Running Crazy

Last September I got this very odd email.  I was looking at it, wondering why the OKC Memorial Marathon people had sent me an email confirming that I had signed up for the Half Marathon in only a few months.  That was nuts.  I certainly hadn't signed myself up for  half marathon.  The furthest I had run at one time at that point was 4.5 miles.  I certainly wasn't going to be running 13.1 miles.
And then I saw the same on it.  It was paid for by Tara Sanders.  No, this was no typo, this was, in fact, the devious work of my twin sister.  She signed us both up to run the half.

Fast forward to yesterday.  

It was April 28th, 5:00 am.  My alarm went off at the same time that my 15 month-old woke up.  Such is life.  I fed her, put her back to bed and threw on my clothes.  I managed to get my shoes on just as Tara pulled in the driveway to pick me up.  I kissed my husband goodbye and left him with a to-do list to get the kids to church by himself, and we were off. 

It was still dark, but we managed to get a decent parking space and then we lined up with 25,000 other people who were running the half or full marathon and we waited.  It was cold.  We waited about half an hour before the national anthem and a moment of silence.  And then they started the race.  It took us 15 minutes to get to the starting line.  We ran the first mile and managed to do fairly well the other 12.1.  I’m not in the best shape of my life after having 3 babies in 5 years, but I knew what I was capable of, and how to push myself, even when I didn’t feel like I could go much further.  I knew I could finish.  Even at mile 8 when I started to feel a bad feeling in my shoe and mile 9 when my hips started feeling awful, we pressed on.  Walking, running, walking, running. 

3 hours and 18 minutes later I had run a half marathon.  At one point (when my hip was killing me) I told Tara that I thought it was worse than childbirth.  The pain was worse, but really, it wasn’t bad at all.  My time wasn’t that impressive, unless you’re me. 

The goal, from the beginning was to finish what we’d started, and we did.  On the way we talked and joked and I had my first GU (https://guenergy.com/) and It was pretty fun. 

Afterward, we were pretty worn out.  I’m still pretty sore the day after, but I still managed to go to the grocery store with 3 kids and do three loads of laundry.  Part of me wants to say that it’s just part of being a mom.  You just do what you have to do.  And while that’s true, it’s also no why I managed to run 13 miles, when I had clearly not trained enough over the last 6 weeks. 

I did it because I knew I could.  The last few years have shown me just how capable I am of going much further than I first think I can.  That has some to do with being a Mom, but a lot more to do with who I have become over the last 13 years.  I really resisted it at first.  I wanted to believe I was wronged or broken or fragile, but I know that I am not.  I have known it for much longer than I have been willing to admit it.  I am very strong, and I am very determined, and I can go much further than anyone might think.

 

Secret #1

I don't believe in falling in love.

If you say you've fallen in love, you leave the analogy with a dark side.  Anyone who falls in, can climb out again.

When you love, you make a choice to love and when you choose not to love... well, it's just as much a choice.  This is how I explain it to myself, anyway.

When I married Josh, I wrote my own vows.  Part of my vow to him was to love him forever.  I thought about that part for a long time before I decided to include it.  How do we know what life will throw at us? How do we know if the someone we choose will always choose to choose us?  I didn't know that.  I was afraid.  The truth is that I know from experience that love isn't permanent unless we make it so.  To make that vow to him was very intentional.  I made a choice then, and I make it again over and over every day.

But here's the secret.  I used to believe that you could fall in love.  I used to believe that there was a kind of magic; a visceral recognition between two souls that reached out and clung, one to the other.  I believed.  I wanted the pounding heart and the tingles, and everything that comes with it.  All of the things that come about as a result of the newness and the hormones.  I believed in it like I believed in gravity and tectonic plates and germs.

And then I didn't.  Lots of things came in between, and they changed me.  There was a time when I became so lost that I couldn't tell you who I was or what my purpose was.  I was untethered and floating.

When I was younger and I took the Meyer's Briggs test I always came out as an INFP.  By nature they are healers, dreamers, Idealists.  Now when I take it, I always measure out as an INFJ.  Instead, I am a protector or a confidant.  I can see the change in myself.  I'm not longer so free and open.  I don't always believe the best of people anymore.  I look for the faults that I believe are there.

I am sad about this.  It doesn't change what I believe or the way that I've been changed.  I can't go back to believe that everyone is well-meaning.  I do not blindly trust, and I am more likely to find fault with someone, or expect to find fault with them.  What kind of person thinks this way?

