twowithoneheart

In a rare moment this morning, I found myself looking at an empty block of time. I was finished prepping a tour of houses for a buyer client, all the paperwork and marketing materials I needed for an open house I was hosting was gathered, printed and sitting in a neat pile. So how did I get this extra time on my hands, what did I miss? After a few minutes of rechecking everything I thought … well now Ava, way to win the day! Ha!

That thought was immediately followed by another ….. didn’t I write a blog about that somewhere? Winning the day? No, wait, it was about running my race! And so the search began, all through my writing folder, back through the titles on here and finally across my social media pages. There it was! As I re-read the impressive account of eight running women, I thought maybe someone needs to hear this today. Enjoy! 🙂

In “Win the Day” by Mark Batterson wrote he wrote about a group of Tarahumara women and a race they ran. Batterson writes: In 1867 eight Tarahumara women, of the Sierra Madre region of northern Mexico, competed in a 100 mile race. The winner finished in 13 hours 25 minutes. Even more impressive? One of the women who finished the race had given birth ten days earlier! The “running people” as they were originally known literally ran down the wild animals they hunted for food. They practiced what was known as “persistence hunting.” (Look up the history on these people! Amazing!)

It really made me think about the tag line on one of my social media accounts: Walking in grace, running my race, doing life one day at a time. What if I paid more attention to the “running my race” portion of that line and ran it with Tarahumara-like persistence? What would that look like if it wasn’t so much about the what, but who?

Running with other women, who cheer me on as I go the distance every day. Women with similar goals and dreams, who run ahead of me, laying out a path for me to follow in. Running with women who let me know when I’m out of my lane. Women who come up alongside me, stepping steadily with me, increasing the pace with every stride, stifling any loss of forward momentum. Running for the other women who run behind me, showing them how to endure in running the race, long after I have crossed the finish line. Just like those eight Tarahumara women.

It’s called “the survival of the persistent.” (Hebrews 12:1-2) Cheers to you my running partners, let’s run well, the finish line waits!

Life’s journey will bring us all to this place – eventually. A place of being “benched” either by unexpected circumstances, physical/mental health issues or just simply being sidelined by life in general. Being benched is a place of reckoning. It’s in this place, you will determine to either stay in the game or on the bench. Your mindset, your strength of heart and the people you surround yourself with will aid you in that determination.

It wasn’t until I had gone on “walkabout” (to coin a good ol’ Aussie phrase) for a number of years, fought my way out of some hard knock alleys and dead ends, that I eventually came face to face with myself. It all started with a letter that I wrote my dad in my late twenties. Seeking to set things right and find a way back to moving forward.

We exchanged letters and phone calls for a number of years, me truly learning about this man. Eventually understanding and letting go of what had been and what would never be again. Fourteen years of talking and writing between Australia and the USA. Then came that day. It was one of those airport reunions, where as others hurried by oblivious of anything but their next connection, my Dad and I came face to face. Holding back our tears, we fell into a fierce hug. My love for this man, my dad, is deep and will last a lifetime, his and mine.

It was in his time with me that I saw the depth of my dad’s passion to serve and care for those with physical limitations, as he took care of my second Mom. I witnessed the strength of their love for each other in the smiles, the gentle touches, the tears and especially in the laughter. Like the time I was helping Dad get Elaine into the back seat of our van so we could go out. Dad had lifted Elaine out of her wheelchair and was halfway in the van with her on the back bench seat. He instructed me on how to lift her feet and swing her legs. What I didn’t account for was her weight … or the lack thereof. So when Dad said lift, I did, and he went flying back on the seat with Elaine landing on top of him! I couldn’t believe what I had done! Standing there with my hands over my face, from underneath his wife, I heard my Dad say, “Really Elaine, not here!” We all lost it. When Elaine laughed that sweet soundless laugh, her whole body shook and her face was covered with absolute joy! Elaine though physically “benched” never allowed the illness to steal the joy of the relationship and life she shared with my Dad. After caring for her for seven years, she eventually went home to a far better place and I ached for my dad. After a time, Dad began to share with me of his travels, the golf games he played, the rugby (Go Wales!) and football games he watched. He kept working, wherever he found a need for a first class physical therapist. Five times he said he was going to retire. Five times, he was celebrated and fare-welled. And five times, he returned to the work he loved! I know he just did the retirement thingy for the parties!

A couple of illnesses and a pacemaker in his mid eighties slowed him down. If not for his best friend and companion, dear Rosemary, he would have found ways to keep carrying on! Rosemary seriously deserves a medal. I mean, seriously! While we are giving out medals, lets give one to his doctor too. I mean who schedules a pacemaker battery replacement appointment 10 years out? My dad, that’s who! The doctor said, “But sir, you’ll be in your late nineties at that time.” To which he replied, “I know, I plan to live to 100!” And he probably will. Me too, Dad!

So up above is a picture of my Dad sitting on a bench, learning to regulate his breathing, rest and slow down. You seriously don’t believe that bit about slowing down, do you? Well, truth is, he did.

Until this year, that is, when he discovered motorized scooters and bought two of them! One for home and a light weight one for when he and Rosemary travel. I laughed so hard at the video he sent me of him grinning from ear to ear, doing his royal wave, with the Welsh flag flapping on the back of his new scooter, as he zipped by going a whopping three miles per hour!! LOL

Dad left his motorized scooter behind, a couple of years ago, when he went off on a final grand adventure to join his beloved Elaine in the Lord’s care. While he was a few years shy of his goal of living to100, he was ready to go. Oh Dad, what a journey your life had been. Remember my stating that I want to be just like you when I grow up? Well, guess what? Mission accomplished! I’ve been told quite a few times that I am just like you. I’d say see you soon, but I’m working on that living to 100 thingy! “Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you.” (Exodus 20:12) ;-D Oh and one more time … I love you so very much.

