I Made It Home For Christmas

We all come from somewhere. When I think of my childhood I remember our big house on Long Island, full of love and fun, and only a few blocks from the bay.  I spent summers crabbing and fishing and swimming in the ocean.  And it was wonderful.  I also spent a lot of time in church.  Good old St. Mary's Roman Catholic Church in East Islip.  It was big and white and full of stained glass and musty pews.  It had no air conditioning and on summer days we would turn our church bulletins into fans and wave our faces, desperate for a breeze.  We sat, we stood, we knelt, we sang, we shuffled up the aisle to take communion.  We stopped for donuts on our way home, sweet and delicious, to be savored at home while reading the comics.  It was a tradition that shaped my beliefs, even if I didn't give it much thought.  I prayed on Sundays, and if times were tough, prayed during the week too.  I believed, but back then it was easy to believe.  My life was just beginning.    

I never stopped believing, not really.  It was more that my faith went dormant, buried under a busy life.  Moving from New York to Atlanta and then to Indiana, we never found a church that felt right. We started raising our kids and weekends were packed with chasing them around, and then dropping into bed exhausted, only to start it all over the next day.  And then Sam was diagnosed with autism.  I didn't blame God, but I did beg Him to make it not true.  I bargained, I cried, I denied it could be true.  But it was true, and I forged on, seeking treatments and therapies, joining a support group and slowly accepting this new reality.  There have been moments with Sam that have brought me to my knees, literally.  It is an indescribable grief to know that the child you love will always be different, always be challenged and never live independently.  I learned to not ask God to cure Sam, but to help me be strong for him and to follow the best path.  So like I said, my faith was always there, patiently waiting.  

And this brings me to where I am today.  Still a mom, still busy, still tired.  But my faith has returned, and it is as if all those years it lay dormant gave it the energy it needed to surge into my heart and take hold.  Grace Community Church is nothing like St. Mary's.  There is no stained glass, no musty smell and honestly no small town charm about it.  It is huge, and it looks like an airplane hangar, as many have pointed out.  But it's the people, the heart and soul of this huge building, that have brought me back. Only a few months after we started attending, Danny made the choice to be baptized at Grace.  He wrote his testimony, read it aloud on a Sunday, and was immersed into the baptismal pool, emerging as a committed follower of Christ.  That moment was like a miracle to me, knowing that Danny had found faith, despite a childhood void of religion (something which been a great source of guilt for me).  There have been so many moments like that in the six short months we have been attending Grace.  

But here's the biggest thing; Sam is going to church, and therefore, we are all going to church as a family. The very thing that most take for granted, and probably grumble about as they pile into the car on Sunday mornings, makes my heart soar.  Sam goes to bible study with other kids who have special needs.  There are kids with autism, kids in wheelchairs, kids who talk, kids who can't.   They get to play with awesome toys, and have fun, patient buddies who volunteer their time to hang out with them.  They watch videos about the Bible, talk about what they learned, and pray.  Sam has led prayers and at the end he says "Love, Sam" instead of Amen.  It's like he is writing a love letter to God, and I treasure this more than I can express.  The women who run this ministry are angels.  They are warm, welcoming and serve God by helping kids like Sam have a relationship with Him, at whatever level they can.  They have welcomed us with open arms and Sam loves his time with them.  Of course I wish Sam could be worshiping with Bob, Danny and I and the rest of the congregation, but knowing he is just down the hall, having fun and learning with people who love him, is plenty.  Almost every service brings me to a moment when I cry tears of joy. To be sandwiched between Bob and Danny, listening to beautiful music and sermons which touch my heart, is a happiness that overwhelms me with gratitude.    

We will be celebrating Christmas at church this year.  I will be thanking God for my blessings, and I have so many.  My life is rich with love and friendship, and I my faith is strong.  I see God in the faces at Grace and feel Him in my heart.  So many years later, I am home for Christmas.   

 13(.1) is my Lucky Number

On Saturday I ran in the Indianapolis half marathon.  I have run this race many times over the last ten years since we've moved here, but it is always a challenge, and always a thrill.  Last year I skipped it and while I had some regret, race day turned out to be cold, windy, and rainy,  and so it was with great satisfaction that morning that I smugly stayed in my bed and left the running to more dedicated types.  But this year I registered early and began my training in the summer.  It's really not a big deal .  Just run moderate runs during the week and then a longer run on the weekend.  Each week an extra mile on that Sunday morning trek out and back.  I ran on my own during training, my ipod keeping me company with audiobooks playing in my ears to distract me from the miles.  It is like having someone talk to you and not having to talk back, thereby saving precious oxygen.  Sometimes I would listen to music, but the books were preferred on the long runs.  It's great to read a good book and never have to turn a page! 

