Do you hear the Rocky music? No?! ‘Cause it’s playing! OK maybe that’s a little dramatic but… It’s time! I try to let my actions speak for themselves, so I’m nervous announcing what the focus of my next year will be but… This is it! I have one year to 40, 16 months until I’ve been at the gym 5 years. I’m 3 ½ years into this redemption journey. It is time to push the limits!
There’s this meme going around it says something like, “Whatever feels good … do that” and another one that says something like, “And now… I’m gonna do me!” and while I get the sentiment, the truth is I can’t like them. I did what felt good. It felt good to cut lines and breathe them in and feel the euphoria as chemicals swirled and twirled in my veins until I was nothing but a mass of feel-good emotion that could go on and on for days. To toke it up, soak it up, hold it in and feel the rush that led to mindless hours of watching the clock tick while thinking about the sprockets making the hands move. It felt good to eat whatever I wanted; rich, thick decadent chocolate... filling me to the brim with sweet satisfaction. One more, or seven more scoops of the creamiest Parmesan artichoke dip. The cuppa calorie laden caffeinated or alcoholic yumminess. I put it all “in ma belly” and it felt real good! ... until the come down... until the fiending… until the withdraws… until my toddler child asked what the noises were… or who that person was (because another stranger was in the house)… until I looked in the mirror… until I saw my beautiful cousins at family gatherings and knew I was the “fat one”… until the next size didn’t fit… until my stocky (ex)husband’s pants fit snugly… It felt good at the time, but it wasn’t good. The consequences of feeling good and doing me sucked! It’s hard to push my body to failure day after day at the gym knowing I can never fix the damage of decades of misuse. It is hard to hike at 4:30AM when the rest of the county sleeps. It doesn’t feel good two days after a hardcore leg day at the gym. It doesn’t feel good when I have to say no, to chocolate, to walking, to quitting the reps, to anything that “feels good” in the moment … but … but… It’s pretty awesome to look in the mirror after 3 ½ years of leg days! Week after week, month after month, year after year seeing what the body God gave me can do feels good! It’s something to be proud of to say that because of a second chance, I have 17 ½ years clean! It feels good to say; I AM STRONG! I honestly never knew how strong I could be! All I’ve got is what God gave me… this body, this mind, this soul and this spirit. That’s it. And now, it’s time… I’ve worked to reclaim my body from the mistakes and bad choices of my past. I can’t take them back, but, to the best of my ability, I can redeem what God gave me. It’s time to focus! The easiest rung of the human ladder is the body. Control of the body is step one. Wanna sleep longer? Nope! Get up! Wanna eat that? Nope! Food is fuel (except on 10% days). Wanna quit/cheat that work-out. Nope! It’s only me I’m letting down. I’m about to step out of “normal” and into “extreme (for me) fitness” for a while. But … I want to do this! I want to see what my body can do. So far it’s been about reclamation and redemption. It’s time for reconstruction. I can’t compete with those who have always honored their bodies, or who are 20 years younger than me, and I can’t get back what I lost to poor choices. But the good thing is I’m not a competitor, I’m a learner. I watch those I admire and embrace and apply what they share. I soak up their wisdom and walk forward on my journey. I will ever and always wonder what I could have been capable of IF ONLY I had gotten into sports and not drugs in high school. I will always regret the wasted years. But I’m grateful for my second chance. Not everyone has the genetics, ability or health I do. My physique is a gift from God that I squandered too long. It’s time to exploit it, to push it to it’s fullest remaining potential. Lord willing, I won’t hurt myself, but will make it the best it has ever been. It’s going to be pretty cool to see how much my body can do!
