I didn’t intend for 2020 to become the Year of Trying Things I’ve Always Been Afraid to Try Before.
But apparently, it has become just that. (Among other things, which we will forgo discussing in this post.)
I used to run on the treadmill four times a week.
I was pretty proud of myself for it too, although I’d be the first to admit that I was mostly motivated by my desire for endorphins and my love of dessert.
Running on the treadmill has its physical and mental health benefits, for sure. But my daughter who loves to run had long encouraged me to take my workout outside.
“The treadmill is doing a lot of the work,” she’d tell me. “The trail doesn’t move under you; you have to propel yourself forward.”
I resisted for a long time. I’ve never enjoyed running outside. I like to read on the treadmill. Mostly, it just sounded too hard.
But when the quarantine started, I took Lilly up on her offer to become my outdoor running coach. Beginning in March and continuing through mid August when she left for college, we hit the trail by our house—once a week at first, then twice.
Right away, I learned an ego-deflating lesson.
I wasn’t nearly as in shape as I thought, and I had depended on the treadmill far more than I realized.
My dependence showed up in my posture on the trail. I was used to looking down to read books, but running on the trail while looking down is not a good running stance.
Imagine jogging that looks more like a slouchy trudge. It’s as exhausting as it sounds.
I couldn’t see this for myself, but Lilly noticed it early on and pointed it out frequently
“Look up, Mom,” she’d call over or back to me. “Keep your head up!”
I did my best to obey her instructions, despite angry protestations from my lower back. Apparently, running upright uses muscles I didn’t even know I had.
It’s hard to look up, isn’t it?
On the trail by the creek, and especially in life.
When we’re weary, discouraged, disillusioned, depressed. When we’re in a season of grief, of pain, of exhaustion, of waiting, of lament, of wondering what comes next.
It literally takes physical effort to look up. To tear our eyes off our digital distractions. Not to revert to our status quos, our go-to responses, our built-in defense mechanisms. Not to be governed by pride or selfishness or insecurity.
It’s hard, for sure.
It is possible, though, and Psalm 121 shows us how.
“I will lift up my eyes to the hills—from whence comes my help? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” (Psalm 121:1-2, NKJV)
If there’s anything my running lessons have taught me, it’s that I have to make myself look up. Beyond the hills. Beyond the problems. Beyond my shortcomings and weaknesses.
Despite my misgivings, if I lift up my eyes to Jesus, the author and finisher of my faith, I can run with endurance the race that is set before me. (Hebrews 12:1-2)
And so can you.
We can only think about one thing at a time, right? So when we catch ourselves running down those familiar-but-unhelpful rabbit holes again, let’s do something different.
Let’s lift up our eyes to the Maker of the hills. Let’s cast our cares on Him instead of trying to carry them all ourselves. He’s ready and waiting to fill us with what we need, with every good thing, with life and hope and peace.
Months into our runs, Lilly wasn’t telling me to look up anymore. Instead, I heard things like, “You look like a real runner now, Mom.”
Looks are deceiving, of course. Most days I still felt like I was going to pass out before we got home, especially when I didn’t sleep well the night before.
But I kept going.
I’m still going, in fact—plodding along the trail at least one morning a week.
Lilly’s not here to push me, so I’m going more slowly than before. But I’m still looking up.
And you know what? Now it actually takes more effort to run when I’m looking down.
Funny how that works, huh?
♥ Lois
It literally takes physical effort to look up. To tear our eyes off our digital distractions. Not to revert to our status quos, our go-to responses, our built-in defense mechanisms. Share on X Let’s lift up our eyes to the Maker of the hills. He’s ready and waiting to fill us with what we need, with every good thing, with life and hope and peace. Share on XP.S. I’m linking up this week with Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, InstaEncouragements, Recharge Wednesday, #HeartEncouragement, Let’s Have Coffee and Grace & Truth.
Photos by Molly Flowers
It’s kind of hard for me to believe, but last week, the sixth anniversary of this little online space quietly slipped by.
Honestly, it sometimes feels like I’ve only been at this for one or two years. Reality hits, though, when I notice that one of the “Related” links at the bottom of a post leads me to something I wrote in 2014. Where has the time gone?
I cast my first vote in a presidential election on my 18th birthday.
The year was 1988. I went to the city hall in my little town after school and filled out my ballot. It was a rite of passage I’ve never forgotten.
We have let go of so many things this year. I started to make a list, but then I stopped. You have your own list; you don’t need to see mine.
The point is, nearly every single activity or event that we thought might happen since mid March has either not happened or been strangely modified in some way or another. And the only way I’ve been able to cope with all these cancellations and changes is to do what I’ve encouraged my girls to do since the Covid-19 closures began: hold our plans loosely.
It’s not a new message for me. I began grappling with it during our years of infertility, when learning to hold my desires for biological children loosely helped me embrace the beautiful truth that God had other plans for our family.
In the last decade—as we’ve downsized and Randy changed jobs and worked out of town, as we’ve dealt with unexpected health challenges and supported both my parents in their final months of life—this practice has become even more important.
