So This One Time....

This is one of those stories that I should probably keep to myself, but if you have ever met me…or if you have read any of my previous posts, then you know I have no social filter. Onward we go then? Fantastic.

I never liked jogging. In fact, I thought it was a stupid concept. Run for no reason? Ummm is someone chasing me? No? Well then, a slow stroll should suffice. Now that I have quite a bit of time on my hands I decided to try my hand at jogging. I bought the necessary moisture-wicking tank top, arm band for my mp3 player of choice, some tennis shoes with a handy ventilation system to keep my feet from getting sweaty (ya good luck, shoes) and finally put to good use the 39 pairs of Nike shorts I have lounging about from my sorority days.

And for the past month, things have been just fine. I made friends with the bike cops that patrol the area (safety first, I always say). I even befriended the guy at the locks who has an air conditioned kiosk just in case I heat stroke one day and need a friend (probably going to happen…its Sahara hot outside). It took about a month before I could feel the solid change. Rather than pounding the pavement gasping for air, now I look much more like a graceful gazelle prancing past the tourists waiting on the river barge. Bar a small snake incident that made me look like a complete tool for squealing at a decibel only heard by dogs and kindergarten girls, my jogs have been peaceful and my evenings quiet.

Enter the hobo.

My keen sense of observation is always on full alert during my jogs. There will be no surprise attacks here (sans the snake incident…which doesn’t count because he doesn’t have feet). About a week ago my warning system was on full blast. Sirens blaring, sweat pouring, I jumped when a man said “hey there” from behind a bush. Hey bro, you look creepy behind that bush. You also look creepy because…well...you’re creepy, but it’s broad daylight and I’m feeling optimistic so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. You, sir, are just a hobo.

I know plenty of hobos. There is Cigarette Lady, Dog Man, Maroon Shirt, Bike Guy Larry and now…Bush League (c’mon, those names are clever…and apropos). I live downtown and get my urban on every day. But people are people, even if they live in a box, or a bush as it were.

I thought little of my bush-dwelling friend, but decided to mention it to the officials just in case. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know what could come next, and I’m not having that. I believe in self-preservation. Despite the NRA bumper sticker my dad thought would be a hilarious joke that now elicits comments from co-workers on a daily basis, I am pretty old school on my defense tactics. Hand-to-hand combat, a solid scream….and knife throwing. Okay not really, but if you think about it knives would be the best weapon of choice in a scary movie. Why? The girl ALWAYS finds a knife, the gun ALWAYS breaks. Stabbing too close for comfort? Too bad I can throw this blade at you from a safe 10 feet distance. Oh, hey, good luck crazy killer walking all slow across the house….I just straight shanked you with my Renaissance-style skills.

Back to the bro in a bush.

The authorities were notified and I continued my evening jogs with little change until a few days ago. As I rounded the corner nearest his humble abode, I saw him standing there waving politely…..without any pants on.

Umm, excuse me, sir, I believe you forgot your pants...

Oh, you didn’t forget them? You’re just stark raving mad? My mistake. Carry on then.

Sadly, the evening ended with my friend being taken away in hand cuffs. And that, kids, is why we stay away from drugs.

Ladies and gents, though my hobos are friendly albeit unclothed characters, some are not. So get out there and get your cardio on, but don’t jam so hard to Nelly that you forget the world around you. So grab your Nalgene and your Ipod…and don’t forget your throwing knives, you never know when you might need them.

Cravings

Sometimes I think I’m pregnant.

….and then I realize that the only way that could happen was in Baby Jesus himself took up residence in my womb.

Here’s the thing. I eat like a pregnant woman. I have some serious cravings. Tonight for dinner I ate mac and cheese…and lemon gelato. The only common theme that links those two together is their color, which is a stretch seeing as how mac and cheese is really more of an orange, not yellow.

These phases last months. Rather than allow my taste buds to enjoy a wide range of tasty treats, I stick to one thing, managing to work it into every recipe. Most recently, it has been mushrooms. Other top runners that have made their way into the lineup of my cuisine are onions and spinach. Put those three together? It’s like striking gold…but in my mouth.

Now, when I’m ordering off a menu I look for a few key ingredients. I don’t care how they come: mixed, mashed, broiled, grilled, charred, chopped, flambéed….I don’t even care. Just bring it. Twenty-seven chunks of frozen cookie dough for dinner? You bet. Add in seven sweet potato fries and a piece of swiss and you have yourself a solid meal. It is no longer unusual for me to have three desserts in one day. Excessive? I jog…it’s fine. When I have to start wearing sweats to work because laying on my bed to button my pants no longer works, I’ll consider a change.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate a good meal. Since graduating my palate has changed drastically. Where Taco Cabana was once considered an acceptable meal, fois gras has now steamrolled ahead to sit atop the summit of my culinary endeavors.

