Sweet, sweet, beautiful rain.

It poured and poured and rained and rained this week. For three days! It was such a blessing. I kept humming "How Great Thou Art" involuntarily. Rain does that to me. 

Grant had to play in the rain of course. Here he is just soaking it in. 

And here he is being crazy Grant.  

And here i am melting at his sweetness. 

Mushrooms. In July. In Texas. Crazy. 

I'm in love with this picture. 

64 seconds

I've been mentally writing this post for the last 2 months.  During nearly every run this post was internally verbalized bit by bit.
Some days it was a post celebrating victory.
Many times it was a post loaded with excuses.
Sometimes the mental post was a dramatic biography of myself beginning with my years as a clumsy gymnast to the girl who couldn't run a mile in gym class to the now runner who just killed it at her first half marathon.
And, now it's time to actually write this post. And, sadly, it's not exactly the post I hoped I'd be writing.

After I ran the Capitol 10k in Austin on April 7th, I started thinking about running a half marathon. I ran my best time in Austin that day, 55:16, and was feeling pretty good about running. I mentioned it to a few people and they all said I "could totally do it!" often followed by a comment about walking some of it if I had to.

But that wasn't at all what I wanted. If I was going to run a half marathon, I was going to run a half marathon.

So there was Goal Number 1. Run every step of my first half.

So I started running longer and harder. The weather was unbelievably perfect for running. A winter that just wouldn't give way to spring made for some perfect afternoon runs that I was now able to run consistently since my children are older. I was hitting all my training plan times in every run, whether it was tempo, speed work, or just a regular old easy run. So I decided to add another level to my first half marathon goal.

Goal Number 2: Run my first half marathon in under 2:15:00.

On April 27th, in perfect weather, on a perfect, primarily flat, there-and-back course, I ran the BunRun 10k in 52:05. In just three weeks I had knocked 3 minutes off my 10k PR. That day was one amazing day. I felt great about that time. I mean, GREAT. I know I've said this before, but in a world of gray successes and failures, the very black and white success of achieving a race goal is like nothing else. I felt like I could do anything that day. So, I plugged my 10k race time into my training plan app and my new projected half marathon finish time, with six weeks of training, 1:55:00.

Goal Number 3: Run my first half marathon in under 2:00:00

In April I ran just over 100 miles. And loved every mile. Like I said, the weather was perfect. By some miracle, every tempo run and speedwork day coincided with a freakishly cold day. I remember thinking for four weeks in a row, "Man! I'm sure glad I'm getting the most out of this last cold snap!" Only to be greeted by ideal running conditions the following week. April was the perfect running month.

And then came May.
Stupid May.
May was hot.
And I got slow. Real fast.
And Mason's baseball games hogged lots of my evenings. I couldn't run in the mornings because of school. To run six miles and be at work by 7:15 would mean running at 5am. at least. While I'm not afraid of that early of a wake up call, I am scared of running in the dark alone.

So I struggled in May. I started missing my tempo runs by little bits. I had to cut lots of runs short and missed several. And my speedwork days were tragic. But in the month of May I ran 131 miles. 131 hard long hot miles.

In May I also increased my long run distance to 12 miles. And they felt like eternities. I'd feel pretty good through about mile 10. But after mile 10, my legs, heart, lungs, brain, everything really really just hated running. Until I hit 12 miles and that sense of success somehow erases the misery.
And I would wonder why on earth I was such a whiny baby during those last few miles.
Only to be reminded again the next week.

I also had some issues with digestion during long runs. So I had to watch what I ate the day before really carefully. I discovered that chicken, oatmeal, and rice were my best choices. Ugh. But race day was itching closer and closer and I wanted to know exactly what to do during my race weekend.

April had made me feel invincible.
May defeated me.

My last 12 mile run before the race I finished in 1:55:38. But I had taken two short breaks so that wasn't even an accurate time. And when I finished I felt beaten. Done. No possible way i could have run another mile. And definitely no way I could have gone even faster. I'm not a running expert, but I don't think your long "easy" runs aren't supposed to feel that hard. I started to worry about making my goal.

But race weekend arrived, ready or not.

We all loaded up and headed to Fort Worth, plans of the zoo and a water park in the works. But, on Friday morning, Grant woke up with a high fever and a sore throat. A trip to a random doctor found on Yelp resulted in a strep throat diagnosis.