That is my secret.  That I cannot trust blindly, but also that part of me still wants to believe in love and in the innate goodness of all people.  There are times when I catch myself wanting reckless romance in my life- not just in my marriage, but in my life- and then I realize that life doesn't really work that way.  Even if I want it to.  

Christmases Past and Present

This year's Christmas has been kind of sad.  I do not mean that in an insulting way toward anyone with whom I may have shared Christmas celebrations, or with whom I was unable to share Christmas celebrations.  It's been a year of transitions.  This is the first year that one of my sisters wasn't able to make Christmas at my Mom and Dad's, and plans seemed to all be completely nebulous up until the very last minute, even when we thought that they were solidly set.

In years past my immediate family (my parents and sisters) were abe to spend several days together.  Over the years it has become progressively more difficult to hear yourself think, or to control the mess, and sometimes even to deal with the schedule or lack thereof.  We had a whole schedule years ago.  It involved a talent show, pizza making, cookie decorating, or ornament-making.  Those things have been pared down to just the pizza making- something we've done since I was a child.

Celebrations with my smaller family- Josh and the kids- have absorbed some of the traditions that have been dropped.  We drink "Christmas Cheer" with the kids (sparkling grape juice) on Christmas eve, and read " 'Twas the Night Before Christmas."  We also do our best to spend some time with Josh's parents, though we weren't able to last year because I was due to have Sadie on the 12th of January.

I wasn't prepared for a lot of things this year.  We spent about a day with my two sisters who were able to make it, and we made pizza, but we opened presents at night for the first time, ever.  It felt rushed and I wasn't organized. Josh had to go back to the house twice before we got to my Mom's and I still forgot something.

My kids had a great Christmas.  Jonah finally got some little legos, and Caroline got water-paint books, which thrills her to no end.  Sadie was mostly oblivious, but happy to be there.  We got to see all of the grandparents, and there were tears when we left Colorado.  I can't complain when everyone seems happy.

But something feels unsettled.  I realize that it's just a matter of transitioning to a different way of thinking about Christmases, and family.  I also realize that I am very lucky to have had the upbringing that I did.  Over the years I was able to spend Christmas with almost all of my extended family on both sides up until High School, and with them at least in part, even later.  My extended family is generally pretty close and in some ways it's hard to imagine a Holiday not spent with cousins and children running around, and way too many sweets around the house.  In comparison, this Christmas has seemed small and quiet, but in reality I know that I am overwhelmingly blessed to have so much family and to be financially blessed enough to be able to travel and buy gifts.

I do not blame my dissatisfaction on Pinterest (as many people seem happy to do, lately) or on receiving less than usual (my mother warned me that no one will fill a mother's stocking, so I ought to do it myself.  And I do.)  Instead, it is more related to the feelings you have when you are in college and you come home for Christmas during your senior year, knowing that everything is about to change when you graduate.  It's a foreboding.  A fear.  A nervousness.  It makes it hard to feel the warm coziness of Christmas without knowing that there is a nebulous unknown around the corner.

Instead, I try to focus those moments when there is joy.  Like this one.

Caroline in her Super Girl cape.  Swinging with Daddy.

The only semi decent picture we took as a family.  :)

Decorating the tree at Nana and Papa's house. 

Sadie standing and walking all by herself!

Nana sure is interesting.

Snap!

I've been mostly absent this semester partly because our lives are still measured in semesters.  Josh is in the early stages of becoming Dr. Watson, I'm teaching two classes, the kids are in school when I am... it makes everything a bit crazy.  But it also gives me something to look forward to.

When I was a kid snow days and vacation were always so enticing.  No matter how far away they were, they became the goal: Make it to Christmas.  And it's no wonder, because Christmas lasted weeks.

Now, I'm counting down the days to my last class, the final exam, and the days I can spend out and about while the kiddoes are still in Sonshine School.  Oh yes, I am.

In the mean time I thought it might be good to fill in a few blank spots on this sad little blog (still clunking along after 7 years and 500 posts) which specifically means pictures.  Yes, pictures.  I don't take pictures as often as I used to, and while I am not a professional, semi-professional, or even very good photographer, it helps to have some visuals to go with my naval-gazing.

So here's the schedule:

At peace

I am still up. The window is open and it just started raining. I can hear it, and I can smell it. It's a mix of damp and of the dry grass. It is in moments like this that I feel most at peace.  My babies are sleeping.  They are well fed, warm, clean and comfortable.  In a few hours one or two may wander into my bed to snuggle.  My husband is working- burning the candle at both ends lately- but he knows we're here, waiting on him.  I'll have a meal ready if he needs it, and the kids will all be happy to see him.  