Really it comes down to a lack of effort. I just don’t care. Somehow food, which used to be one of the deciding factors of my life has taken a back seat to deadlines, conference calls and quick trips downtown to the agency. In a matter of months, the simple pleasures of cooking a meal at home has been diluted by the wear and tear of a corporate life. Do I love my job? Absolutely.  Does it zap every ounce of energy I have because it’s tricky and thought-provoking? Most certainly.

Growing up is like taking a ride in Wonka’s glass elevator, red button engaged. As I propel forward toward the unknown I realize there are two options: get straight dominated by the impact, or continue onward and upward to greater things. My twenties are that terrifying moment of anti-gravity, when the upward movement defies gravity and you sit, suspended in equilibrium, scared of breaking the spell that has disembodied you from your youth.

There simply comes a time when your priorities must revolve around your necessities. Though I believe in indulging your youthful side and embarking on several adventures that will leave you falling asleep at your desk on Monday morning as you nurse a sunburn and some broken pride because you lost a bet on who could eat the most fresh Serrano peppers (not to mention some wicked heartburn…), I also believe that we must slowly disengage from the antics of our childhood that left no room for responsibilities and even less for consequences.

My naivety whispers lies as I start my nightly ritual at 10pm, saying a few more hours will not hurt. I swallow back tantrums that lurk beneath the surface when I find myself spending yet another day at the office well past 7pm because my heart longs to be communing with friends.

Life doesn’t take the same path for everyone. As I preheat my baby-sized oven to bake the 3 (okay maybe 7) cookies I have decided will make a great post-gelato dessert, I also prepare my coffee pot for the morning that will be all-to-soon knocking at my door, making my morning run seamlessly (alright, lets get real…if a tornado had a baby with a hurricane…it would resemble my morning).  Each life is like a little oven, taking its own sweet time to preheat, and requiring tweaks here and there in the temperature to get your desired squishy inside, crispy outside cookie consistency.

As more of my friends ruin my life by having adorable proposals and marrying the loves of their life (vomit), I find it easier and easier to sink into a pit of self-pity. Woe is me because I’m single…oh wait, that’s right. My single life is just as awesome as their non-single life. Why do we allow ourselves to compare our life course to those around us? There is no template for this journey. Some of us may make a straight shot for the end, and others may ramble about a bit, getting side tracked by laying in the grass for a nap. Whichever path you choose to take is up to you. For now, my cookie remains half-baked…

Jet Setter

I woke up at 4am to catch a flight to Vegas. Sounds like the stuff college stories are made of, right? The true grit that involves a few too many Landsharks (not of the SNL variety), a poolside stint and the inevitable jaunt of a bar or two. Those moments later spoken of in hushed tones (okay bawdy words and freakishly loud laughter) by the old and wise, while the young listen in hopes of gaining a nugget of wisdom. Too bad I was going for work….and going alone.

Strolling through the airport at 5am, my puffy eyes squinting in the harsh fluorescents, betraying my sleep-deprivation to the world, I began my first trek as a business woman. I was the epitome of security-friendly: my carry-on filled with rolled clothes and 3 oz bottles of hair care products, my shoes easy to remove, no jewelry, passport in hand, laptop bag opened and ready to launch. My pride swelled as I chunked the deuce at some weaksauce honeymooners on their way to gamble their wedding presents away. Yo, congrats on your holy wedded matrimony and all, but I’ve got some security to breeze through right now, so get out the way. Oh hey, family of four equipped with baby papoose. You look like a human kangaroo, mind if I scoot past you? I’ve got a conference to attend.

Though I put up a good front, the very idea of traveling alone to a place I’ve never been makes me wet my pants a little, much less going to Las Freaking Vegas. Leaving work, I was bombarded with last minute tips: Hit the strip, don’t work too hard, see a show, eat your body weight in food at a buffet….oh and if you don’t get leads you’re fired (said in jest…I hope). Twelve hours later, I found myself in a beautiful hotel room looking out on the gaudy, self-indulgent land that is Vegas trying to find enough confidence to walk out of my room and down to the pool. Bathing suit clad with my matching cover up, I stood in front of the mirror trying to convince myself no one would think I was pathetic as I sat by the pool reading a book, obviously not part of the social scene bustling around me. It was like my own version of Sarah’s Daily Affirmation.