We basically spent the next two days in a hotel room with a poor sick little boy who didn't want to eat or drink anything. And no one was really sleeping all that well in our tiny hotel room.

But race morning arrived, ready or not.

I woke up at 5:15. Checked the weather. Yep, the predicted thunderstorm was most certainly coming straight for us. "Well, at least it won't be hot, " I thought optimistically.
Drink water.
Running shorts, sports bra, tank top, socks, shoes, armband for iphone, visor, ponytail.
Eat my oatmeal.
Drink more water.
By 6:15 I was headed for the race start, conveniently located right by our hotel.
About the time I got downstairs, it was pouring, thunder was rumbling and a crowd of runners were pacing the hotel lobby.
15 minute delay of start time.
Getting more nervous.
30 minute delay.
Too much time to wonder if I could do this.
1 hour delay.
Oh, come on! Let's just get this over with!

7:45 am - the race begins.

My race plan was to run the first 4 miles at a 9 minute-ish pace, the next for at an 8:45ish pace, and then just try to hang onto a 9:30 or less pace for the remaining five.

It was pretty heavy rain for the first 2 miles, and steady sprinkle for miles 3-6. And it had been raining all morning so the path was sometimes an ankle deep puddle. In minutes my shoes were water logged. Now, I don't know if you know this or not, but wet shoes are a bit heavier than dry shoes. Remember that when we come to the "but" section of this long post.

I was trying really hard not to go out too fast the first few miles. I knew the adrenaline would make me want to. I should have been at 18 minutes by mile 2. I was at 17:15. Oops. I slowed down a bit for the next two. I felt great. The course was beautiful, winding through forested areas, wide and flat. The atmosphere on the course was amazing, too. Lots of cheering and encouragement from the primarily military crowd.

The rain was pretty steady for the first six miles. There was one section of the course that was flooded so we had to be redirected up a hill and back down a hill. Not fun.

I felt really good for the first 7 miles or so. I was hitting my paces well, and felt tired but not too much so. The rain had stopped but it was still cool. Around mile 8 my back and lower stomach started to hurt pretty bad. I focused on my arm swing and started saying i-can-do-this in a very steady rhythm with every foot strike. But then I CAN do this started sounding a lot like I CAN'T do this. So I switched to a more neutral 1-2-3-4.

Everything started to go downhill around mile 9. I just felt exhausted. And I still had 4 miles to go! It truly felt impossible at this point. Really.

It was during this mile that I decided running half marathons was stupid and only stupid people do this and why was I out here in this stupid rain in these stupid wet shoes that are causing blisters on my stupid wet feet and this is stupid stupid stupid. I will never finish these next stupid four miles and I am not going to make my stupid goal and I hate stupid running because it's so stupid.

You get the picture.

I passed a water station. I heard a lady remark as I passed her, "man, she is really struggling." I wanted to scream, "Yep! Sure am! Got a problem with it?!" But I didn't.

So, during mile 10 with lead legs and a broken heart, I started saying, "Just 30 minutes, Jenny. Then you can stop moving. 30 minutes. That's nothing. You just have to run your hardest for 30 more minutes. thir-ty-min-utes. thir-ty-min-utes." I felt like I hit a decent pace. The back pain had subsided. I rounded the corner that would take me to the last 2 and half miles.

And met what I would like to call "The Great Wall of Wind".
Have I ever written how much I hate running against wind?
I hate it. Loathe it. It makes me spew words that I shouldn't say.
I hate wind.
And here it was, in all its 20 mph gusting glory, all but pushing me back down the course I had just fought so hard to cover.

I think that's when I knew. It just wasn't going to happen. I was exhausted. I wanted to walk. To stop. To crawl into a bed and never move again. To never run again. ever.

I hit mile 11 over pace. Fortunately, I had turned and was now running with the wind. That helped immensely. I fought to maintain a decent pace glancing at my watch every few minutes praying time had somehow stood still and I was gaining ground while not losing time.

Yeah, I wasn't.

I hit mile 12 at something like 1:52:00. And was going against the wind again.

