told myself it was nothing, nothing felt more like something. And it wasn’t that I wanted to ignore God, I just felt silly praying about "nothing." But as I allowed time for my nerves to settle in the quietness of His presence, I began to understand what it was that had been weighing me down.

Change.

And not just surface change. But real change. The kind of change that's going to leave me with growing pains. And any change, especially this kind of change, reminds me of my own faults and inadequacies.

Needless to say, I don’t like change. Now, I’m not saying that change is bad, or that I completely resist it, but I don’t like it. It is a somewhat newly acquired weakness I have struggled with over the last few years. I’m not exactly sure when it happened, but some lingering uncomfortable-ness has moved in like a bad roommate that I can't evict.

What I can’t explain with words, I feel with intense emotions. It’s a mixture of love and hate that I can relate to with motherhood. As much as I don’t want my “baby” to grow up, seeing her not grow would break my heart. It would mean something is terribly wrong with her. And so I love her every second of every minute, and every minute of every hour. I want to enjoy every moment of her life, and I feel guilty when I don't. And I know that change really is good. And healthy.

And so here I am, with all my faults and inadequacies staring back at me. God is gently prodding me to grow. Because it's healthy. And I'm faced, once again, with the challenge of letting go of what it comfortable, and holding onto what is safe. Him.

I’ll hold onto a God that doesn’t change.

So in the quietness of His presence I'll find peace. And I'll find encouragement.

But more importantly... I'll find Him.

Advenures to Rommani - Day 10

The road to Rommani, Morocco.

Saturday July 7, 2007

I didn’t have enough time for my normal walk to the mosque because we had plans to catch an early train to Rabat, Morocco’s political capital. We have a friend back in Garland, Texas, named Bettach (pronounced Be-tesh), who is from a little town hidden in the back country hills of Morocco, an hour and a half inland from Rabat. Bettach packed a forty pound bag full of presents for his family, and it was our mission to get it there.

We missed the first train by 5 minutes so we “window shopped” in some local stores to pass time until the next train arrived an hour later. We made sure we were back in time to scurry on the train and find a place where all six of us could sit together. When we found some seats near the back of the train, we realized our tickets read 2nd class; however, we were in 1st class. After realizing that 2nd class doesn’t have a/c, we quickly made a unanimous decision to pay the upgrade ($7) and then we all settled in for the duration of the ride. (Their 1st class would be equivalent to 3rd class, at best, here in America.)

When we stepped off the train we still had a long walk to the front of the station where Bettach’s nephew was waiting for us. He spoke Moroccan Arabic only. No French, and no English. Let me just say it made for an interesting drive through the desert of Morocco! The drive was an absolute adventure! Seven of us piled into an old dilapidated Mercedes. Four of us piled in the back seat, and three of us in the front. The phrase, "Six American women equal 10 Moroccans!" became our slogan for the rest of the trip! Teresa, because she was the smallest, sat on people’s laps in the back seat. The three who actually had a seat in the back were like sardines. The front seat consisted of myself, Kathy, and the driver, Bettach’s nephew, who was at least 6’2”. Kathy's legs were piled on top of my legs, and she had to lift herself up every time he shifted. She squealed, "Mercy!" each time and we all laughed hysterically! It made for a long drive. And it was hot! The only A/C was the windows in the down position, and there was only one handle in which we had to share among all four windows. (This picture is Kathy handing back the "a/c" to those in the back seat!)

It was beautiful as well, with its winding hills and countryside. It was all majestic desert with patches of olive trees along the way. At times we were dodging sheep, cows, and their sheppards... on the road. And there were hardly any guardrails! At one point we all six broke out in a rendition of Amazing Grace!

We finally arrived at Bettach’s family’s house in Rommani. It was a quaint little town in the midst of the desert, at the foothills of a small mountain. Bettach’s family was very welcoming. They served us a traditional Moroccan cuisine, starting with hand washing, then serving Moroccan salads, then Tajine, then Cous Cous. Then we had tea and desert at the chief of police’s house.

I loved every minute of this day. I am the type of person that could easily scrap the touristy stuff, it's this Moroccan culture that I love! So much more happened than I could ever write about, but these are some of the memories that make me want to go back.

Rabat, Morocco

We finally left Rommani, shoved ourselves back into the car, and headed back for Rabat. There were only a few hours left while the sun was still up, and we wanted to see the city. Bettach's nephew (I can't remember his name) dropped us off at the mausoleum. Then we walked through the Kasba that overlooked the Atlantic where we soaked up even more Moroccan culture and history.