I capped out my training with some two-hour runs, figuring that this would bring me close enough to the 13.1 mile mark.  Anything extra I needed on race day would come from adrenaline, the spectator energy, and a prayer.  On Friday I went to the race expo and picked up my packet, which included my race chip, number (cool, it had my name printed on it!) and  tee shirt.  It is fun to go to those expos.  Lots of energy and excitement with the anticipation of the race the next morning.  There were also vendors with free samples of something called "muscle milk" (no thanks, my muscles do ok without their own milk) and runner gels (you squirt them out into your mouth as you run to get some extra energy).  I've never tried them and figure I'll leave those to the marathon runners.  I can make it a couple of hours without having to deal with that gooey mess. 

The night before I ate lightly and drank some extra water, not wanting to have any worries about a full stomach on race day morning.  I don't know much about carb loading, but figure at this point, what I eat the night before it not going to make or break my race experience.  I laid out my clothes for the morning, pinning my race number to my shirt, and including an old t-shirt of Bob's to wear on top and eventually discard when it warmed up a bit a few miles into the race.  Up early the next day and out the door before 7 a.m. for an 8:30 race start. 

There is nothing like the pre-race atmosphere.  When you get up early on a Saturday you feel like you are the only one awake in the world.  You drive out of your neighborhood and every house light is out, the moon still up in the sky.  But then you arrive at the race and can't imagine why everyone wouldn't want to be there!  People talking, laughing, and taking pre-race photos.  Lines at the port-a-potties, the smell of Ben-Gay in the air.  Some people jog around to warm up, others sit on a curb and gather their thoughts.  I found my corral, the area where you wait for the start, organized by your expected finishing time.  Music is blaring from speakers, motivational songs like the theme from "Rocky" and more contemporary tunes from the Black Eyed Peas.  Overhead is a humungous American flag, hanging from a giant crane.  This tradition began in 2001 when the race was run in the shadow of 9/11.  I was at the race that day and there was a palpable heaviness in the air.  Someone sang "God Bless America" that morning before the race and tears flowed freely. It was all still so raw that day and the emotions spilled over.   The flag always looks majestic, offset by the deep blue sky of the morning and this year a local singer sang the national anthem with a cool country twang.  Runners applauded their approval and waited for the start, bouncing, shaking and shimmying with pent up energy.   

When you are in corral G (for the slow folks!), the start of the race is a bit anti-climactic.  You hear the gunshot but rather than taking off, you just stand there.  Little by little you inch further up to the start line and about three to four minutes later you finally are off and running!  It takes time to settle into your pace; the crowd is thick (over 6000 runners) and the adrenaline is pumping.  I typically take a few miles to find my rhythm and I try not to run too fast.  I listened to my audiobook and thought about all of my training, reassuring myself that I could do it! 

The course was beautiful.  The beginning miles wind through older neighborhoods and up the main road off the highway, but then you get into the middle miles, which are in the park.  This time of year  there are moments that take your breath away.  The leaves were red, gold and brilliant orange and we passed by small lakes that reflected the fall colors and the blue sky.  I took time to thank God for the ability to run, and looked to the sky to say hello to my dear mother, who I know was cheering me on.  There were water stops every few miles, manned by enthusiastic volunteers.  They handed out water and words of encouragement, much appreciated by all of us. 

Okay, so here's the thing.  Two hour training runs seemed sufficient, but I didn't take into account that my pace has slowed over the years.  My best race time ever was one hour, fifty two minutes.  This year, at two hours, I was only at mile 10!!  Oy, that was not a good feeling.  But then I considered how awesome it is just to be able to run this distance at all, and how really cool it is to be out there with so many other happy runners.  And I kept plugging.  A few of the hills were imposing, and I decided to walk them and save my legs for the less challenging terrain.  Miles 10 and 11 were the most challenging; too far from the finish to get excited and my legs were growing more weary with each step.  But the spectators seemed to sense my fatigue and cheered me on.  Having your name printed right on your race number is a brilliant idea.  When you hear someone yell "You can do it Laura!", you just have to smile and say thanks.  You don't know these people at all, but you feel like they know you and want you to make it. 