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Hedonism
1.the doctrine that pleasure or happiness is the sole or chief good in life 2.a way of life based on or suggesting the principles of hedonism Heroism 1.heroic conduct especially as exhibited in fulfilling a high purpose or attaining a noble end 2.the qualities of a hero I hope I’m known as a godly woman. I’d also like to be known as; kind, loving, empathetic, compassionate, joyful, fun, artistic, enigmatic, happy, fit, loyal, dedicated, energetic, hardworking, spunky… OK I’d like to be known as a lot of things but mostly for honoring God, doing good and loving life. If that is how I do life, doesn’t that bring God glory? I’m grateful for what He’s given me; this body, this earth, these friends and family. I embrace the blessings I have and reach out to make the world a better place. Fun and service. It’s biblical: “So I commend the enjoyment of life, because there is nothing better for a person under the sun than to eat and drink and be glad. Then joy will accompany them in their toil all the days of the life God has given them under the sun.” Ecclesiastes 8:15. King Solomon’s whole ecclesiastical meandering is; respect God & love life because there’s really no other point. When I think about it, if evil were eradicated, if the kingdom of heaven were here, if we all operated on God’s principals what more would there be to do than to love God, have fun and do good? God is love and God is good… and God is fun! Look at the mountains to climb, lakes to swim, animals, plants... the sights, smells, sounds and feelings all around us. It’s good! There’s my justification. Here’s my confession: I most definitely tended toward hedonism. In its purist form, as long as I took God with me, honored Him in my pursuits and loved others, I didn’t see wrong in that. And then something happened… A squishy feeling started to wax like the moon inside me, slowly night by night, until it was full. It was like watching an old Batman show... There I was, having fun, loving God and… “Meanwhile somewhere in Gotham a little girl was being molested, a little boy was starving to death… TO DEATH! A man beat his wife and a woman shoved a needle in her arm…” But I was having fun, and I was a good person, and I was honoring God. Besides, every time I thought about the evil in the world it overwhelmed me. There’s so much evil! How can I make a change? Evil is too big, my heart too small to handle the pain. Better to look away and … maybe say a prayer for that little girl, whom I identified with so deeply. But I said a prayer when I was her. I remember my prayer... Help! Why God, won’t anyone help me? believe me? listen to me? see what’s happening and stop the bad guy!? I wondered, could I help someone? I mean, I’d still have fun but maybe help a little too. First I gave money. Just enough to make me feel better. I could support a Paralyzed Vet for a one-time donation of $5 and hold my head high. It started to feel like a pay off. $5 here, $10 there and I could do what I wanted and not feel guilty about that elderly shut-in who hadn’t seen another person in five days, but it’s OK because their adult grandchild would bring them groceries and sit with them for an hour on the weekend. I decided I ought to give time and talent too. But then… Oh, the horror! A thought occurred to me… I think I have a Savior complex! I figured I better not do anything than do something because I wanted to save someone. I cannot save a single soul. I’m not Christ and even He gives us the choice. Still it didn’t feel right turning my head away when I had time, money and ability to do something. I found ways, not to save but to serve, in the name of Jesus, and to ease the squishy in my heart. I believe in advocating for abused and neglected children. I focus on kids as much as I can. Serving has become a way of life. Not because I can save the world (although I think all good people like the idea of being heroic) but because it feels good, and it makes sense to ease the pain of others. What gets me is wasted opportunity to help… Why doesn’t the Watershed festival take 15 or 20 minutes to talk about the Wounded Warriors and ask for donations? Those country-loving, beer-drinking cowboys there would be happy to throw $5s or $20s by the thousands in that plate! Why can’t entry into a run include a donated pair of shoes for kids in parasite infested developing countries? Why don’t restaurants give a portion of their proceeds EVERY week to charity… and why don’t we (or me, hedonist, me) patronize them on that day? Can’t I have fun AND make the world better? Can’t we profit AND bless? Shouldn’t we, the most blessed people and country in the world be the most kind, loving and generous? And now the call out... To my Christian brothers and sisters, having fun, doing good, loving God and maybe not pulling your weight. I’m not trying to judge, but if I do judge, it is you, my family, I have right to judge. If you feel that squishy inside… you know you ought to do something! You are light! If you know the good you ought to do and do not do it… you sin! GO, be light, be salt, be real, relevant ambassadors of Christ! Find your ministry, give your money, time and talents to serve God and serve others… and have fun!!! To the rest, you are blessed! Pay it forward! Fight for those too weak to fight for themselves! Be a hero! Find a cause you care about and participate. Use your money, your time and your talent to make the world better. Go ahead, be a hedonist… and while you’re at it, be a hero too… On this day eighty-six years ago the greatest man I ever knew, and likely will ever know, was born to an immigrant family of Italians in the tenements of Pennsylvania. Everything I learned about what a real man should be was learned at his feet.