There are several moments in life that you know will be a turning point. You stand at the edge of the next stage of your life, deciding whether or not the leap of faith will be worth it. After so many years of dreaming and hoping, when it is staring you in the face, do you have the courage to jump? Do you have the guts to take responsibility for your life and make it your own?

Slathered in sunscreen, I took the plunge. I dove headfirst into confident singlehood and headfirst into Vegas.

The jitters melted away in the hot sun and I had one of the most profound epiphanies of my young life…I’m incredibly fun to hang out with.

Traveling alone is like eating alone...on crack. It is exhilarating and stress-free. Granted there are a few downfalls to running a mock as a young blonde, and most come in the form of unwanted advances of the older variety. Six months ago the idea of chatting it up with a thirty-five plus year old would have sounded absurd...what could we possibly have in common? Turns out, quite a bit.

There is something to be said about having an experience that is all your own. Gazing out on the families and couples enjoying the summer sun, watching them splash about enjoying the company of those they love gives me a tinge of jealousy knowing that no one else is here to share this moment. But this moment is mine. I can lock away this memory, selfishly allowing it to linger in the recesses of my mind when I am back in my cubicle. There is no one to converse with, no one needing my attention, no one to work out a compromise with when deciding what is for dinner; it is only me. I can commune internally with the Spirit without interruption; dwell in His presence without reservation. And to think I almost lost this moment to my own timidity.

We are surrounded by so many moments of beauty, beautiful through innocence, joy, intrigue or simply the newness of an instant that a moment ago was mundane. How many gifts of beauty do I miss because I have my eyes on the ground, lost in my own world? How many moments meant to fill my soul have I lost because I was too timid to walk outside in a strange city?  

I took the plunge and I hope that I can continue to walk in the courage of the Creator, never shying away from the glory that he has intended for my life.

Dating Résumé

I think dating may be the worst idea ever. I am one of the most blunt females to ever exist, and yet even I put on a mask of lies before a dinner that will inevitably leave me hungry due to taking dainty bites in hopes of not getting dump in my teeth and will lead me no closer to understanding the person sitting across from me than if we just sat in a movie theater silent as the grave.

On dates, I talk in a voice that sounds like some pre-pubescent choir prodigy, much different than the sweet low hum that usually accompanies my cynical tirades. I refrain from saying all the really inappropriate things that first come to mind. I even do the super cute laugh arm grab thing….which is so unlike me I can’t even stomach it.

I hate first date me. She is the worst.

I’m over being a fraud. I am a hot mess and I embrace that. To find where I am going, I am going to start by figuring out where I am. If you are ready to find your kind of crazy, grab some pens and paper. Think about all the crazy quirks that make you, you, the intricacies that weave the fiber of your soul together. Write that trash down.

 Let’s do this thing.

This Is Me

I am honest to a fault and sarcastic even when compassion is most important. I am a poor loser, yet think turning everything into a competition is a good idea. I love fiercely, cry in earnest, believe until it hurts, remain steadfast when the walls are falling down, and will go down in flames even when the warning signs were apparent. I am the beloved of the King that gave me a grace I could never earn, and the child of a Father that that knows the depths of my heart, yet loves me in spite of that knowledge.

1.       I hate showers. I think they are the worst thing ever and only take them like three times a week. One time, someone had to ask me to shower because I smelled. I decide it’s time to shower when my hair turns brown.

2.       My favorite food is anything that goes between two pieces of bread. I could eat a burger or a sandwich for every meal….veggies? No thanks. I’ll take a heart attack, please.

3.       I talk too much and commandeer every conversation I’m involved in. I’m probably the worst listener ever because I have so many stories to tell, luckily they are hilarious so really it’s just a blessing to the world. This talking bubbles over into the texting realm. I think it is necessary to text someone every single time something funny and/or worth judging happens. Which is a lot. Because…

4.       I am judgmental. It may look like I’m just people watching, but I’m actually people judging. Outfits, body types, stuff in their teeth, how terrible their hair looks, whether they are cute enough to be with the other person at the table, you name it, I’ve judged it.

5.       I am a terrible person.

6.       I think poop is a completely dinner appropriate conversation.

7.       I like hypotheticals more than factual conversation. The following question is the key to life as I know it: “Would you rather eat a poop sicle every day for the rest of your life, or have your only working butthole on your forehead”. I pondered this very question for at least 2 hours of my life…which is a large amount of time for one train of thought  seeing as how I have the attention span of an ADHD 2 year old on its 2^nd day without Ritalin.

