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Made to Mother
Be sure to hit the play bar above to hear this blogcast.
Today, I want to tell you a story about a race I never wanted to run, and a life I never wanted to live.
Made to Mother
I’m not
athletically inclined. It was determined early on that I was better suited for
artistic pursuits.
I tried
playing soccer as a child, but there was entirely too much running involved. I
wanted to stand still, so I did, hoping that the ball would find its way to my
general direction. It did. The ball found its way to my stomach, kicked with
such an alarming force that I folded like an accordion as the air seeped out of
my windpipe in a pathetic array of mismatched notes. The rest of my very short
soccer career was spent running from the ball.
In high
school, I tried powder puff football. Once. I got tackled in the first play. I
thought tackling was against rules, thus the “powder puff” that precedes the
term football in this particular variation of the sport. Apparently, some buff,
linebacker wannabe made her way onto the girl’s field that day. I spent the
rest of practice running from her. Then I never went back.
These meager
attempts at team sports taught me that I could run, just not in the right
direction.
My lack of
athletic prowess makes the fact that I ran a half marathon all the more
impressive. Especially considering how much I hated running. Without the
incentive of a black and white projectile hurdling my general direction or a
burly powder puff player hunting me down, running held little appeal. Actually,
it held less than that.
I despised running. With the kind of passion usually reserved for political discussions, grave acts of injustice, or American cheese. What is up with American cheese? It isn’t cheese. There is no dairy in it. At all. But I digress . . . Whenever I ran more than a few dozen feet, I would collapse with a mind-numbing pain in my side as I gasped for breath like an opera singer after competing in a battle of the long note. Only there was no beauty in it. And no victory.
If someone had given me twenty physical activities,
insisting that I must do one of them, running would have been my twentieth
choice. Even if synchronized swimming and sumo wrestling had been on the list. Mmm-hmm.
At least with soccer and football there is an objective, a point to all the running. You get to score a goal or make a touchdown. You get to win! What is the point of running a long distance? The bumper sticker?
So, how did
this athletically un-inclined, running-adversed woman complete a half-marathon?
Interesting
story. One day I was sitting across from a friend at lunch, and she said, “I ran ten miles this morning.”
My initial response,
internally, was “Why would you do that?
Why would you run ten miles this morning when you could have read a book, or performed
Shakesperian monologues for your dogs, or painted a wall and watched it dry?”
I didn’t say
that though. I just said, “Oh. That’s
nice.”
Then she did
something surprising. She dared me. “Do a
5k with me.” I did not see that one coming. I did not expect her to challenge my complacency
and threaten my muffin top.
“I
hate running,” I moaned.
“Anyone
can do a 5k. Seriously. Like, my mom could do it.” she countered.
That . . . got me. I may hate running but I am very competitive. I don’t want
anyone’s mother out there showing me up. And I love a good challenge.
Still, a good challenge doing what I hate—nah. No thanks.
“Come on, what do
you have to lose?” she pressed in seeing my resolve weaken. I looked down
at the top button on my pants, straining to keep it all together.
Why not? Why not do what anybody’s mother can do? Why not
get in shape doing something I despised for five hours a week, just to say that
I did and earn a bumper sticker?
I could hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth.
“Ok. I’ll
do it.”
The next week, I started training. It was rough going at
first. After fifty feet, my chest felt like it would burst. I was gasping for
breath. A lot of air that was entering my mouth but not finding its way to my
lungs. And then the stabbing pain in my side came and kept
coming. It begged me to stop.
Now I may not be athletically inclined, but I am not a quitter. I am good with the follow through. And I know I could’ve walked the 5k, but there’s no glory in that. So, I pressed through the pain, forcing my body to do
what it was not inclined to do. And a funny thing happened. After a couple of
weeks, I no longer fought for air, and the stabbing pain in my side subsided. I
still didn’t like running, but I
didn’t loathe it anymore either.
The morning of the big race finally came. The adrenaline
coursed through my veins like a natural drug. My friend left me in the dust
right out of the gate, but I kept on running, finishing the 3.12 miles in a
very unimpressive 29 minutes. I never stopped, though. Yep, I ran the whole way.
Like a big girl.
And I kept on running. Three miles became five, and five
became seven. And somewhere along the way, some insanely early morning or
drizzly night, I experienced what they call the runner’s high. I was between
four and five miles into a good run, and suddenly my body kicked into another
gear. There was no pain, no tension, no resistance even. My breathing was slow
and steady, and my limbs moved in a rhythmic dance that might have been
graceful. I was on cruise control. Auto-pilot. I sliced through the air like a
I was made to run.