I'm not going to lie. That hurt. I know, in the grand scheme of life, it's just a silly half marathon. It's not life or death. It's not like I was in the Olympics or something. It was just a small half marathon. But in that moment, it was a pretty big sense of failure. And, if it hadn't been my legs running it, I might read this and think, "Sheesh. Just run your hardest mile-point-one of your life and make the time." But my legs were done. And I did run my hardest mile ever. I ran the last full mile in 9:11. I'm really proud of that.

I rounded the final stretch and gave it everything I had till I crossed that finish line. Knowing I had missed my 2 hour mark, I didn't even look at my watch or stop my runkeeper thing. I knew it was around 2:02.

I crossed the finish line, they handed me my medal and a water bottle and I stopped moving for the first time in 2 hours.

ouch.

And then I smiled. Missed goal or not, I, Jenny Wilde, had finished a half marathon. All 13.1 miles. And I had run it in rain and wind and on a course I'd never seen. 13.1 miles. The longest run of my life in a pretty decent time.

About this time, the boys found me. They said they were inches from me cheering for me as I neared the finish line. I totally did not see them. They said I looked mad. I said I was. They said they were proud of me. I tried to agree.

I didn't make my goal. I did not finish under 2 hours. I finished in 2:01:03. 64 seconds that will bug me for a long while.

And now, the "but" section of the post.

I didn't make my goal, but...
I ran it in the rain. A condition I'm not used to that added quite a bit of weight to my shoes. In a world where a shoe a few ounces lighter than the other guy is its primary selling point, I really do think that hurt me.
The wind didn't help.
Not sleeping because of a sick child didn't help.
I'm going to believe that the rerouted hill I had to run up and down added distance and time. :)
Never running a half before left me unsure of how it would feel, how to pace, how to run.
It was my first half marathon, I ran every step of it, and finished strong.

By the time we were in the car returning to San Angelo, I was searching for another half to run. Partly because I cannot live with that PR time forever, but also because I don't run near as well when I don't have a race to train for. I need a goal.

And that brings me to the main reason I am proud of myself. In the 8 weeks I trained for my half, I didn't miss one workout because I just didn't feel like it. And don't get me wrong. There were lots of times I really didn't feel like running. But I did. I rearranged my day to allow for runs, ran in the dark, ran early, ran in 95 degree heat, ran in 40 mph gusting winds...When I did miss a run for reasons outside of my control, I tried to make it up, or throw in an extra mile here or there. I was determined! If I could make every part of my life as clear cut as a running goal, I'd be set!

I did not finish in under 2 hours, but I finished a half marathon.

And that's pretty amazing.

Sunshine

He's my son. mine. And I'm not talking flesh and blood. I'm talking soul. His brains. His heart. His insecurities. Him. The insides. 

He's my son. Now, don't get me wrong. He's got some of his dad, too. 

But he's mine. 

And never have I seen this so clearly as I have during this baseball season. 

Mason hasn't played ball in three years. He just didn't want to really. But this year, he asked to play and we very excitedly signed him up. We got the bat and gloves and cleats and uniform. We showed up to the first practice. 

And that's when we first saw it. 

That moment when a kid looks at everyone else and realizes he's not the best on the field. Realizes, in fact, he may be just shy of...the worst. Except it wasn't just a kid. It was my son.

Now, he wasn't all pouty and whiney about it. He didn't cry and beg not to play. He didn't even say he felt like he wasn't good...at first. But nothing he did was good enough. 

He could catch 12 balls and miss one. And all he remembered was the missed one. 

He could throw straight every time...except that one toss. That one stray throw caused the inner scowl I know all too well. 

And then there was batting. After one particular batting practice, he climbed into the car and I said, truthfully, "I think you did great!" 

Eyes full of self loathing and failure, he gritted out the words, "Mom. Three coaches. Three different coaches had to talk to me. About my stance and my swing and where to look and when to swing. I'm the worst batter on the team." 

You know, those are the moments of parenthood that hurt. That cut you to the core. I thought motherhood was tough when they skinned a knee or struggled with long division. But seeing my son, my son whose soul is wrapped in mine, whose every expression and mannerism is a mirror of the person I am, stare straight out the the car window and spit out the words, "I'm the worst..." 

It can kill a mother. 

Especially when that mother says that to herself all the time. 

If he had been crying, that would have helped. Maybe even thrown something, punched the dashboard, fallen into my arms and sobbed - I could have said he was just being irrational. He was just tired. But it was the steely, decided words that so clearly and distinctly marched from his lips that shook me. 