8.       When I’m nervous, my palms sweat.

9.       When I’m sleepy, I throw up.

10.   When I’m hungry, I’m short-tempered.

11.   I’m a complete control freak about anything with an RSVP list 3+. I require an itinerary and sticking to a strict schedule…being late will result in a catty flustered mess.  In a party of two, however, playing it by ear is the only way to go.

12.   I talk fat game about being adventurous but when the rubber meets the road, I need someone to go first

13.   If I get lost, I will inevitably start cussing.

14.   I get incredibly emotionally attached to books. So much so that my mood is altered by the happenings of the characters. If I stop on a sad part, I will be sad. If the character is angry….I’m going to be in a terrible mood. So, I only stop when it’s a happy chapter.

15.   There is only one volume. Loud.

16.   My laugh is hearty. Some even say it comes from the loins. I can’t help it. I just let it happen. People stare every time.

17.   My priorities are simple: God, family, friends, career. Fun isn’t a priority because it is an integral part of every moment.

Yeah, seventeen is a weird place to stop…I’m okay with it. This résumé is organic and ever-evolving, like me. But for now…this is where I’m at.  

Rule #27

Dating Lesson #27: For every good date, there are 13 equal and opposite awful dates.

Maybe life is different for those who are okay with following certain social codes like the whole three date rule. Date one: Kiss. Date Two: Make Out. Date Three: Get your freak on. Inevitably this code means you are meeting someone’s unmentionables long before their parents…or even before you know what their favorite color is.

Obviously, my beliefs and my irrational fear of physical touch make this code my worst nightmare. But just because I am swimming against the dating current, doesn’t mean that everyone else is, and it certainly doesn’t mean the guys I find myself sitting across from enjoying a meal on a first date, agree (or in some cases have even heard) with the idea of ‘waiting’.

My friends and I have created a system that would make Dewey question his decimals in order to keep all of the guys straight. I get it…it sounds like I date a lot, which is untrue. There are simply a lot of small lessons learned, many before a date even actually takes place. Our naming system is pretty detailed. We name them arbitrarily based on what we remember most. This scientific method has produced the following characters: creepy, pickles, tiny, Socrates, thuglife and “I’m going to punch that guy in the face” (he had a name once…it was stripped from him due to some emotional complications he created).

In college, it was rare to date someone you knew nothing about. Typically, you had mutual friends and even knew the guy well before your first one-on-one happened. Nowadays, it’s like flying blind into a sexual battlefield. Enter: Creepy.

Creepy is a classic example of giving people a chance. My idea of a first date is dinner and a delightful conversation filled with witty banter from about 5 feet away. You can’t be too careful. Modern day birth control is sketchy at best; abstinence and a healthy respect of personal bubbles are my cup of tea (ignore the fact that a male within 2 feet of my person makes my entire body break into a sweat that looks like I just ran a marathon…in the rainforest). Creepy’s first date idea is a cordial how-do-you-do followed by a handshake and then a romp in the sack (followed by post hanky-panky drinks and a light discussion of your childhood, of course…he isn’t a caveman).

Clearly, Creepy and I weren’t on the same page, which was evident by the pool of sweat I was sitting in by the end of the night as I watched my personal bubble slowly dwindle into nothing.  Besides the guy I fell into when I tripped the other day, I haven’t touched a guy in like seven months , and this guy certainly wasn’t going to be cause me to break my hiatus. I believe the Heisman I was forced to give him towards the end of our delightful evening may have given him the hint…that and the 30 minute explanation I had to provide as to why my pants were still firmly in place.

We were called to be in the world, but not of it. We measure so many things on a different scale than those around us, our sexual lives are no different. When most people are hitting home runs within the first month, it is bound to draw some attention when your idea of a home run is a forehead kiss and snuggling on the couch while watching a good action flick, and if you are feeling a bit risky, turning the lights off (scandalous, right?!).

So get your G-rated Christian snuggle on. You know the one I’m talking about, curl up with a wholesome individual, keep some room for Jesus in there, enjoy a great conversation about whether Chris Tomlin or Jeremy Camp make better summer camp worship leaders, decide what kind of pie you are going to bake together on your 3^rd date, giggle profusely if you get a forehead kiss and then call your friends to discuss the waffle vs pancake handholding that went on.