He was a feisty boy, youngest of ten, born to parents who spoke no English. His dad worked the coal mines of Pennsylvania and probably died from black lung. Grampa remembered his dad coming home from the coal mines one day, dirty, exhausted and drinking milk. My grampa wanted it and… so he asked, and… so his dad gave him the milk. As my grampa relayed the story, he stopped to collect himself. Seventy years later and he was still humbled about taking a refreshing drink from an exhausted man’s hand. Up to that point I’d never seen my grampa cry. I don’t know exactly why but I think that was a pivotal moment in his life. Not that he took the milk but that a man who had already worked so hard and done so much to take care of his family sacrificed his moment of refreshment for the simple pleasure of another. I imagine my great-grandpa was as wonderful a man as my grandpa, but I never knew him, only Grampa. And what a man to know! Dignified… so dignified! Respected, admired and well thought of. He was no buffoon and yet he could make everyone laugh with his quick wit, magical tricks, stories and jokes. From the boat, classroom, pulpit, social event, dinner table or anywhere, he always carried himself in a way that commanded respect without alienating anyone or disgracing himself. Faithful… so faithful, to his friends, to his congregations, co-workers, grandchildren, children, wife and most of all God. Never once have I heard anyone say anything remotely untoward about his character or integrity. His biggest downfall was believing others held the same standards. Smart… so smart! He was a lover of learning; science, math, fishing, the Bible, technology. Always bettering himself, never letting moss to grow, encouraging everyone around him to know more. He would take it in and then share his knowledge, like he did the rest of his life, with those around him. Kind… so kind! He talked to the down-trodden and the most elite in society with the same affect and demeanor. He took time to pull nickels from a child’s ear or give them a piece of candy from his pocket or slowly, patiently help a little old lady up a ramp with her walker. He did not judge prostitutes, drunks, thieves or wayward prodigal grand-daughters when they decided to come home. He believed, through the cross, everyone was allowed forgiveness and that all men deserved kindness shown to them. Firm… so firm, never wavering from the tenants of his faith or a well-planned decision once he set his mind on it. Never giving in to popular opinion to keep a following or please a superior. Prepared to deliver a tough, honest moment of correction but always in a way that left the hearer feeling better for having been reprimanded or stronger for having been corrected or directed under his guidance. Busy… so busy, being active, productive, mindful and intentional about life. Maybe he did work too much, but I never remember feeling like he didn’t have time for me, because when he was with you, he was WITH you! You mattered, he welcomed you with bright eyes that said, I have so much to do but, right now, “I am excited to see you!” Everyone was worth his time whether it was a moment of passing in a hall or a lazy conversation on a potluck Sunday or a story recounted from his squeaky office chair that somehow related to your own life, but you didn’t realize he was reading your mail until later. Most of all godly… he was a good, godly man. He shared stories of frustrations, difficulties and trials with work and ministry and family. What struck me was that he filtered everything through what he knew of Christ’s character. He didn’t always hit the mark but he tried to serve Christ well in all his dealings with people, his intention was to be like Christ. That didn’t mean he was always loved, or his ideas were always chosen, or his family (particularly a stubborn grand-daughter hell-bent on figuring life out her own way) listened to his wisdom, but it meant his focus was on doing right, first by God, then by man. He’s almost eight years gone and I still think of him close to daily. I’m grateful for having such an amazing man in my life. I miss him! Happy Birthday Grampa! I am a dog run over. Life… hit me… left me for dead on the side of the road. I was crossing, simply crossing, ignorant of the dangers that lay ahead, just getting from there to here. The car hit me out of nowhere. I lay there, hurt, beyond help, alone and afraid. I whimper, I beat my tail on the pavement but I am helpless. I cannot do this. Cars go pass, most fast, some slow. I am breathing, quick, shallow, painful breaths. I am dying. I feel the life-blood oozing out of me