We were completely worn out by the time we caught the 9:00 o’clock train back to Casablanca.

Here are a few more pictures of the day's adventures...


Outside the Mausoleum...


Inside the mausoleum.


Kathy holding the air conditioner.


View from the Kasba - Rabat, Morocco


A little Moroccan boy eating cous cous! Isn't he cute!?

What Happened to Gradual?

Okay... Week one of my 5K training consisted of a brisk five-minute warmup walk. Then alternate 60 seconds of jogging and 90 seconds of walking for a total of 20 minutes.

Week two - Brisk five-minute warmup walk. Then alternate 90 seconds of jogging and two minutes of walking for a total of 20 minutes.


Awwww.... Nice and gradual...

Breathe in... breathe out...

I can do it!



Week three - Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then do two repetitions of the following:
Jog 200 yards (or 90 seconds)
Walk 200 yards (or 90 seconds)
Jog 400 yards (or 3 minutes)
Walk 400 yards (or three minutes)

Hold on now....

Breathe!!! I'm having to think way too hard at this point!!

Inhale the good.... exhale the bad....



Week four - Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then:
Jog 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Walk 1/8 mile (or 90 seconds)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
Walk 1/4 mile (or 2-1/2 minutes)
Jog 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Walk 1/8 mile (or 90 seconds)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)Fasten your seatbelt...

Dry heaving... BREATHE!! JUST BREATHE!! I need oxygen!

Week Five - Mon -Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then:
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
Walk 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
Walk 1/4 mile (or 3 minutes)
Jog 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)

Wednesday of week five - Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then:
Jog 3/4 mile (or 8 minutes)
Walk 1/2 mile (or 5 minutes)
Jog 3/4 mile (or 8 minutes)

What happened to gradual? Did I miss a week in here somewhere between Wednesday and Friday?

Friday of week five -Brisk five-minute warmup walk, then jog two miles (or 20 minutes) with no walking.

People... I was dry heaving after running 2 minutes just two days ago. In two more weeks they think I will run two miles... straight!?

Really... what happened to gradual?

The Love of Running

I am a far cry from developing a true love of running, but I do believe I am addicted to its effects. I regret not taking measurements because everything fits me differently, better, and there is so much less giggling going on! I have lost 17 pounds and I’m able to wear clothes that I bought on sale last year, hoping that one day I will fit into them!

But there is something beyond the shedding of inches and pounds. I haven’t been able to pin point it just yet…

Is it that I enjoy feeling healthier? I have a long way before claiming to be in “good shape.” I would still like to lose a lot more weight. My knees and feet will thank me profusely when there is less load pounding the pavement!

Is it that I have been consistent? We have been at this (we started with walking) since April, and we are more motivated now that ever! We started out by walking less than two miles, two or three times a week. Now we walk over three miles, three times a week. And we train to run a 5K three times a week. I really have my friends to thank for my consistency. Knowing that they won’t hesitate to call and wake me up if I oversleep gives a little added motivation! But even when we aren’t able to walk or run together, I still get up early in the morning, lace up my shoes, and go. And that feels good.

Is it the challenge? Because quite honestly, it isn’t always easy. I shutter to think that in 7 weeks I will be running, hopefully, nonstop for 3.2 miles! Yikes! It’s just as much a mental game as it is a physical one. I have to keep telling myself, "I can do it!" And it certainly isn’t convenient. (Although it is more convenient for me than for my friends because we meet at my house!! Thanks ladies!) We have learned to reorganize our schedules around our exercise routines.

But it isn’t just the weight loss, being healthy, being consistent, or being challenged, although all of these things are very important to me. And it even goes beyond the bonds of friendships built as we walk and run in the neighborhood around my house. There is plenty of sharing of fears and laughter alike. And having a place to spill those emotions is a good thing.

But there is something about doing something for myself. It’s like school. Yes, my friends and family are very supportive, and I couldn’t do it without them, but when it all comes down to it, nobody can go in that classroom and take that final exam for me. Just as I can’t blame anyone else if I fail, I should allow myself to feel good about myself if I do well. And quite honestly, that is difficult for me to do. But that is why I study. It certainly isn’t because I enjoy the late night hours of reading and writing, but because the end result is something that makes me feel good about myself.

And I have been surprised to find that same feeling about running. Yes, my friends and family are very supportive. But in the end, nobody else can cross that finish line for me. If I train, and work hard, I can do this.