And all of a sudden, after many months and hundreds of
miles, a crazy thing happened. I fell in love with running. I loved what I once
loathed. I loved what I made my body do. I loved the runner’s high. I loved
that I could button my pants.
From there, the only place to go was the Music City Half,
Nashville’s premiere half marathon race for runners. I trained like a wild woman.
I was possessed. The runner’s high came and went, and I kept chasing after it.
I was plagued with injuries, but I wouldn’t stop.
The day of the big race came, and I was beyond stoked. I couldn’t wait to get out there and earn that 13.1 bumper sticker for my mom-mobile. I shot out of the gate like a gazelle, running the first six miles at record pace. Then, the left knee gave out, but I kept on running. Then, at nine miles, the right knee gave out. But still, I ran. My pace slowed to a jog and then to something that resembled Monty Python’s Ministry of Funny Walks, but I crossed the finish line at more than a saunter. Wasn’t pretty, but I did it. I got the medal and that bumper sticker.
It is amazing what the human will can accomplish with
hard work and steadfast determination.
In an incredibly frustrating side note, the very first
place I drove with that “13.1” on my mom-mobile, I pulled up next to a vehicle proudly
displaying a “26.2”. Exhibitionist.
So what is the point of all this?
Well, I learned some powerful lessons from crossing that finish line. I learned that we are made to do hard things, things that we may not be naturally inclined to do. If you’ve ever picked up a Bible, that shouldn’t be surprising. Those pages are filled with bear killers and lion chasers, giant slayers and ark builders. There were no arks at the time, by the way.
Our
God loves to do the impossible, and He wills the impossible into our dreams.
But I learned something else from crossing that finish line that might surprise you because it sure surprised me. I learned that we are made to do things that we don’t like, things that we may even despise at first. In our “if it feels good, do it culture,” this revelation is quite counter-cultural.
The
fact is, we don’t know ourselves as well as we think we do. We don’t know
ourselves as well as our Maker.
God has made us to do some things that, at first glance,
seem impossible. And perhaps even miserable. And yet, if we accept the
challenge, we might find that the thing we despise is our destiny.
That is what happened to me.
You see, I never wanted to be a mom. And now I homeschool
five kids.
In my twenties, I saw women doing what I’m doing now, I
sat across from them at lunch and listened to them talk about their mom-life
and all their kids. And I thought, “Why
would you want to do that? Why would you want to be a mom when you could be
anything, when you could write books, or perform Shakespearian monologues in
front of real people, or paint walls and watch them dry for thirty years.”
I saw these women tending to the never-ending needs of little people and
thought, “Not me. Huh-uh. That would make
me miserable.”
Photo by Jon Flobrant
But now, it is me.
And a little hand reaches for mine, and my heart skips a
beat. The sweet, rhythmic breath of a sleepy soul tickles my neck, and my eyes
mist over. I see inspiration conceived with a first word, then another, then
complex thoughts and ideas as a purpose is formed, an eternal destiny born from
my own. I slice through long days with love and laughter, like I was made to
mother.
Yep, I’ve experienced the mother’s high. And I love it! I love what I once loathed.
I didn’t know myself as well as I thought I did. I didn’t know myself as well as my Maker.
Sure, there are plenty of pulled muscles and bum knees in this journey called motherhood, but I love this life I never wanted.
I met a woman at church one day who looked at my
burgeoning belly, filled with Segars number five, and said, “You are living my worst nightmare.” I’m
not making that up. She actually said that. To my face.
Funny thing is, I was living my worst nightmare and turns
out, it was a very different dream than I had imagined.
Look, my life certainly isn’t for everyone, but, like me, maybe the life you want isn’t the life you were meant to live. Don’t rule something out because it seems impossible. Don’t rule something out because you aren’t naturally inclined. Don’t’ rule something out because, at first glance, you despise it.
The Apostle Paul despised Christians until he met Christ, and then he became one. And a rather good one at that.
Whatever you were meant to do in this life, there will be
obstacles. Improbable, impossible, dread-filled obstacles. Have lunch with your
Maker. Accept His challenge. Run the impossible race. Do it anyways! Even if
you don’t want to at first.
You just might end up dearly loving that thing you dread. And like me, you might discover that it’s your destiny.
I’m so glad that you multi-tasked some motivation with The Mere Mother Blogcast today. I’d appreciate it if you’d hit that little share button, and why not tell a friend. If you haven’t already, be sure to subscribe. I’ll let you know about upcoming blogcasts and send you a copy of the provocative new ebook, “Five Myths About Motherhood That Make You Feel Mere, and Why They’re Wrong.” See you next time!
The post Made to Mother appeared first on Catherine Segars.