Somewhere along mile 12 the course splits and the runners doing the full marathon run one way, and the rest of us run the other.  I watch the marathoners plod off at that fork in the road and am amazed, knowing that they are not even halfway to their destination.  It really is an incredible fete and something I would love to do (but probably not enough to actually do it!).  The rest of us turned towards the finish line and somewhere deep inside I found a bit more spunk, and small kick in my stride.  I switched from audiobook to music, some Bruce Springsteen serenaded me down the stretch.  I sang along out loud, so grateful for the sight of the finish, and the promise of a medal to hang around my neck.   I always get tearful at the end, so full of happiness, pride and gratitude for my blessings.

And a bit of comic relief...as I was closing in on the finish line, the crowd was screaming and cheering me on.  To the point where I felt incredibly humbled  and a bit shocked by their adoration.  I should've known something was not quite as it appeared.  I heard some honking behind me and turned around to see that just a few yards back there was a runner speeding towards the finish, flanked by two motorcycles with flashing lights and honking horns.  You guessed it, the winner of the full marathon was finishing his race as I was finishing my half marathon.  I laughed at the irony and tried not to feel too pathetic.  He ran twice the distance as me in the same time.  Awesome! 

But that is the thing about running.  There will always be runners faster than you, and slower too.  It doesn't matter because for me, running is something I do for myself.  I wasn't born in Kenya, and I love chocolate and relaxing way too much to ever be an elite athlete.  But as I walked back to my car on shaky legs, my medal glinted in the sunlight and I might as well have won the race.  I hope to be back next year, and will try to outrun the Kenyan by a few extra steps!

The Realities of Realty

Our house has been on the market for about six weeks.  This whole adventure began in the late summer when three homes on our street were listed and sold within a month. While the rest of the country is in a real estate slump, Indianapolis has somehow been less affected.  Low interest mortgage rates also helped our decision; it is a great time to buy with housing prices offering plenty of bargains.  When a house in our favorite neighborhood practically fell in our lap, it just all seemed meant to be.  This house was not only all we wanted in size, style and location, it also happened to be next door to Danny's best friend and we made an offer before it was even offically listed.  Again, it all seemed like fate as the offer was accepted immediately. 

We set to work cleaning up our house in preparation for sale.  We spent hours and hours, days and days, cleaning and decluttering.   The basement, which had been Sam's boy cave, was transformed to an organized space with exercise equipment tucked into one corner, futon situated by the "entertainment area" and Bob's guitars and music stand placed strategically into another corner.  Sam's trains were placed into bins and he had to cut down from two train tables to one.  We all have to make sacrifices!   Every room in the house was cleaned and staged to accentuate the positive.  Wicker chest (great place to put our shoes!), once located in the foyer, was whisked away, replaced by an accent table and vase of fresh flowers.  Lumpy, but oh so comfortable, oversized chair was relocated from the family room to the basement.  Personal photos were boxed up; apparently family photos can detract from selling as potential buyers might not be able to imagine themselves in your house if they see your wedding photo hanging over the bed.  It's all a game but we are willing to play.

We set the price, crossed our fingers, and boarded the roller coaster.  And that is exactly what it has been.  The first weekend we had two showings.  I imagined immediate offers and wondered what we would do if we needed to close on this home before our new one was vacant.  Thoughts of temporary living in an apartment, most of our things in storage...reality.  No immediate offers, and six weeks later, no offers at all.  We've had nine showings.  Nine times we left the house so that someone could invade it, open up cabinets, critique our taste in decor, and eat the  Hershey kisses left on the kitchen counter with sales flyers.  And nine times we got seller's feedback, sometimes positive (they loved the location), and sometimes negative (foyer too small, kitchen cabinets insufficient, carpet a bit worn).   The last showing was on Sunday night at 8 pm.  Terribly inconvenient but you never say no to a potential buyer.  We piled in the van at 8 and headed to a McDonalds to sit and watch the Colts game (thank goodness for high end McDonalds with flat screen tv's).  We returned to the neighborhood at 9 and saw that there were two cars in the driveway.  We parked down the street, doing surveillance on our own house.  Our hopes were high as we saw the realtor and young couple come out of the house and stand in the driveway chatting.  Finally they left and we rushed Sam off to bed and hoped for an offer the next day.  Should have known better.  Their feedback included such charming comments as our kitchen was awkward, master walk-in closet too small, and basement carpet should be replaced.  I was irrationally furious.  If you are going to ask for a late Sunday evening showing, and extend it past an hour by standing in our driveway a few extra minutes shooting the breeze, you NEED TO BUY MY HOUSE!!!!  We are at the mercy of a market glutted with homes.  It is like playing the lottery and wondering when, and if, your numbers will come up.  It is enough to keep me up at night and has me watching shows on the HGTV channel called "Sell My House" and "House Hunters" for tips.  I can't remember what life was like before this all began, but I miss that simplicity and just want this all to be overwith. 