Because, you see, those words have clearly and distinctly marched from my lips a hundred times before. I felt it. I could feel his frustration pulsing through his veins. I could hear the thoughts of self doubt darting through his mind. And I could feel his heart crumpling under the weight of the ever more familiar feeling of simply not good enough. But worse than all of that, was that I knew the true thief of his smile. 

Comparison. 

You can't be the worst at something if you're not comparing yourself to others. You're simply bad. But to be the worst, to say you're the worst, is to look at those around you and decide you don't quite measure up. 

Comparison. The thief of joy.

And I know where my son has learned of this thief. 

Me. 

And that's why that conversation on the drive home from batting practice nearly killed me. At age 31, I still allow comparison to steal my joy. I still peer into the better managed classrooms of other teachers and feel like a failure. I still scroll through the blogs of other photographers and think I should just shut down Sprinkle of Grace. I still walk into the pristine homes of my friends and feel like I'll never be as good a homemaker as them. I struggle with comparison on a nearly daily basis. 

And here I was hearing my son say the word "worst" about himself at age 10. 

Obviously, I tried to convey that the coaches only worked with him so much because they saw so much potential, because he was a hard worker, because he was coachable. And obviously, these words fell on deaf ears. 

As the games and practices continued on, batting was his nemesis. He dreaded it. Fielding was fine. He still struggled some, but he understood where the play was, had a good arm on him, and was almost always in the right place at the right time. But batting... man, oh, man. 

The worst of it was last week, during a game, his team was down by 2 or so, 2 outs, and mason was up to bat. And suddenly, he was "sick." He told his coach he felt like throwing up. It was a hot game, he hadn't eaten dinner, and probably was a little icky. But really, I knew. He knew he'd strike out and he'd disappoint the team, again. I forced him to the plate. And by the grace of God, he actually got hit in the cleat by a ball and was able to take a base and even scored.  You know it's bad when you're actually relieved when your son gets hit by the ball.  

It's one thing if your child is bad at something and doesn't care. Mason thinks he's a terrible artist and couldn't care less. And that's fine with me. But when your child desperately wants to be great at something and just hasn't quite gotten there yet, it's just miserably hard. 

He started to dread games. Loved practices! Dreaded games. I'd catch his eye as he was getting his helmet and they said it all. "Not good enough. The worst. The only kid who hasn't had a hit." I watched his confidence crumble. I watched the thief steal his smile every time a team mate got a hit. 

So, tonight we had a game. For whatever reason, his team was on fire. Maybe it was the free dinner at 3 Parrots Taco they were promised if they won. I don't know. But every single kid was smacking it out of the park. Well, not really out of the park, but they were smacking it. 

Except Mason. He struck out twice. 

But then it happened. No outs and we were in the lead. It wasn't a high pressure situation. Mason was two batters away. I'm sure there is some baseball lingo for that but I'm hoping you all know what two batters away means. 

I caught his eye and he gave me that look. That "i'm the worst" look that literally breaks my heart. I'm not kidding. Breaks my heart.

 And so I prayed. I prayed, with eyes closed and lips silently moving. 

"Lord, I know it's just a silly baseball game. I know. And I know you've got a lot going on right now in Oklahoma. 

(I'm being serious. Literally prayed those exact words. I felt like one of those kids in movies kneeling beside their beds asking for a puppy for christmas or something.)

But, Lord, if you could please just let mason get a hit, just one little hit... please." 

When I opened my eyes, Grant was standing there doing the pee pee dance. 

Now, there's something you need to know about grant. If he's doing the pee pee dance, you gotta go. NOW. 

As I already said, Mason was two batters from batting so I literally grabbed grant and ran to the boy's bathroom. 

Now there's something else you need to know about Grant. He's not a fan of public restrooms. Especially the dark boy ones at the baseball fields. He won't go in alone. So then we ran to the other side for the girl's restroom so I could go in with him. Both stalls were full. So we ran back to the boys. He refused. We ran back to the girls. He goes in and the moment he emerges from the stall I yell, "Wash your hands." as I sprint back to the Mason's game... right as I hear the crowd roar, "MASON!" "WAY TO BUNT, MASON!" "WAY TO GO SUNSHINE!" 