View all episodes
By The Mere Mother Blogcast with Catherine Segars
5
22 ratings
Be sure to hit the play bar above to hear this blogcast.
Today, I want to tell you a story about a race I never wanted to run, and a life I never wanted to live.
Made to Mother
I’m not
athletically inclined. It was determined early on that I was better suited for
artistic pursuits.
I tried
playing soccer as a child, but there was entirely too much running involved. I
wanted to stand still, so I did, hoping that the ball would find its way to my
general direction. It did. The ball found its way to my stomach, kicked with
such an alarming force that I folded like an accordion as the air seeped out of
my windpipe in a pathetic array of mismatched notes. The rest of my very short
soccer career was spent running from the ball.
In high
school, I tried powder puff football. Once. I got tackled in the first play. I
thought tackling was against rules, thus the “powder puff” that precedes the
term football in this particular variation of the sport. Apparently, some buff,
linebacker wannabe made her way onto the girl’s field that day. I spent the
rest of practice running from her. Then I never went back.
These meager
attempts at team sports taught me that I could run, just not in the right
direction.
My lack of
athletic prowess makes the fact that I ran a half marathon all the more
impressive. Especially considering how much I hated running. Without the
incentive of a black and white projectile hurdling my general direction or a
burly powder puff player hunting me down, running held little appeal. Actually,
it held less than that.
I despised running. With the kind of passion usually reserved for political discussions, grave acts of injustice, or American cheese. What is up with American cheese? It isn’t cheese. There is no dairy in it. At all. But I digress . . . Whenever I ran more than a few dozen feet, I would collapse with a mind-numbing pain in my side as I gasped for breath like an opera singer after competing in a battle of the long note. Only there was no beauty in it. And no victory.
If someone had given me twenty physical activities,
insisting that I must do one of them, running would have been my twentieth
choice. Even if synchronized swimming and sumo wrestling had been on the list. Mmm-hmm.
At least with soccer and football there is an objective, a point to all the running. You get to score a goal or make a touchdown. You get to win! What is the point of running a long distance? The bumper sticker?
So, how did
this athletically un-inclined, running-adversed woman complete a half-marathon?
Interesting
story. One day I was sitting across from a friend at lunch, and she said, “I ran ten miles this morning.”
My initial response,
internally, was “Why would you do that?
Why would you run ten miles this morning when you could have read a book, or performed
Shakesperian monologues for your dogs, or painted a wall and watched it dry?”
I didn’t say
that though. I just said, “Oh. That’s
nice.”
Then she did
something surprising. She dared me. “Do a
5k with me.” I did not see that one coming. I did not expect her to challenge my complacency
and threaten my muffin top.
“I
hate running,” I moaned.
“Anyone
can do a 5k. Seriously. Like, my mom could do it.” she countered.
That . . . got me. I may hate running but I am very competitive. I don’t want
anyone’s mother out there showing me up. And I love a good challenge.
Still, a good challenge doing what I hate—nah. No thanks.
“Come on, what do
you have to lose?” she pressed in seeing my resolve weaken. I looked down
at the top button on my pants, straining to keep it all together.
Why not? Why not do what anybody’s mother can do? Why not
get in shape doing something I despised for five hours a week, just to say that
I did and earn a bumper sticker?
I could hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth.
“Ok. I’ll
do it.”
The next week, I started training. It was rough going at
first. After fifty feet, my chest felt like it would burst. I was gasping for
breath. A lot of air that was entering my mouth but not finding its way to my
lungs. And then the stabbing pain in my side came and kept
coming. It begged me to stop.
Now I may not be athletically inclined, but I am not a quitter. I am good with the follow through. And I know I could’ve walked the 5k, but there’s no glory in that. So, I pressed through the pain, forcing my body to do
what it was not inclined to do. And a funny thing happened. After a couple of
weeks, I no longer fought for air, and the stabbing pain in my side subsided. I
still didn’t like running, but I
didn’t loathe it anymore either.
The morning of the big race finally came. The adrenaline
coursed through my veins like a natural drug. My friend left me in the dust
right out of the gate, but I kept on running, finishing the 3.12 miles in a
very unimpressive 29 minutes. I never stopped, though. Yep, I ran the whole way.
Like a big girl.
And I kept on running. Three miles became five, and five
became seven. And somewhere along the way, some insanely early morning or
drizzly night, I experienced what they call the runner’s high. I was between
four and five miles into a good run, and suddenly my body kicked into another
gear. There was no pain, no tension, no resistance even. My breathing was slow
and steady, and my limbs moved in a rhythmic dance that might have been
graceful. I was on cruise control. Auto-pilot. I sliced through the air like a
I was made to run.