And it’s taken on even greater meaning in recent days when we took our older daughter to college for the first time—in the midst of a global pandemic.
Learn to hold things loosely.
It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? And yet, as I shared last week, that’s the one bit of advice I would share with someone who was about to turn 40 (or any other milestone age, for that matter).
I don’t know if the learning ever stops, honestly. But given all that we’ve already been through this year, I can’t think of a better time to start.
So how do we do it? How do we loosen the death grip we have on our plans, desires, hopes, expectations and loved ones and relinquish them into the loving hands of our heavenly Father?
How exactly, in the year 2020 when nothing is turning out the way we thought it would, do we learn to hold things loosely? I don’t have all the answers, but here are seven practices that might help.
• Ask God to help you loosen your grip, and be specific. Say, “Dear Lord, this particular thing is really important to me right now; let it be less so.”
• Find a friend or mentor who lives like this and learn from his or her story.
• Pray for God’s will to be done, not yours. Over time, I don’t think there’s a more effective way to practice holding things loosely than this.
• Vocalize it. When you feel yourself gripping a future plan or desire tighter, tell yourself, “I can’t do anything about this right now, so I’m going to let it go for the next day (or hour or 15 minutes).”
• Ask God to help you not to worry about tomorrow. (See also Matthew 6:25-34)
• Investigate God’s sovereignty and goodness. He is both, fully and completely. And the more deeply we allow this truth to penetrate our hearts and inform our theology, the easier it is to trust Him.
Finally, especially in 2020:
• When you write in your planner, write in pencil.
♥ Lois
How do we learn to hold things loosely? Pray for God's will to be done, not ours. Share on X How do you learn to hold things loosely in the year 2020? For starters, when you write in your planner, write in pencil. Share on XP.S. I’m linking up this week with Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, InstaEncouragements, Recharge Wednesday, #HeartEncouragement, Let’s Have Coffee and Grace & Truth.
“Any advice for my 40s? I only hear good things about them.”
I read that line recently in an Instagram post, and it sorta stopped me in my tracks for a minute.
It made me want to go down to the basement storage room, dig out the box of letters Randy secretly requested people send me when I turned 40, and see what they had to say about the coming decade. Especially those who were already there, or had been there long ago.
I’m turning 50 in a few months. I can’t wrap my head around it. Fifty still sounds so old.
And yet, my friends who are older than 50 don’t seem old to me. Nor do I feel old personally.
I mean, my knee joints definitely feel older. When I look in the mirror, I see my mom’s saggy upper arms and my dad’s white hair (especially during the quarantine when I went four months between hair colorings). And the bags under my eyes appear more pronounced and wrinkly with every passing year.
But, truth be told, saggy arms and white roots and noticeable eye bags were not new developments in my 40s. Not by a long shot.
At the same time, I think my 40s have been good to me—and for me. In many ways, I’ve experienced what others said would happen in this decade.
I’m more comfortable in my own skin. I’m more confident in my ability to handle hard things and make hard decisions. I’m much more flexible.
I have room to improve in all of these areas, for sure. I also think it’s fair to say I’m not how I used to be, and that’s a good thing.
But the growth didn’t come overnight, nor was it acquired without loss, grief or stress. Had I been in charge of doling out my own life circumstances, I doubt I would have chosen significant portions of what I got.
I can relate to Frodo in the Lord of the Rings, lamenting to his mentor Gandalf about the heavy burden it is to carry the cursed ring.
“I wish the Ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened,” the Hobbit says.
“So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide,” replies the wise wizard. “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”
What happens to us in our 40s—the good, the bad and the ugly—is often not for us to decide. But how we respond? That is entirely up to us.
Ten years is a long time. It might not seem like very long to an octogenarian, but here on the cusp of 50—perhaps for the Instagrammer on the verge of 40, and maybe for you too—it seems like an eternity.
What the next 10 years will hold for us—as individuals, as a country, as a community of believers—is anybody’s guess. Perhaps the only thing we know for sure is that change will come.
Some of it will likely be good; some will probably be difficult. Even changes that are beautiful and joyful may be tinged with sadness—that’s just the nature of life as we get older.
That said, there’s only one bit of advice I would offer someone turning 40—or 50, 30 or 70, for that matter.
Learn to hold things loosely.
Loved ones, expectations, material possessions, homes, desires, dreams, relationships, plans for your future (or your children’s futures)—all of it.
If it’s possible to hold on to something—literally or figuratively—learn to hold it loosely.
• • •
Next week, I’ll elaborate on this counsel a bit and share some ways we can facilitate the learning (it’s an ongoing, lifelong process, at least for me).
In the meantime, if you’re over 40, what bit of wisdom would you share with someone who was about to hit that youthful milestone?
♥ Lois
What the next 10 years will hold for us is anybody’s guess. Perhaps the only thing we know for sure is that change will come. Share on X What happens to us in our 40s is often not for us to decide. But how we respond? That is entirely up to us. Share on XP.S. I’m linking up this week with Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, InstaEncouragements, Recharge Wednesday, #HeartEncouragement, Let’s Have Coffee and Grace & Truth.