Did I get everything done that I needed to, today?  No.  There are loads of laundry to be put away, and the dish washer needs to be emptied.  Toys and out-grown clothing to be sorted.  But at this moment I am completely at peace.  I am at peace because I've done my little part well, today. 

It's so easy to drown under the to-do list.  It's easy to lose sight of the goals I have for my family, under the weariness of the moment.  But my long sight is open at the moment.  I can see it, off in the future: the time when I will not be awakened repeated in the night, or unable to sit down to a warm meal, or constantly refolding the same piles of laundry.  These things wash away in the smell of the rain, and in the quiet of my house.  

This is a living place.  Eternally undulating and reliable, even in it's unpredictability.  We plunge forward, savoring the change, holding on to one another until we will, inevitably, let go.

33 and 500 and other numbers

I had the most amazing week last week.

Wednesday was my 33rd birthday.  That's actually really hard to believe.  I remember when my Mom was 32 and forgot how old she was.  I thought that was crazy- who forgets their age?

Well, apparently, I do.  I had been telling people I was 33 for a few months and then I started to think about my birthday and it didn't sound right.  Was I really turning 34?  No.  No I was not.  Oh well.  Math is not my strong suit.

On Friday Tara came to OKC with her friend Sally.  I was all excited for hours, and they weren't leaving until the afternoon.  So I was killing some time during nap time and I get this weird email.  I had been registered for the OKC Memorial Marathon.  That couldn't be right.  Then a minute later I get a receipt.  That's not cool!  I'm thinking someone stole my debit card number and signed me up for a marathon... and then I see Tara's name on it.  So I called her.

Happy Birthday!  She says, I signed us up for the OKC memorial half marathon!  It's in April, so you've got plenty of time.  

I had a schedule, people.  I had a schedule that meant that next year I would run a 10k (that's only 6 miles for those of you who are bad at math, like me) and the year after I would try a half marathon.  Part of me is totally freaking out.  I can't do that!  It's 13 miles!  I'll die!

And then a do some math (and double check it, obviously) and notice that it's about 230 days until the half marathon.  That's almost a year.  Right? (this is not the time to correct my math skills, people)

So we had our birthday party on Friday night and my oldest sister came to spend the night at my parent's house with her four daughters and her husband.  It was pretty wild.  I had asked for carrot cake, because nothing is better than carrot cake.  Fortunately for me, Sally loves carrot cake, too.  And then, oddly, Jonah ate it.  You could even see the carrots, and my son, who mostly eats meat and cheese, ate carrot cake.  It was pretty stinking good.  I have a piece left in the fridge that I'm hoarding until after I go running tonight.

Oh yeah, we'll get to more running in a minute.

Saturday morning I was speaking at a Ladies' Day.  It went really well.  As soon as they post the audio on their website, I'll post a link.
My topic was "Practicing Your Faith" which seemed so wide open when I started planning for it.  Pretty quickly it narrowed down to 6 points that detailed exactly what that was probably going to look like.  I was nervous that 6 points would be way too many, but it was 45 minutes of talking and it was just enough.  In the past, I've been very nervous to speak in front of a crowd, and I tend to have little tics that emerge- like repeating the same idea over and over.  I didn't do that this time.  In fact, I felt way better prepared and far calmer than I have in times past.

We had dinner with Sally and Tara on Saturday night.  My Mom wasn't feeling well, my Dad had gone out of town and Christa and Dewayne had to go home since Dewayne had to preach.  The kids were pretty riled up, but it was a nice evening.

Sunday afternoon I ran my 2nd timed 5K.  I was aiming for a 38 minute finish time, and missed it by 29 seconds, but I am pretty happy with how it all turned out.  I usually run on the treadmill since our "neighborhood" isn't conducive to running and not getting hit by a car, and the course was pretty hilly, which I didn't expect.  Overall I think I did pretty good, considering.

For my birthday I will be posting my 500th blog post (that's crazy) and I will be buying myself a Garmin.

Truth be told

Jonah has had some trouble, lately, with the idea that he will grow up.  We've had many a conversation that ends with him insisting that he will be living with me, always.  He has also been very upset at the idea of falling in love with a girl, and insists that he will only ever love me.  That doens't entirely make me sad.

Last night, after I got done running, I came in and, as I had promised him before I left, I went into his room to rub his back.  He was still awake, just a little and somehow he started talking about death.