even as I tell my paws to move, will my body to get up and run to help but.... I stagger, I stumble, I fall. I cannot. I am dying. I am a dog run over. I am helpless. The cars go by quickly, furiously, each filled with a person or persons with a place to go, a thing to do… they drive and I bleed. Helpless and alone. I am afraid. I am stuck. I am hurt. I am dying. Then he comes to save me. He sees where the blood flows from me. He tries to stop it. He touches me and I snap at him. It hurts and I am ferocious in my fear and pain! I bite. I draw his blood. He pulls back, with curses. I am wounded and he is trying to touch the pain, I do not know what else to do. I growl. His hand recoils… bloodied… and he leaves. I am alone. I am hurt. I am dying. She comes. Again I snap… she recoils, moves far off. I have frightened her away. And… again I am alone. I am hurt. I am dying. She calls Him and He comes. This Savior, this One who is not afraid. I know when I see Him that He is strong enough. His hands are covered in thick, dark, leather gloves. They are impenetrable. He sees my pain and knows how to handle me despite it. He is the Healer. He is the Counselor. He talks to me with words I cannot understand. I snap yet He is undeterred. He applies pressure firmly on the parts torn up and also to my muzzle. He is stronger than my pain (though it rips me apart), impervious to my defenses (though I struggle and fight with all the strength I have left) and carries me to the place of surgery. He holds me and heals me. It is not an easy task, I am a feisty dog… even if I am run over. It is not a quick task. It takes time to mend the injuries, to strengthen the broken bones, to stitch up what was torn open. I am unwell. I lay many days, with minimal interaction because I am afraid, because I snap, because I hurt. But He comes, touching the wounds, not to hurt but to heal, to insure they are mending. I understand this now as I could not before. He hurts me to help me. I do not bite the hand that helps me anymore. Slowly… ever so slowly I trust His face, His touch. He is kind, He is good. He means me no harm, but His hands don’t always deliver kindness. He pats my head, then removes the bandages, exposes the pain, makes sure the healing is progressing. It is not easy. It is not fun. It is pain. It is healing. In time, I look forward to his visits tough I cannot say why. I want Him, though He hurts me. His voice begins to somehow soothe me, even as His hands force joints to move that do not want to bend, pull stitches out that are stuck in place and push and press on places still raw and tender to the touch. He is a Healer and despite the pain, I long for His voice, if not His touch. Slowly, ever so slowly, like His face, I trust His voice. The words He speaks refresh me. His voice strengthens me. He gives me a name I never knew I had. And He walks with me. And He talks with me. And He tells me that I am His own. And the joy we share... as we tarry there, none other, has ever known! In time, I can smell Him before I even see Him or hear Him or feel Him. I know Him. He is mine, and I am His and... I love Him! He comes to me and my tail wags. Moving is still hard, pain is still a part of my life, but … with His patience, His wisdom, His touch, His words... I am healing! Someday, I won't flinch at His caress but lean into it. Someday, I will walk up to Him and hoist my paws onto His chest. Someday, I will be well enough to run beside Him. Someday, He will throw a stick or ball and I will run fast and free to catch what he throws out for me… But for now… all I can do is heal. I am not well but… I am safe in His care. And, I will get better. I am mending But for now my job is to heal. For now, I am grateful for He who braved the pain to come to me, to save me, to stand with me, pet me, soothe me, stay with me at my worst, celebrate my healing and participate in my restoration. I am a dog run over, redeemed from the side of the road. I am healing… I am OK. There are many things in the Bible I don’t understand but one part I’m absolutely 100% in disagreement with. 1 Corinthians 15:19 says: “If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.” It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, makes me feel like my faith is only good for a future hope in an after-life with Christ. It sounds like choosing to be a Christian is a sad, sorry choice that leaves me to be looked upon with pity. Why? Why would the apostle Paul write that? Why would he think if our hope was only for this world we ought to be the most pitied of all people? I suspect it’s because he was who he was. I suspect many of