I had missed it. But there was my son. On first base. Grinning ear to ear. And I saw it. I saw him change. In that one split second where the ball hit that unbelievably small bat, it happened. He changed from a "can't" to a "just did". He could hit the ball. He did hit the ball. He earned his base. 

And that moment right there, well, that moment can just about make up for all the glares and frustration and heartbreak. 

He made it all the way home along with several other teammates. They were up by 7. 

When they took the field for the last inning, he got to play short stop. He was still smiling. He even made a sarcastic comeback to a teammate who was reminding him what shortstops do. He was a completely different kid. 

 When the team gathered at the end of the game, Mason was chosen to lead the "1-2-3 Go Rangers!" cheer. Oh, and they call him Sunshine. I'm not sure why, really. But it's not because they're teasing. I think it's partly because of his name. If there's anything i've learned about baseball over the last three months it's that names get changed into all sorts of weird things. Blake to Blaker, Peyton to Paytie... One kid they even call Rooster. But regardless of why they call him Sunshine, the nickname makes him part of the team. And tonight, his smile lit up the field better than any sun ever could.

I don't know what the next three games hold. He may strike out every time. But tonight, Mason was snagged by the magic of baseball. That miraculous moment when the thing you thought was most impossible became possible.

He's my son. And unfortunately that means he may always struggle with the thief of comparison. But not today. Today he won.

He wasn't the best on the team and that didn't matter one single bit.

Because, tonight, he was the best he's ever been.

prayer run for boston

I've been running off and on for about 5 years now. I've always been somewhat hesitant to deem myself the official title of "runner" because I am slightly sporadic during most of the year. But as of Monday, I'm official.
I'm a runner.
I'll put the shoes on and I'll run every dang race I can get to.
Because I can.
I'll run in the hush of dawn and the peace of dusk.
I'll sprint up hills.
I'll dash through intervals.
Because I can.
I'll be fast.
I'll be slow.
Because I can.
I'll wear every racing bib with pride.
Because I can.

Yesterday, as I watched the coverage of the attack on the Boston Marathon, I cried. Yes, I cried because it was sad and horrible and awful. I cried because of the lives lost. I cried because it's just...wrong.
But you know why else I cried? Because of the triumph of the human spirit.
I cried when they showed footage of the heroes running towards the scene, not away. I cried when I heard that a website was set up with a list of names and numbers of people willing to drive people home, offering them a couch to sleep on, a meal to eat.  And I cried because I saw marathoners seconds after the first  bomb went off, still stride for the finish line! Runners don't stop. I cried when I saw that elderly gentleman get blown to the ground, shake it off, and still make it the finish line, because that chip timer is still ticking! I smiled through the tears at their dedication. And I can guarantee you that if those 4000 plus runners who didn't get to finish the marathon could come back next week and do it, they would. Runners don't stop.
 And I cried because for the first time in a long time, we were all Americans again. Patriots, if you will, standing together shaking a collective fist at an unknown enemy. At a time when all you hear about is how much everyone hates everyone, Monday reminded us that what unites us is far greater than what divides us.

And that brings me to the reason for this post. I can't fly to boston and...I don't even know what I would do if I could get there. I don't know what to do. And I think in situations like this we all want to do something. anything. Just so it doesn't feel so out of control.

So on Sunday morning, the day most runners hit the roads, I am doing my own Prayer Run for Boston. During my very slow 10 mile long run on Sunday I'll be praying every step of the way for the citizens of boston, the victims, the runners who were deprived of finishing, the survivors, the families...

I know it's not much. And I'm fairly certain no one in Boston will ever know or perhaps even care that a part time runner from a West Texas town hit the road in their honor, but I'm doing it.
Because I can.

and you can.
The morning of Sunday April 21st, before you put on your Sunday best, lace up your running shoes and hit the streets. Run, jog, walk, sprint, but most of all pray. Let's fill the streets, San Angelo, as we lift our fellow patriots up in prayer.

winter wonderland

It snowed! Beautiful snow. And it wasn't even a school day, so we can completely enjoy it!

It didn't take long for the snowballs to start flying. Gotta love mason's hair in this shot.

Grant bracing himself for the impact of the Bub's snowball.

And Grant's plan for retaliation. 

What I get when I ask this kid to smile for the camera. Nerd. :)

The area behind our house is absolutely beautiful when it snows. All the houses in the distance blend in with the snow so it feels like you're in the middle of a snowy winterland, definitely not smack dab in the middle of San Angelo.