And knowing that, makes me feels good. So maybe I don't love running... yet. But I do love its effects.

Beautiful - Scars and All

I am involved in an online Bible study of the tabernacle plan with eleven ladies from all over the country. Right now we are studying the specific pieces of furniture in the tabernacle. The leader of our study posed this question in yesterday's lesson.

"The table of Fellowship.

Ok, I expect 100% participation in this exercise! What is on your kitchen or dining room table? Right now this very moment. No cheating. You can't clean it off first.

What is your dining table used for in your house?"

I started off with just a simple reply. I hardly ever comment on most days, I am more of an active lurker when it comes to this study, but she did ask for 100% participation... And as I started to write what was on my table, I felt His presence sweep into the room.

He always knows exactly where I am.

Here is my reply.

After a quick inspection, and after fighting the urge to clean a few crumbs still remaining from last night's dinner, this is what I observed on my dining room table.

A bright green scarf I brought home from Morocco last month. In Morocco it is used as a head wrap, but I am using it as a table runner because it pulls in the colors from my living room and is a constant reminder of my trip. It is a bit too long for my somewhat small antique table, so I have it sort of scrunched up and draped over the ends for that "messy look." The scarf is nestled around a matching tea set from my mom that is positioned in the middle of the table. The tea set consists of a small rounded-rectangular serving plate, a tea cup and saucer, and a cream and sugar container. I like this setting because the tea cup has a wide mouth, and in contrast, its handle is uniquely shaped - dainty and petite. Each piece is detailed with a gold ring around the rim, their surface has a raised design of flowers on a vine that covers its entire surface, and each has a touch of color with green leaves and red petite flowers painted on it. I suppose I like this set because of the little details.

There is also a single glass coaster sitting in my daughter's spot. We use the table for most meals, and before my trip to Morocco I had it covered with a white lace table cloth. But the green scarf doesn't match the “lacy look” so I removed the lace and the scarf lays on the bare surface of the dark stained wood. I laughed at the coaster because there are so many water ring stains, and it's much too late for the coaster now! And yet, I like the “worn look” of my antique table. It shows its use. We aren't the table's first owners, and I suppose it is typical for an antique table of its age and original stain to look like this. I just forgot how much I appreciated it because I had it covered with lace for so long. But I really do like the way it looks.... scars and all.

I suppose we all have scars. And we cover them with more than just our outerwear. We have physical and emotional scars. We cover them with a smile, a laugh, busy-ness, stuff - like my scarf and tea set… and there is certainly nothing wrong with that. But we can't forget that our scars are also our testimony. A testimony of His grace, whether we are at fault for those scars or not. We are beautiful, and useful to Him. We don't have to feel like our smile, our laugh, staying busy, and all our stuff has to "cover" our scars. Sometimes our smile, our laugh, being busy, and our stuff can just show that we still live our lives, by the grace of God, with our scars.

The fact of the matter is this. He thinks we are beautiful and He loves us, just the way we are. Let me make this personal, He thinks I am beautiful, and He really loves me... scars and all.

So I thank You, Jesus. Thank You for my scars.

A Moroccan Prayer Walk - Day 9

The Hassan II Mosque - Casablanca, Morocco

Friday July 6, 2007

I woke up, exchanged my pjs for a pink and grey exercise outfit, laced up my tennis shoes, and headed for the road that stretches along the Atlantic. I picked up the pace as I followed the path to the right and made my way to the massive Hassan II Mosque. I cranked up the volume on my MP3, tuned out my surroundings, and walked around the huge courtyard that surrounds its facade.

A picture of the mosque and its courtyard.

It is absolutely beautiful there. Words cannot describe the emotions I feel as I notice its intricate detail and wonder after its handiwork, when all around this posh mosque is pure poverty.
When I turned around and headed back in the direction of home, I felt relieved as the wind blew through my long black hair and began to evaporate the sweat that beaded across my forehead. Before too long I was back at the apartment. I decided I would burn a few more calories by walking up the six floors of our building. Heaving for air, I caught the elevator back down to the first floor (which would be the 2nd floor in America).

Almost as soon as I entered the door, everyone was ready to go on a prayer walk. I switched clothes, but put my tennis shoes back on. I shoved the ear pieces of my MP3 back in and pushed the button until I heard Kari Jobe sing Revelation Song. By this time I was down the steps and out the building again. We walked in pairs, but we didn't speak. Instead, we silently prayed a blessing upon the city, the people, and the places that surrounded us. I felt something heavy begin to hang around my neck as the burden I felt for those people grew within my heart. I had to choke back the tears so I wouldn't draw attention to myself.
Me and Darla on the prayer walk through downtown Casa.