But hope springs eternal for the next showing and I have become a domestic goddess, albeit a cranky one.  Every morning I make the beds, open the blinds just enough to show off the great views out our back windows (but not so much that you can see the dirt that won't come clean between the window panes), and wipe down the counters.  I am sure many people clean like this regularly even when their house is not on the market, but I am not one of those people.  I sweep, I mop, I wipe down baseboards.  I prune the mums, fluff the pillows, keep our linen closets as neat as Marth Stewart's.  It is exhausting. 

I hope one day (soon!!!), we will get that happy phone call from our realtor that we have an offer.  I think I will dance in my (immaculate) kitchen and kiss my cats.  I will then be able to finally get excited about the new house.  This house we are selling has served us well but it is time to move on.   The new house has a big yard and a three car garage, and big bedrooms for the boys that will hold more than just a bed and dresser.  And Danny has many friends living up and down the street.  We'll be able to go to the neighborhood pool in the summer and enjoy the tennis court.  We will spend time preparing Sam for the move and I think he will actually be really excited about the new house.  The basement has two big rooms; he can have one all to himself for his trains and games.  We will let him choose his bedroom, and maybe the color of its walls.  Bob and I will sit on the screened porch during thunderstorms and look back on this crazy time and laugh, or at the very least give a huge sigh of relief that it is over.  

Goodwill Hunting

Goodwill; what does that word mean to you?  Being kind to your fellow man?  Certainly, and that is about all I would have said up to about a year ago.  But now when you say Goodwill, I say, "Let's go!"   Shopping at Goodwill is a new joy in my life and I am not ashamed to admit it!  For years I was a fan of the place, but only because it was an easy answer to what to do with all the junk I cleaned out of my closet or garage a few times a year.  It felt a lot better to bring it to Goodwill than to throw it in the trash.  There is something cathartic about arriving there in a car loaded down with old sweaters, outdated shoes, and neglected sporting equipment and leaving minutes later with a tax receipt and an empty trunk.   And sort of fun to think that my discards might end up with a new, grateful owner.  Hey, you never know who might like that oversized Christmas sweater from the 80's or size 4 soccer cleats that Danny wore with pride for one season!

It is only in the past year or so that I began enjoying the other side of the Goodwill experience...the shopping.  I sometimes think it would be more accurate to call it treasure hunting as you really never know what you might find.  My friend Marie is a Goodwill professional and we often call one another to brag on our latest bargains.  My favorite finds so far?  A brown velvet jacket (Lands End brand) that I bought for $5 and a pair of leather clogs in pristine condition (Macy's brand) that I got for $1.  Oh, and most recently, a 27" television (with remote) that I found on a half price day.  Price guess?  $17.  Applause!!  It replaced the tv in our bedroom and is actually nicer than the one we had. 

The other thing that I love about Goodwill shopping is the atmosphere.  There is no "typical" Goodwill customer. I have seen senior citizens puttering around the housewares, children playing with the stuffed animals, and well dressed professionals browsing through the clothing racks.  And there is something about that experience, a bit of comradery as we are all on the hunt together.  No one is ever rude or pushy, just taking their time, respectfully standing elbow to elbow while searching for that special something.  Some of the employees have disabilities, and that just makes me love the place even more.  The other day I was browsing through some framed prints and a young male employee came over and asked if I was tired.  I told him that I was fine, but wondered why he asked.  He said that I looked like I just woke up (insulting if that came from anyone else, but this young man was so well meaning and pure of spirit that I just found myself laughing).  I assured him that I'd been up for hours getting my kids off to school and we had a nice discussion about the good and bad of being a parent.  He told me he was not going to have kids because they were too much trouble.  I smiled and said that sometimes I sure agreed with that!  Then I wondered if Sam could maybe work there one day.  It might be a great place for him to have a job, and hmmm, wonder if there is an employee discount could be extended to his mom?