I often wonder if I were to live in a place that had snow far more often if i would become desensitized to its beauty. And I think I might. And for that reason alone I'm so thankful to live in a place where the rarity of such beauty forces me to take notice. 

Of course we had to try a little sledding with whatever resources we had on hand. From this picture you might assume mason was jetting down this hill at remarkable speeds. I actually think he might have been a few inches per mile shy of stationary. 

Hello, Mr. Blue Eyes. I love you and your perfect snowball. 

Again, don't let the expression fool you. While the trash can lid did move a tiny bit faster, we basically failed in the sledding department. 

Well, I don't know if you could call anything that causes those smiles to be a failure. :)

I just love him. And that's why this picture is here. 

little prayers

I just found this picture from Grant's Christmas program. Take a minute to enjoy all the sweetness...

New Years Day Project

Why, hello there, neglected blog of mine. It's been a while. And it will probably be a while before I do this again, but it's new years day, I have no shoots to edit, my children are being entertained by the wonderful gadgets and gizmos Santa brought them, and Troy is at work. So, I thought I'd use my camera *gasp* for personal pictures *double gasp* to share a project I'm working on.

So, as we all know, I'm rather addicted to all things crafty.
I am.
Right now in particular, I'm addicted to anything in the smash booking genre of crafting.
And that's really a lie.
Because, Smashbook is really one very small line of products from a company. I have branched FAR outside of that said line of products. But the basis of the newest strand of my crafting addiction is rooted firmly in the idea that the more odds and ends you have, the better your book will be.
And by those standards, I should have one amazing Smashbook.

Anyway, I wanted to make something that would utilize a lot of the, uh, tools and resources, I have accumulated over the last several months so I came up with a project.

It's kind of like a pre-made journal-scrapbook-calendar thing. I'm making a two page layout for every week starting this week of course. And the book I have takes me to June.

Now, before I start sharing all the wonderfulness, let me preface it all by saying this: I know myself. I know that right now in the middle of my glorious holiday break, it seems as though I will indeed be able to keep up with this idea, and I really truly hope I will, but, like I said, I know myself. More importantly, I know that the spring means one thing - STAAR test. When school starts up, I will be sucked into the vortex known as STAAR prep, and I know that I won't have a moment to breathe. BUT, one must dream! One must have goals and hopes! And one, especially one like myself, must absolutely have some bit of joy in the midst of their insane lives. And I think, completing this journal-calendar-smashbook thing will be that for me.
and if not, well, it's been fun making it today! :)

Now, do you wanna see?!

Each week/layout has:

A Bible verse, most of which have come from the corresponding week of the book, Jesus Calling

A place to jot down the things I'm thankful for that week

A place to write down any cute, memorable, silly or special things the boys do

And a place to write down times and miles. This means I have to, like, actually run, of course. I thought maybe the blank paper laughing at me might motivate me to, ya know, actually RUN. 

I got this cute little Instax camera for Christmas. And I'm determined to not let it sit dusty all year. So, each page has an empty spot waiting to be filled with a snapshot from the week. I might be most excited about this. The film is kind of expensive, but one shot a week - that'll be cool to look back on. And it's a reason to use the camera and a place to put each picture. That picture is from this week. It goes along with the next section. 

Each week also has two To Do list items. These tags are in the cutest little kraft paper baggies. I love all things made of kraft paper. It's a bit ridiculous.

One side of the adorable To Do tag is a major to do list item. Like this one. Thoroughly cleaning our room - closets, under beds, dressers, nooks and crannies...you get the picture. I'm hoping that by Spring Break I'll have done each room in my house...then the list changes into things like fixing/replacing things, doing things for others, and Sprinkle of Grace things. This week I already did my To Do. While Troy was out of town, I completely rearranged all our bedroom furniture, replaced our bedding and cleaned the room like crazy. Felt amazing. 

The other side of the To Do tag is something fun. Like movie night, or game night or buy something pretty for the house, or actually do something I pinned, etc. I'm actually thinking these will be the harder ones to check off. But surely, one item a week is possible!

So, anyway... if nothing else, I smile flipping through the pages I've made thus far. And I'm using all the beautiful hodge podge collection of things I've made. We'll see how it goes from here!