Rooted

My twenties have only just begun and yet they have already been a defining period of my life. I fell in love, had my heart broken, got my first speeding ticket, signed my first lease, found my first job, graduated from college and started fresh. By your mid-twenties you should be capable of taking care of your own place (be it apartment, house or cardboard box), you should know what music you truly like, be able to eat alone, buy an outfit without needing a second opinion, and have the self-control to say, no, when yes just isn’t an option.

It is a time for drifting and discovering. Most friends that I keep in touch with lament about the same feeling of unmapped wandering. We don’t quite know where we are headed, but we do know where we have been. A brick wall lingers slightly above my head, threatening to rock my world, when I allow my thoughts to stray towards the future.

On a recent work outing I learned more about Cypress trees than I bargained for. Ziplining high above the ravines of the Hill Country, our harness-clad guide explained the secret behind the success of the Cypress. As these giants grow taller, a creature begins to eat away a tunnel system within the confines of the trees trunk, which grants the tree flexibility and other positive adaptations otherwise unknown to the species. Without this symbiotic relationship, neither would be as strong as they are now. Both pour into the other, bringing life to the partnership. If nothing were being taken out of the tree, its rigidity would lead inevitably to destruction.

Have we become so accustomed to our roots that we are unable to bend when the wind blows everything its got?

Stability is the least important thing that roots provide to the trees that line the river I jog beside on my evening outings. These tendrils traverse cement and stairs, creep down bridges, and drill deep into the unbreakable earth unhindered by drought or man, all in search of nutrients. The foundation laid is a by-product of the tree’s need for life-sustaining elements. These trees watch my progress as each step takes me closer to my destination. They are less selfish than I am, providing comfort from the sahara-like sun…and the very air that I am currently gasping in quantities that make the tourists stare.

 It would be naïve to believe that God didn’t create this parallel for a reason.

No tree ever survived that had one fat root attempting to harvest the water needed for the entire tree. It outlasts the seasons by spreading itself out, seeking vitalization from multiple sources, branching out in all directions. When a seed buds, not only does it send a sprout upward, it also sends its first root down, called the ‘radicle’. Fitting. The radicle is the plant’s anchor, from it sprouts root hairs that are responsible for absorbing water to sustain the plant.

It is easy to bunker down with a few choice relationships, post-apocalyptic style, stock-piling mysterious canned meats and veggies, never needing to step out into the streets or talk to a stranger. Even easier to convince yourself that those relationships are about the people in them, a lie I have told so many times, I actually believe it. Each relationship God placed in my life is a direct result of the radical love from which it sprouted.

My stability can come only from the Prince of Peace that grounds me through love and justice, loaning me some of his most beautiful creations to commune with as we journey down this path of life. No loan will ever be as sweet as the shoulder I can cry on and the arms that wrap themselves around me, allowing me to leach the nutrients from their God-filled souls.

People enter and exit your life in rapid succession, each relationship just another stem of your radicle, there to nourish one another during your time together. From the prayer-warrior taking my deepest wounds to the throne, to the evening shift worker at the locks and dam, letting the river taxis through, who willingly offers a smile, a towel to wipe the embarrassingly large amount of sweat from my face, and the air-conditioning of his small kiosk atop the dam to me when my mind out-jogged my physique, each encounter used by God to love me in such intimate ways.

I offer you no advice, simply an account of God’s ceaseless work in my life. May your radicle be rooted in the richness of His word, digging ever deeper towards the I Am. May your nourishment be a two-way street, never selfish. May the love you receive be poured out on those around you and may the trials in your life serve only to make you more flexible for those yet to come.

Spin Cycle

When you live in a building that was erected in the 1800’s there are certain modern amenities you learn to live without. Many of those things were easy to get used to. I learned to live with an oven that barely rivaled my childhood Easy Bake. I learned that no matter how hard you scrub 50-year old tile, it will not sparkle like new. I learned that garbage goes south quickly in the stifling heat that envelopes my apartment during the day. I even learned how to not singe my eyebrows while lighting my radiator and stove. No big deal, apartment, I can handle it.

One thing I am still coping with is spending an entire afternoon at the Laundromat.

There are only so many times you can re-wear a pair of jeans before coworkers start to get creeped out. My Gucci perfume can only do so much. It isn’t magic. I even invested in another hamper to help house the growing mountain of laundry that accumulates during my 3 week stint of avoiding the Quick-n-Clean that is just a block away. 

My pre-church shower is now rendered useless by the heat that accompanies my laundry days. My thighs are marinating in a lake of sweat in the bucket seat I occupy watching my clothes enter the spin cycle. As my clothes get cleaner, I get dirtier. 