And all of a sudden, after many months and hundreds of
miles, a crazy thing happened. I fell in love with running. I loved what I once
loathed. I loved what I made my body do. I loved the runner’s high. I loved
that I could button my pants.
From there, the only place to go was the Music City Half,
Nashville’s premiere half marathon race for runners. I trained like a wild woman.
I was possessed. The runner’s high came and went, and I kept chasing after it.
I was plagued with injuries, but I wouldn’t stop.
The day of the big race came, and I was beyond stoked. I couldn’t wait to get out there and earn that 13.1 bumper sticker for my mom-mobile. I shot out of the gate like a gazelle, running the first six miles at record pace. Then, the left knee gave out, but I kept on running. Then, at nine miles, the right knee gave out. But still, I ran. My pace slowed to a jog and then to something that resembled Monty Python’s Ministry of Funny Walks, but I crossed the finish line at more than a saunter. Wasn’t pretty, but I did it. I got the medal and that bumper sticker.
It is amazing what the human will can accomplish with
hard work and steadfast determination.
In an incredibly frustrating side note, the very first
place I drove with that “13.1” on my mom-mobile, I pulled up next to a vehicle proudly
displaying a “26.2”. Exhibitionist.
So what is the point of all this?
Well, I learned some powerful lessons from crossing that finish line. I learned that we are made to do hard things, things that we may not be naturally inclined to do. If you’ve ever picked up a Bible, that shouldn’t be surprising. Those pages are filled with bear killers and lion chasers, giant slayers and ark builders. There were no arks at the time, by the way.
Our
God loves to do the impossible, and He wills the impossible into our dreams.
But I learned something else from crossing that finish line that might surprise you because it sure surprised me. I learned that we are made to do things that we don’t like, things that we may even despise at first. In our “if it feels good, do it culture,” this revelation is quite counter-cultural.
The
fact is, we don’t know ourselves as well as we think we do. We don’t know
ourselves as well as our Maker.
God has made us to do some things that, at first glance,
seem impossible. And perhaps even miserable. And yet, if we accept the
challenge, we might find that the thing we despise is our destiny.
That is what happened to me.
You see, I never wanted to be a mom. And now I homeschool
five kids.
In my twenties, I saw women doing what I’m doing now, I
sat across from them at lunch and listened to them talk about their mom-life
and all their kids. And I thought, “Why
would you want to do that? Why would you want to be a mom when you could be
anything, when you could write books, or perform Shakespearian monologues in
front of real people, or paint walls and watch them dry for thirty years.”
I saw these women tending to the never-ending needs of little people and
thought, “Not me. Huh-uh. That would make
me miserable.”
Photo by Jon Flobrant
But now, it is me.
And a little hand reaches for mine, and my heart skips a
beat. The sweet, rhythmic breath of a sleepy soul tickles my neck, and my eyes
mist over. I see inspiration conceived with a first word, then another, then
complex thoughts and ideas as a purpose is formed, an eternal destiny born from
my own. I slice through long days with love and laughter, like I was made to
mother.
Yep, I’ve experienced the mother’s high. And I love it! I love what I once loathed.
I didn’t know myself as well as I thought I did. I didn’t know myself as well as my Maker.
Sure, there are plenty of pulled muscles and bum knees in this journey called motherhood, but I love this life I never wanted.
I met a woman at church one day who looked at my
burgeoning belly, filled with Segars number five, and said, “You are living my worst nightmare.” I’m
not making that up. She actually said that. To my face.
Funny thing is, I was living my worst nightmare and turns
out, it was a very different dream than I had imagined.
Look, my life certainly isn’t for everyone, but, like me, maybe the life you want isn’t the life you were meant to live. Don’t rule something out because it seems impossible. Don’t rule something out because you aren’t naturally inclined. Don’t’ rule something out because, at first glance, you despise it.
The Apostle Paul despised Christians until he met Christ, and then he became one. And a rather good one at that.
Whatever you were meant to do in this life, there will be
obstacles. Improbable, impossible, dread-filled obstacles. Have lunch with your
Maker. Accept His challenge. Run the impossible race. Do it anyways! Even if
you don’t want to at first.
You just might end up dearly loving that thing you dread. And like me, you might discover that it’s your destiny.
I’m so glad that you multi-tasked some motivation with The Mere Mother Blogcast today. I’d appreciate it if you’d hit that little share button, and why not tell a friend. If you haven’t already, be sure to subscribe. I’ll let you know about upcoming blogcasts and send you a copy of the provocative new ebook, “Five Myths About Motherhood That Make You Feel Mere, and Why They’re Wrong.” See you next time!
The post Made to Mother appeared first on Catherine Segars.