my brothers and sisters feel the same way. I suspect for them; the words are true, this life is less than what they can imagine in heaven. This life is full of pain and sorrow, rules and restrictions. I don’t fault them for their ideals, but for me, maybe for all recovering addicts, if only for this life I have hope in Christ I’m not to be pitied, I think I ought to be admired. Let me explain… Seventeen years ago this month, I was a drug addict, a pretty bad one actually. I smoked weed daily, most days multiple times a day. My rule was, as long as I wasn’t doing it in the same room as my infant and toddler boys I was being a responsible parent. It wasn’t just weed either. There were random Coke parties, with a little Crack thrown in for good measure, there were pill parties… I still don’t know what I took at most of those. Then there was Meth, ohhhhh, how I loved those beautiful chunky rocks that cut into the perfect powdery lines of heaven! The rules were a little more flex with Meth. As long as I wasn’t smoking it, the kids couldn’t get a contact high, and it’s not like a blind toddler or innocent infant even knew what their mom was doing anyway, right?! So most of the time I was in another room, but I’m not going to lie, there were times, I was shoving something up my nose with my kids or someone else’s in the same room. That wasn’t so bad, really, that was the good part! The high, the deep thinking, sensual feeling, all night tweaking, goosebump-having, heart racing, body shaking, highs were quite lovely. I loved them. I craved them. I needed them. I was devoted to them. They mattered more than my boys, my family, my friends, my safety, my self-respect, more than anything. I would lie, cheat and steal for my fix. … and then the crash or the end of the stash always came. I hated that… being out, fiending, knowing I needed a fix that I couldn’t get. Knowing what would come without it. Worrying, crying, fighting, screaming, begging for more. Swearing to myself and a God that, at the time, I questioned existence in, that I’d get clean and never, ever, ever do it again… after this one last time. Always after this one time. And then the month of May came… In this month seventeen years ago I traded my sorrow, my shame, my sickness, my Pain, my addiction for a slow waxing faith in the One true King. I believe we are spiritual beings and in a God that is more than just for this life. I believe in a risen Savior that came to give us a new life in the hereafter. But I also believe that in this month, seventeen years ago He reached down, in His sovereignty, into my life. I heard no audible words, saw no visions, signs or supernatural hoopla, just a simple, silent nudging at my heart one gentle evening after I’d put my boys down for the night for yet another episode of debaucherous festivities. It was a chance at freedom. One shot. I felt it in my blood and bones and heart and withered soul. I wasn’t out of my stash, I wasn’t fiending, I wasn’t withdrawing, it was a pretty sweet stretch for what life was for me at the time. But I knew God was giving me a chance… and so… I took it! The second chance, not the hit. I passed, just like that, I said no thanks. I started a new life, clean. It was a whirlwind. But if only for this life I would take Christ’s offer over and over again. See, I don't think Paul's words are necessarily wrong so much as they are spoken from a man who probably never knew addiction, but rules and legalism. To be bound to the rule of a God may seem like a thing to be pitied, unless you've been fettered to a force much more sinister and unforgiving. I was a slave, I am free now. My worst days, (there have been three that really tip the scale since choosing Christ), even those three absolute worst days are a walk in the park compared to the way I was before. If only for this life I am saved, I am grateful. I am a rare and wonderful statistic of overcoming methamphetamine addiction. It all comes down to a man dying on a cross, saving the world and one little, tiny soul that will ever and always be grateful and pledge my allegiance to Him for this second chance. May I use it well! On to 18 years clean! Because addiction is near and dear to my heart, it makes sense one of my real-life romances would center around addiction and overcoming. My books, as they are now, will only be on sale through May 31st. If you've meant to get them, this is the last chance as they are. I will be working to re-publish and while I'm determined I'm not super fast so it might be a while. All that to say, get 'em now or wait on me, haha!
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