Like many other privileged kids, during my youth I associated laundry mats with “bad people”, the people who lived on the wrong side of the tracks, the ones that were great for ministering to, but not for fellowshipping with.  Its rows of empty machines seemed somehow sinister, like getting caught there would be akin to getting caught in a dark alley late at night. Now, it is simply my hang out spot. 

God has thrown me so far out of my comfort zone in the past six months that looking back requires some binoculars. I no longer clutch my purse every time a strange man comes within a 10 foot diameter. Now, he is simply a neighbor…here to get the sweat stains out of the shirt that covers his back as he works to feed his children. His sins no deeper than the judgment I gently kneed from the fabric of my life with each step I take towards adulthood.

Washaterias aren’t known for their high class machines. The delicate cycle is a laughable concept. Your water options are warm, hot or magma, and the dryers shoot hellfire and brimstone rather than the warm air that fluffed my linens in my mom’s Maytag. The Sunday crew is a team. We share rolley carts, remind each other that 48 runs hot and 62 eats your money, we share bleach, laugh at the sweat dripping down our faces, and scold ourselves for waiting until the last minute to do a chore we’ve known about all weekend. We are all here for the same purpose, getting clean. 

Here, no one hides their dirty laundry. My panties have hit the floor a dozen times, my lacey unmentionables even drawing jokes from the older women who long ago gave them up for a more practical alternative.  You get to watch your clothes swim through the suds, one step closer to being dirt-free and ready for the world once again. The water slowly turning darker as the water washes them clean. That’s the thing about getting clean, there’s nothing clean about it. 

I’ve long fooled myself into believing that redemption is pretty, like birth. In theory, birthing a child is beautiful, in execution, it is messy at best. Though, as I sit here watching the dirt get extracted from each cotton fiber by force, I realize that my salvation looks more like the spin cycle than the rosy picture I once believed. 

God never promised us that his discipline would be gentle. We do not have a tag with instructions saying “Hand Wash Only”. He doesn’t have to treat us like my unmentionables and place us in our own little net bag, zipped up safe and sound, protected from the tumultuous force of the jolting water. He throws us in, dirty and soiled, knowing that in the churning waters, our healing will begin.

His discipline is the last thing my flesh desires. It hurts. It stretches. It is hard. But He only disciplines His children and that title is worth sleepless nights, fallen tears, broken hearts and a multitude of other wounds that only He can heal. 

I, like my favorite pair of jeans, am in constant need of laundering (not the illegal kind...the hygienic kind). This season of life is a blur of changes and growth, and if I’m being completely honest…a bunch of me time, me and God to be precise. He has dumped me into the spin cycle and though I am dazed, uprooted and often bewildered, I know that on the other side of this whirlwind lies a wholeness that I do not yet know.

We are called to obey, to persevere and to do it all with joy in our hearts. No one ever said it was going to be easy, but we are promised the strength to survive our spin cycles. Even when it feels like you can no longer keep your head above water, take heart, the more chaotic the waters, the cleaner you will become.  

Hebrews 12:1-13 (The Message)

^1-3Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we'd better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit! No extra spiritual fat, no parasitic sins. Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we're in. Study how he did it. Because he never lost sight of where he was headed—that exhilarating finish in and with God—he could put up with anything along the way: Cross, shame, whatever. And now he's there, in the place of honor, right alongside God. When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he plowed through. That will shoot adrenaline into your souls! 

 ^4-11In this all-out match against sin, others have suffered far worse than you, to say nothing of what Jesus went through—all that bloodshed! So don't feel sorry for yourselves. Or have you forgotten how good parents treat children, and that God regards you as his children?

   My dear child, don't shrug off God's discipline,
      but don't be crushed by it either.
   It's the child he loves that he disciplines;
      the child he embraces, he also corrects.

God is educating you; that's why you must never drop out. He's treating you as dear children. This trouble you're in isn't punishment; it's training, the normal experience of children. Only irresponsible parents leave children to fend for themselves. Would you prefer an irresponsible God? We respect our own parents for training and not spoiling us, so why not embrace God's training so we can truly live? While we were children, our parents did what seemed best to them. But God is doing what is best for us, training us to live God's holy best. At the time, discipline isn't much fun. It always feels like it's going against the grain. Later, of course, it pays off handsomely, for it's the well-trained who find themselves mature in their relationship with God. 

 ^12-13So don't sit around on your hands! No more dragging your feet! Clear the path for long-distance runners so no one will trip and fall, so no one will step in a hole and sprain an ankle. Help each other out. And run for it!