The Beauty of Cross-Training

The super-buff woman in my Pilates DVD always says, "Engage your core."

So I suck in my gut and and ask my midsection, "Core, are you engaged?"

And I hear my belly bellow back, "Engaged? I'm not even dating!"

I wonder if it is possible to do Pilates with a core that has commitment issues. Probably not. Maybe I should switch to yoga.

Thus goes my fickle friendship with the world of cross-training. I prefer the simplicity of my relationship with running, where the only question is "Which way shall we go today?" I'm not saying we always get along, but we have found a working rhythm after 16 years. 

The thing is,  I've broken into the realm of (cue spooky music) MIDDLE-AGE, and I've heard that I need to consider things like bone-density, flexibility, and strength training. Forget the fantasy of cute leggings and stylish hair bands, it's not about the accessories anymore! I'm feeling my age, and to tell you the truth, I think forty-two feels pretty good. Still, that stretching work-out this morning nearly killed me. When did my toes move so far from my fingers? 

Gone are the days when physical fitness was about beauty. This is about survival, people! I suppose my core needs to end its fling with Hazelnut Gelato and start looking for a life-partner. It's time to get engaged.

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A Tearful Goodbye

I left my niece crying on the Paris Metro.

Sarah and I, in a café at Versailles, where we waited out a thunderstorm with a cup of chocolat chaud.

She was off to another adventure in Europe and I was heading back home to Loches--each of us was eager for our next destination. But tears welled up in our eyes as we rocked and swayed with the rhythm of the train, silently counting down the stops to our impending farewell. When we arrived at my station, I kissed her moist cheek before working my way through the swarm of commuters. 

Though it was hard to leave her, I have not a single worry about her capacity to find her way--she will be fine without me. It's just that our time together passed too quickly and the precious memory of her gentle presence still lingers like a sweet aroma. 

And I am thankful.

Thankful for family.

Thankful for shared joys.

Thankful for long trips and heavy backpacks and new discoveries.

Thankful for the love of a dear niece, who spent her valuable time and hard-earned money to visit me, her Aunt Jenn.

Thankful for tearful goodbyes, which always remind me that relationships are to be cherished.

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Listen

She perks up when she hears the creak of the front gate. No matter what kind of commotion is stirring around her, no matter what she is doing, no matter where she is in the house, she never misses the sound of the gate. And when she hears it, she stops whatever she is doing to head to the front door to greet me.

She abandons everything, and she runs. For me. Because I am her world, her master, her dearest love.

And when I come through the door, she wriggles with joy, leaps up, and kisses my cheeks. My dog worships me. I think I could learn something from her.

If only I listened for God like Gemma listens for me. If only I were willing to drop everything at the sound of His voice. If only I ran to be in His presence. He is my world, my master, my dearest love.

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Forgiven, again

Just when I think I'm growing; just when I think I have finally grasped something about what it means  to belong to Jesus; just when I think that maybe I'm actually doing that thing he made me to do, I fall face first into the reality of my own brokenness.

I trip over an eagerness to please.

I stumble over misplaced trust.

I am overtaken by a critical spirit; I criticize myself most of all.

I am too easily wounded; too easily discouraged; too easily paralyzed.

I am steeped in awareness of my own sin; bogged down by the burden of my selfish motives; drowning in despair over yet another failure.

Flat out guilty, I ask Jesus if he will forgive me.

He says, "yes!"

(He always says, "yes.")

Then he lifts my chin and waits.

He's waiting for a willing heart. He's waiting for renewed trust. He's waiting, not for perfection, but for acceptance of his grace, his goodness, and his mercy. He's waiting for them to seep into my soul.

I unwittingly resist because I want to somehow be worthy. Or close to worthy. I'd like to find something in myself that merits this unrelenting grace. This goodness that never ends. This mercy that never asks, "Really? Did you have to do THAT again? When will you learn?"

He knows I may never learn. And still he forgives.

Finally his love wins out, breaking down the barriers to my brokenness, filling in the cracks with the salve of his his grace. Goodness and mercy follow me, no matter how often I tell them, "Go away! I'm not worth it!"

And then the joy breaks through, like the first beams of the rising sun. The joy of a soul set free, a heart bathed in redemption. Gratitude overwhelms as I once again grasp the truth of the gospel: I am forgiven.

Finally, I lift my eyes to meet his gaze. No hint of condemnation, no shadow of disappointment. Just delight in a daughter he adores.

I will never understand why he loves me, but I am so glad that he does. 

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