Last week I stopped at a Goodwill in search of a mirror for our foyer.  Sure, I could find one at Target but that's not nearly as fun as a Goodwill quest!  When I parked the car I noticed a man sitting on the curb at the side of the building.  He was wearing full camoflauge and beside him was a bicycle loaded down with bags.  It was apparent to me that he was possibly homeless, all of his possessions being carried on two wheels.  A few minutes later he came into the store and wandered over to the corner of the store where I was shopping.  He crouched down and began talking to himself, and laughing, and looking at me furtively.   I just continued with my shopping, unconcerned for my safety, not at all annoyed with his muttering.  Afterall, this is Goodwill, and there is always plenty of that to go around.   

Education Integration...No Easy Answers

With school starting next week, my thoughts turn to education, and more specifically, how Sam is best educated.  There continues to be much debate on how to integrate kids with special needs into the general education classroom.  It is such a complicated thing. On paper inclusion sounds like it should just happen. It’s good for all kids, right? The special needs kids want to be with typical kids, and the typical kids can learn from the special needs kids, how to be compassionate, how different is not scary, how all kids have gifts to share. But what is the reality of it all? I can only speak for Sam, and maybe I shouldn’t even speak for him. (As you can tell from the photo, the kid marches to his own drummer!)  But I will try to be his voice. Sam doesn’t care about inclusion. Sam’s autism is most severe in his social abilities. So it is really hard for him to be around kids who talk fast, play in complicated ways, and expect him to keep up. Sam has trouble with spontaneity, changing gears from one activity to the next, and this is how most kids play. In academics, he is reading at a 2nd or 3rd grade level. He can’t do multiplication, doesn’t understand fractions, and does not understand the word history, no less comprehend that Indiana has a history. We are still working on basic learning, teaching functional skills that will help him to live a more independent life as an adult. I have no time for formalities, and I am past really caring if he is included, unless it works for Sam. He seems happiest in his special ed. class where there are only about 9 kids and they all know him well. They have space to move around, know their schedule and know what is expected of them. When Sam is in his comfort zone he thrives; he talks more, interacts positively and gets his work done. When he is out of his comfort zone he shuts down, mutters repetitively and lashes out. It is hard for me to push for inclusion for him and almost embarrassing at times that I don’t. Is it my fault I don’t push harder? Am I taking the easy way out? I just want Sam to have a positive experience in school, and to have the best chance to learn and thrive and feel good about himself. When he is in the general ed. classroom, I feel like he loses all his self esteem, feels lost and confused and withdraws inside himself. It is not the utopia of caring and sharing that we’d like to envision when we think of inclusion. It is complicated and messy and like anything else in life, full of gray areas.

That being said, it is evil, hateful and wrong for others to shun special kids and not welcome them into their homes, classrooms and parks. And it trickles down from the parents to the children. Children learn what they live; if they are taught love and acceptance, they will gladly open their worlds to others who don’t look or act like themselves. If they are raised by parents who focus on appearances, getting ahead and self-centered behavior, they will look down on others, have no tolerance or patience, and enjoy hurting others if they get attention for it. Our schools need to work harder to figure out ways to help our kids feel special, to not hide their classrooms in the back corners of the school and have them eat in a group at the corner lunch table. As parents we need to get out there and educate others about our kids; lack of information leads to fear and uncertainty. Information breeds understanding and compassion. We need to be out there at parks, museums, grocery stores, churches, letting our kids be who they are. Yes, they will be looked at, maybe avoided, and it will be hard for us moms to cope with that. But along with that, we might be changing things, a little at a time, and that is a battle worth fighting. It is hard; God knows we have enough on our plates raising our kids without needing to help the rest of the world get with the program. Some moms are warriors and have a take no prisoners attitude; others are softer and choose different battles. We all have to follow our own paths and help our kids follow theirs too.  I walk with Sam on his path, and am both honored and nervous to see where it leads.  At times I would like to borrow that nose/glasses disguise from him as I flub and flounder my way on this journey, but I try to listen to my heart and help him find a balance between permission to be who he is and a challenge to learn from the rest of the world.   

So Close, Yet So Far

Years ago, it was typical for family to live near one another.  The home where you grew up was the base, and when you married, you  would live in that same city, sometimes in that very same neighborhood.  The extended family was a wonderful network of support and love, gathering for birthdays and graduations, cousins growing up together as close friends.  Somewhere along the line, that tradition changed for many.  Maybe it was the job market that called to another city, or the sense of adventure that enticed one to leave the familiar behind and move to a new part of the country.  I grew up on Long Island, and as much as I enjoyed living there as a child and through college, I never considered staying.  Being the youngest of five, I saw my older siblings move from New York to places like Texas, Maryland, and California.  We are a close family in heart, but not necessarily in geography. 