Jonah: Mom, I don't want to be at a funeral.

Me: Do you mean you don't want to go to a funeral, or do you mean you don't want to die?

Jonah: I don't want to die.

Me:  Well, I don't think you'll have to worry about that for a long time.

Jonah:  I don't want you to die either.

Me: Well, I probably won't die for a long time, Jonah, but everybody dies someday.

Jonah: Like Mr. Don? (Don Vinzant was a minister at our church.  He died over a year ago, but Jonah still remembers him)

Me: Yes, like Mr. Don.  But Mr. Don was much older than me.

Jonah: Gran is getting old.  I don't want Gran to die (Sorry Mom).

Me: Well, I don't think Gran is going to die soon either.

Jonah:  If Gran died, I would be so sad.

Me: Me too, Baby.

Jonah: I don't want them to put my body in the ground after I die.

Me: Well, after you die, they don't have to put your body in the ground, but you won't really care anymore, even if they do.  You won't be in  your body.

Jonah: Where will I be?

Me: Well, you know how Daddy says that things don't last forever?  Your body is one of those things.  Your body will get worn out one day, and then your spirit will leave your body and go be with God.

Jonah: My spirit?

Me: Your spirit is the part that makes you, you.  It's the part that makes your body alive.  It won't ever die, even though your body won't last.

Jonah: And I can be with God?

Me: Yes.

Jonah: And you and Daddy will be there?

Me: Yes.  

It was about that point that his eyes closed and he went to sleep.  There I was, standing hot and sweaty, and I found myself loving that little boy so much more than I had just a few minutes earlier.  It's amazing, his capacity to feel things.  For all of his rough-and-tumble, superhero-loving ways, he's amazingly sensitive and thoughtful.

After I wrote that, I heard Caroline coughing, so I checked on her.  She's had a cold and it seems to be hanging around.  Then Sadie woke up.  She's teething.  So I gave her some Tylenol and I rocked her.  I haven't been able to rock her the way I rocked the other two.  I would hold Jonah for hours on end, but with each baby that time has been shortened.  There are too many chubby little hands grasping for my time.  But tonight everyone is sleeping, so I rocked her.  She threw her Bunny across her face and snuggled up against me with her thumb in her mouth, and I rocked.  It's 11:30 at night and I need to be grading papers or sleeping or emptying the dishwasher or... whatever.  I rocked her.  I smelled her baby smell, lingering on her hands and in her hair and I rocked.

My job is to prepare these little people to be big people and live in this world, and in the next.  I am teaching Caroline to go to the potty (Something I'm sure her future bosses will thank me for), and Sadie to sit at the table during meals, and I am teaching Jonah to accept the inevitability of death.

These lessons aren't all simple or easy.

Truth be told, I'd prefer that they all be as simple as teaching Jonah to ride with his training wheels, or teaching Caroline to put her own diaper in the trash.  Even getting Sadie to put herself back to sleep wasn't so hard. I am afraid of breaking my child's heart again, the way Jonah's broke when I explained that he might fall in love with a girl, and she might hurt him.  He cried at the very idea that I would let someone make him sad.  We sat in the drive-through line at Chick-fil-a, waiting for our nuggets and chocolate milk, and he told me that he didn't want anyone to ever break his heart.

My sweet little boy... How do I explain to him that I can't fix everything?  I can't keep his Gran from dying, or some girl form breaking his heart, even if I wanted to.

This is the end of a magical time for him: the time when your parents can fix anything with an Angry Birds Band-aid and a kiss.  

Timidity and Self Control

I have been doing bible verses with Jonah.  It's an ABC bible verse book that my Mom made me.  You can find them here.  We are to the letter F.

For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love and self control.
2 Timothy 1:7

We were going over all the verses he's learned in the car this morning and I was trying to get him to learn this one.  He was frustrated with it and gave up after a bit.  He got stuck on the words "timidity" and "self control."

Mother's Day 2010

I can understand because those word frustrate me, too.

Timidity.  I tried to explain the concept to him.  It's when you're not sure of your self.  When you feel a little shy because you're not sure how tings are going to go.  That's timidity, Jonah.  

What I wanted to say was, It's when you let things hold you back because you're afraid.   But it was far too close to the feelings I've been having lately.  Timid.  I've been feeling afraid and not sure of myself.

He didn't really understand self control, either.  That one was easier for me to explain.  It's when you tell yourself "no" to things that you know you should do when no one is even looking.  That one has been a big one for Jonah lately.  When he gets caught acting up he's been fond of saying, But I thought you wouldn't see!