Know that feeling? That sick to the gut, head hurting, feeling?  Or maybe that “oh no, what did I do?” sick to the gut thought! Or what about that deep, ache in the heart feeling that leaves you in tears over words said, exchanged or heard.

Though voiced by many, it was a single solitary cry, as people walked for what they believed in. Their rights, the rights of others, the rights of the living. I saw it on the faces, heard it beyond the chants, and read it on the flimsy poster board signs. The cry came at me from all sides. And I ached. Deeply.

With open admission I can say my feet have walked in those places too, albeit independently, but just as intentionally as the crowd. Numbly moving through what was believed to be the right thing to do at the encouragement of others.  It was the cry of humanity, resounding wordlessly from those surrounding a surgical table and from within the one laying on it. The loudest cry coming from the smallest of those present, hidden from sight, and heard only by One.  A cry so loud it would later echo in the emptiness of grieving.

As these thoughts rattled through my mind, I turned to my friend and asked if she had ever heard humanities cry. She had … overseas where the presence of a people group had drawn worldwide condemnation and angry misunderstanding. Where for the people, the fear of the unknown had been swallowed up in the fear of the moment as mindless escapes took place. Where a breathe once held gave way to hesitant relief. Only to have anxiety’s stranglehold tighten as fear of the unknown resurfaced. It was again the cry of humanity, yearning for life and release from hopelessness amid the deafening roar of war and death. “For He will deliver the needy who cry out, the afflicted who have no one to help…He will rescue them from oppression and violence, for precious is their blood in His sight.” (Psalm 72:12, 14) The cry dressed itself as a widow, an orphan, sitting in the dirt of a foreign land. Exiled, far from all they knew, owning nothing, save the timid laughter that now echoed out into the absence of a once familiar roar.

As the cries we had heard now, quieted down to a whisper, I begun to understand what we had been given to hear …. “and such were some of you” (1 Corinthians 6:11).

In a middle ground place called choice, decisions are made. Viewed through the shifting lens of human perspective it becomes the difference between living and dying. Knowingly or unknowingly, the decision inherently affects all that is stepped into … today, tomorrow, forever.

Can I ask you to just pause for a minute and do something? Stop listening to the loudness and clamor of the collective cry. Instead, lean in and listen for the whisper.  “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you saying, “This is the way; walk in it.”” (Isaiah 30:21)

But then again that’s up to you, isn’t it. After all, it’s your choice. Right?

Sixteen days in Seattle! Feels like forever. Time, days, time zones have all melted together since leaving the Gulf Coast just a month ago. I’ve loved this city from afar …. and now to be here, well it’s almost natural!

When I think of all we’ve done in the past 16 days … waiting in lines, waiting in traffic, looking for jobs, waiting for interviews, waiting on application responses, the refined art of waiting has kicked in. It flows from that slower southern pace of life that will always be a part of me. I mean, really!  Come on now! Where else can you put a jar of water with teabags in it outside in the sun, go tend to other things, as you wait on the sun to heat the water and brew the tea?  Life speaks and moves and goes on its way, even in the waiting times.

Take the crows for instance. Monday morning as I pulled the bedroom curtains back I saw three crows land on the roof of a house.  Watching them walk along the ridge-cap in a stiff legged, single file march I couldn’t help but smile. Going upstairs, at another window, I see them land in the backyard. It’s the strutting that captures my attention and I stifle a giggle.

With an unobstructed view from the sliding door, they show me their pattern of life. Walking in straight lines, then in eccentric circles all. over. the. yard! Looking down their beaks for whatever they can find. Rigid movements, head down, peck, peck, head up, move to the left, strut, strut, strut. Repeat right. Like a haphazardly choreographed dance.  Then one comes up victorious, something in its beak. The other two start circling in an attempt to get closer. To late. The victorious one quickly struts off in a straight line, head high, seeming to say “find your own!” Then just like that, they take flight, up over the fence. Gone.

Sunday’s message from church, circles through my mind about the religious leaders back in the day. Not willing to bend low to hear the voice of the people, to feel the heart of the people. Head high, strut, strut, keep moving. Pass them by. Unclean.

The message moved on to the woman who lost a coin, sweeping and searching, holding her lamp low, shining it into the dark places. This was likened to God drawing near, stooping low, casting the light of His love over all the peoples of the earth.  Searching to bring the lost one home. Searching intently in the cracks and crevices of every life.

It was after dark on Friday when I remembered to check the mail. I unlocked the box, dropped down the door …… and heard the ‘clink’.  In the silence, I felt the darkness hide the key from my vision. Oh no, we’d been entrusted with this key, now I’d lost it. There in the rocks and the dirt. I turn on my cell phone light, shining it all over, lifting rocks,  putting them back. Futility struck. I can’t see it’s too dark, the key too small. I need help, more light. Going inside, I call to my man … “I’ve lost the mail box key!”  He says “that’s funny, I thought I would lose it last night!” Getting two flashlights from the car. More light, more rocks moved, then there at the back my man sees it, wedged sideways. Relief comes as I gather up the scattered mail and lock the box. Grateful words on my breath.

Then came Sunday. Oh, the tug on our hearts as in our seats we edged closer together, not saying a word, but knowing and listening. Intently. Life was speaking. Loudly.

Would there be flight under the intensity of His gaze?  An urge to keep moving, up over the fence, gone? Or would there be an upward glance directly into the gaze of His unconditional love?            A response to the urging to draw closer to Him, for the sake of those lost in the darkness.

p.s. the key now has a blue ribbon tied to it.