Bob and I moved to Atlanta soon after marrying and settled down near one of my sisters. We enjoyed the low cost of living and warm winters. We shared holidays and barbecues with my sister and her family, and it was delightful...while it lasted.  A few years later she and her family were called to move to Florida and we stayed in Atlanta, eventually moving to a neighborhood where we became very close with a group of friends.  They became our surrogate family and our kids were as close as cousins. 

Another job change for Bob led us to Indiana.  I left Atlanta heartbroken. As a full time mother, the friends who share this experience are your lifeline to sanity as they help you survive long days in the trenches with infants and toddlers. I remain very close with these dear friends.  That bond is very strong, and distance does not diminish my love for them.  We try to see each other a few times each year, meeting in Nashville for a girls weekend or I visit them in Atlanta, and leave with a lump in my throat and thoughts of one day returning to live there.  We email and call, send Christmas cards with family pictures.  It is not the same, but it is what we can do, and I cherish the friendship. 

It took time, but we have made a home here and found other good friends.  One of my sisters lives in St. Louis with her family and we have been together for many Thanksgivings and Christmas mornings.  It was nice to hop in the van on a Friday and be at their house less than five hours later, sharing a weekend and be back in time for Bob to be at work on Monday morning.  Sigh... I just found out that she and husband are moving to Tampa, Florida later this summer.  Another transition for us; we will be holding down the fort in the middle of the country. 

I hope that one day we can all live close to one another, choose a place to retire and live only a bike ride away.  How fabulous it would be to settle down in the same community all these years later.  I picture us sitting on the beach in the evening, enjoying visits from our grandchildren, and laughing at memories that families share.  Life is full of change.  But inside of me is a yearning for a return full circle to where we started, five kids hanging out together, if not under the same roof, at least sharing a zipcode. 

Running for My Life

I've been running for about twenty years.  I started when I lived in Atlanta.  Bob was a runner and I was more of a gym rat, following the exercise trends, but mostly loving step aerobics.  Something about the music, the group comradery, the sound of our synchronized feet hitting the bench  like a marching band.  It was enjoyable, albeit predictable.  Maybe it was the good weather that Atlanta offered, or the curiosity factor, but one day I decided to go for a run with Bob and see how far I could make it before needing to stop, or walk.  I made it about one mile, or ten minutes.  I was encouraged and began running.  Little by little I built up my stamina, eventually reaching six miles at a time and then entering local fun runs and the famous Peachtree Road Race, a 10K spectacle of sweaty humanity.  Every July 4th in Atlanta 50,000 runners jostle each other with sweaty elbows, the air filled with the scent of garlic from pre-race carbo loading, and the streets lined with spectatators offering orange slices and water sprays from squirt guns.   It was a tradition I embraced, but had to leave behind when we moved to Indianapolis ten years ago. 

I continued running and have entered several half marathons here in Indianapolis, challenging myself to stick to a training schedule, longs runs on Saturday mornings, lighter runs during the week.  My best time ever for a half marathon was an hour and fifty one minutes.  It was a glorious day for me, when the stars aligned and all my training paid off.  I have never seriously considered tackling a full marathon.  Despite having a father and sister who have run many, I do not seem to have that calling (or the drive) and am content to plod along, mostly doing four miles at a time now with an occasional half marathon thrown in when I feel up to the challenge. 

Running is a funny thing.  Once it is in your blood, you are compelled to continue.  It has carried me through two pregnancies, though I traded in my running shoes for less vigorous activities as I reached my third trimester, and Sam's autism diagnosis (back then I sometimes ran faster with angry steps, or slower, with tears streaming down my face).   My sisters and I ran together in sorrow in Myrtle Beach in the days before my mother's funeral, and we run together in Hilton Head each summer, planning our days on the beach and family barbecues.  I don't always love to run and I often don't feel that elusive runner's high.  Mostly it is just what I do to try to stay healthy and to release my stress.  Most runs are forgettable; just 45 minutes out and back, music to keep me company, and I step back in the door and go on with my life.  But once in awhile you receive a gift, as I did last night.  As I turned a corner to run around a neighborhood lake, I was overcome with the beauty of a sunset pink sky, swirls of purple and streaks of deep blue.   I turned down my music and walked for a few minutes, admiring nature.  A few fireflies lit up the tall grass along the path.   I was filled with gratitude and reminded of my blessings.  Then I began running towards home, with that image tucked away for a bit of future motivation.