 I've felt so convicted lately, that God is asking something big of me.  I don't know what that is, exactly, but I know that He's been working on my heart in a few areas.  I've been led to believe that I'm not sacrificing enough of my own comfort for Him.  I've remembered how close I was to him many years ago, just before I let someone else become a part of my relationship with him.  It became the three of us, and not just me and Christ.  That someone else let us both down.  I've been given an opportunity to speak to a large number of people, and it is terrifying to me.  I speak to my students all the time and I'm comfortable with them.  I'm afraid of what these people will see of me.  Will they see my fear and timidity or will they see how I have not embraced that spirit of self discipline?  Will they be able to tell just how comfortable I've become?

But it says that He has already given us a spirit of power, love and self-control.  Already.  Not "He will."

Jonah finally said the verse.  When he got to the second part he shouted the words, POWER!  LOVE! and SELF CONTROL!

Something is trying to get my attention.

Time Passes

The older kids are playing outside with Daddy.  I can hear them laughing and screaming through the open windows.  I'm not sure what Josh is doing but the kids are putting out a fire and climbing into a pirate ship and driving a tractor.
The house smells like chicken stock, which is simmering on the stove.  I'm slicing apples and peaches for lunch and Sadie Beth is napping.

It's in the 70's today and the sky is overcast.  It feels like fall, and the sweet smell of apples and the peppery smell of the stock is reminding me of Christmases at my Granny's house.  It feels peaceful, but festive.


When school starts and Josh goes away for the day andI have to take the kids to school two days a week, and Josh takes classes in the evening and there are lunches and laundry and backpacks and grading and teaching and late nights with the baby and early mornings if I want to run... Well, it gets overwhelming.

The cool weather means I can send the kids outside and be a little lazy for a bit. Maybe I'll bake some bread.

Time passes

Yeast. Sugar, Warm Water.  Wait.  I can smell the beery, sweet smell from across the house while I feed Sadie yogurt for the first time.  She is so excited to be able to chew the spoon and sits, cramming cheerios into her sticky mouth.

Caroline takes a bath to wash the peanut butter out of her hair, and afterward I brush it and pull it up.  I like the smell of her all clean and warm.  She has a cold, so I help her blow her nose.  I try not to laugh as she blows so hard that the kleenex is no match for her snot.  She takes this very seriously.

Jonah is drawing at the other end of the table.  He draws pirates and Batman, and a plane and a horse.  Maybe that's a cowboy.  Or not.  His drawings are so detailed.  He can sit still to draw when nothing else will still him.  His birthday is in five weeks.  He will be five years old.

Time passes.

There has been talk of Halloween around our house.  Caroline wanted to be Batman, and then a Fireman, and then a princess. Jonah be Robin, she has proclaimed.  But Jonah wants to be a ninja, or maybe Diego.  He wears his backpack across his chest with his khaki vest and khaki shorts. He wears a watch that he uses to communicate with the other animal rescuers.  I have an inclination to make my dark-headed daughter into Elvis.

2007: Pregnant with Jonah

Time passes.  So very quickly I find myself the mother of three lively children.  Not so long ago I was the green and nervous mother of a baby boy.  Now I send him running to fetch diapers for his sisters, and he takes a special kind of joy in making the youngest one laugh.

There are times when we are in the car and I look across to Josh.  We often laugh to ourselves about our kids from the front seat, where they do not see.  We were once different people.  We wandered around the appalachian mountains on a whim.  We took vacations for our anniversary and ate long dinners out at restaurants and watched television.  But time passes.  We will have been married ten years this December.

I am not the girl he married.  I am stronger than that girl ever was, but more vulnerable in some ways.  That girl hid her fears behind anger and slept late on Saturdays.  She took long naps on Sundays, too.  She ignored what needed to be done because she just didn't want to.

Me?   There is still anger, but there's a practicality that follows it.  Fears get exposed and I try to clean the wounds out before they fester.  I don't nap much at all; sometimes  a short one on Sunday.  If I don't get things done now, it's because I was doing something else.

When did it become like this?  When did I become like this?  I still remember a time when I felt very young.  I don't feel old, but I don't feel young like that anymore.  That's a good thing.

Time passes.

The house is silent.  Babies and husbands are sleeping.  Dishes are done.  Tomorrow's lunch is in the crock pot and bread is rising in the pan.  There is chicken stock in the freezer.  The dishwasher is running and all that is left is ironing, and papers to grade and sleep.  Sweet sleep, until tomorrow when it begins all over again.