We walked through the city to the Mohammad the 5th Government buildings before we began to talk out loud. While we waited for the rest of the group to arrive at the fountains, our meeting point, I walked around a little and shot a few pictures of the government buildings that encircled us. In some odd manner that I can hardly describe with words, I could almost feel oppressed just looking at the places in which the government operates. A police officer holding a machine gun stood at the entrance to one of the buildings.
Although he was a good distance from me, his stern look was duly noted and I put my camera down. I don't know why I didn't look away at that point, but it was as if our eyes were locked. He slowly lifted his free hand, palm facing towards me, extended his index finger and methodically moved it left to right as if to tell a little child, "No, no... don’t do that…" I slowly looked away and headed back to the fountain area.

Before too long, we were all there watching children chase pigeons, and adults converse. It seemed to be a popular meeting area. A "Water Man" wearing a red jacket and a decorated oversized hat kept asking if we wanted a drink.
His eyes were wide and he held up a tin cup that was shared by anyone who accepted. We politely refused the water but asked for a picture instead. He was happy to pose as long as he heard the clanging of change.

Within a few moments the square emptied out and all the people were gone. We couldn't figure out what was happening at first, but in about 15 or 20 minutes we heard the call to prayer. Not being Muslim, we decided it was time for ice cream. So we walked a few more blocks through a street lined with trees
and found an ice cream shop. It was a hot day and that ice cream cooled us down. We enjoyed our conversation as much as we enjoyed our ice cream and we decided it was time to jump into yet another taxi, and head home.

I must have been wiped out after so much walking because I fell asleep in the Moroccan salon. For three hours.

I woke up feeling rested and just in time for company. Yusef, Yassine, and Amine came over, and we talked over two big bowls of Cous Cous.
It was my first time to eat this traditional Moroccan cuisine, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. (See picture)

We didn’t have traditional church tonight, but we did talk about God. Yusef and Yassine both attended Kathy and LaGene’s church, and they were hungry for fellowship with people who know Jesus.

Yusef is Moroccan and Hebrew. He speaks Arabic, French, Hebrew, and English. Yassine is Moroccan and Filipino. He speaks Arabic, French, English, and some Tagalog. Asine is full Moroccan, although he might have some Berber in him because he is so light skinned. He speaks Moroccan and French. I am so impressed with their linguistic skills! I enjoyed watching the three of them interact. They loved each other with a brotherly love. It is not uncommon to see men linked arm and arm in Morocco. It means nothing except they are close friends. Moroccans freely show affection to each other and are very family oriented. Moroccans, for the most part, don't know a stranger. These young men are very respectful and strictly follow Moroccan culture as they greet us and leave us with a kiss on each cheek.
Asine and Yusef

After they left, we all gathered on the couches in the European salon, and talked about the night’s event as well as planning church for the next few weeks. It wasn’t too much longer and we all went to bed excited, encouraged, and ready for a new day.



Here is a pic of me standing in front of the mosque.


This mosque is situated in the middle of all the government buildings. No matter where you are in the city, five times a day, you can hear the call to prayer.

I Wanna Run a 5K

One down. Eight to go. Weeks, that is.

I have successfully completed my first week of 5K training.

I haven’t posted much about my “diet” but rest assured I have been sticking to it! (Well... uh... eh hem... most of the time I stick to it.) I wish I would have measured for inches lost, but I know things have shifted and slimmed down. And I have lost 15 pounds.

I eat differently. I think differently about food. I have a LONG way to go, but I am actually enjoying the jouney! I don’t live to eat anymore. I think I have rounded that corner to say that I now eat to live. Please don't misunderstand me, I still enjoy sitting down to big bowl of chips and salsa, but something's different and it's hard to explain with words.

And so when Staci and Dawn started this 5K training, I hesitantly said, “I’m in!”

Between walking and running, I have covered almost 19 miles since Monday. Four months ago I would have laughed at the mere thought of that last sentence. But our goal is to run our first 5K on October 20th. And we can do it.

I can do it. And now after my first week of training, I can enthusiastically say, "I'm in!"

Almost Wordless Wednesday

Aerial view of the south of France taken from the airplane.