Story Time

One of my biggest pet peeves about our church (and really, this is not that big a deal) is that they have Storytime right before services on Sunday mornings.  As a storyteller I cringe every time it's announced.  Do you want to know why?  Because there is no story, that's why.  They sing a few songs with the kids and do a short devotional talk, but there isn't a story.  If there is no story, they shouldn't call it STORYtime.  I'm just saying...

I realized the other day that there aren't a lot of stories on my blog.

Once upon a time...

I had the same teacher for 7th and 8th grade math.  That's because I took pre-algebra both years.  I didn't actually fail it the first time around, but I am not very good with numbers, so I didn't really understand it well enough to move on to regular algebra.

Her name was Jan Aldridge.  I have looked for her online several times and I believe that she moved on to Texas High School after they closed the middle school I had attended.  They actually condemned most of the buildings, which didn't really surprise me.  I've never been able to get any contact information for Ms. Aldridge, which saddens me.  Having taught middle school for a year, I would love to send her a letter of thanks.

Like I said, I wasn't particularly good at math.  When I got stuck on something, or didn't know what to do next, I generally just made up some rule.  Poor Ms. Aldridge would ask me, "WHy did you do that?" and I would say, "Because of the understood one?"  The truth is that I did it because I didn't really know what I was supposed to be doing.  I tried to pay attention in class and I was completely lost.  It wasn't like they were speaking another language, it was more like they all had some basic understanding that I never picked up.  They would start discussing algebra and functions and trigonometry and I would understand the first part and then all logic and reason collapsed for me.  I understood that A + B = C but then X would get involved and I didn't know where X came from or how to figure out what it was.

I often think of Ms. Aldridge when I am trying to teach my own children a new skill:
"Put the toys in the box, Caroline." I say.
"I not want to."
I put a toy in her hand. "Put this in the box."
She complies.
Another toy in her hand. "Put this in the box."
She complies.
"Now, put the toys in the box."
"I too little!"

Instead it went more like this:
"Chara, solve this problem."
"I don't know where to start."
"PEMDAS, Chara.  Parenthesis, exponents, multiplication and division, addition and subtraction.  Start here in the parenthesis."
"So I work out the insides of the parenthesis, first?"
"Yes."
"Then what?"

When we would find an answer she would always tell us to look back at the problem and ask ourselves if the answer made sense.  None of the answers made sense to me.  How could you start with a letter and end up with a number?  How could you start with a jumble of unknowns and end up so sure about what it all meant?

Otherwise, Ms. Aldridge was a lovely woman.  She was in her forties at the time, and clearly going through menopause.  Her classroom always had a great big wall of windows and even in the middle of winter she would have them all thrown wide open to keep her cool.  When students would complain she would tell them to bring a jacket the next time.

Generally she was a patient woman, explaining inscrutable rules to hormonally charged children who were often not interested or highly distracted by the social situation around them.  She did occasionally lose her temper, but given her job, it's a miracle she didn't do it more often.  I do remember one occasion in particular, though.  Once, a boy named Travis smarted off in class about how math stunk.  I don't remember what he said exactly, but I know what Ms. Aldridge said.  She told him that he had a nasty attitude and then she read him this quote:

“The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, the education, the money, than circumstances, than failure, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company... a church... a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice everyday regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it. And so it is with you... we are in charge of our Attitudes.”

It is a quote from Charles Swindoll and I have never forgotten what she said to him that day.  She did not say it quietly or with saint-like patience.  She read it passionately.  She meant it.  Our entire lives would hinge on the choice we made every day to have or to not have a good attitude.  If math stunk, it was not because we hadn't masted it yet; it was because we had a stinky attitude about it.

The truth is that Middle School boys generally have crummy attitudes and math isn't the easiest subject but it was on that day, toward the end of my 8th grade year, that I realized that pre-algebra wouldn't kill me.  In fact, I had started to understand it a little bit. I didn't make up answers while crossing my fingers.  When I got an answer wrong, we could usually figure out where I had gotten off track, or which multiplication sum I'd figured wrong.  Ms. Aldridge wasn't having to show me how to do the same things over and over again.  In fact, I actually helped some of the other students in the class because I was finally able to explain what had been explained to me for almost two years.

What adds up in life is sometimes unexpected.  I can't always explain how 2A + 7 = 345, but I do not find myself so resistant to the idea that it can get there.