All posts filed under: Rocking Ordinary

Lessons From a Cage Fight in a Minivan

In my book Rocking Ordinary I share about an epic battle my husband and I had in a parking lot. Really big fight. And that story is one of the most-talked-about parts of the book. Maybe because we’ve all been there, too? So when my friend Tricia Goyer asked me to share how God challenged me to step out of my comfort zone and do something radical for Him . . . yeah, this memory sprang to mind. Because there’s nothing like a marital spat to turn things around, right? J.C. Penny’s isn’t a great place to start a fight with your husband, come to find out. When we realized our increasingly tense voices were garnering the side eye from more than one customer, we high-tailed it out of there. There was only one place to go: the minivan. It was a cage fight in the minivan. Don’t tell me you’ve never had one. Enclosed in the seemingly soundproof vehicle (in order to have a minivan cage fight, you must first pretend your minivan is …

Can You Get Back on the Bike?

In which I admit I have no idea what I’m doing. Have you ever stopped riding a bike for several years? I’m guessing you have at some time. Not a lot of Moms get to ride their bikes as frequently as their children do. So we hang up the bicycle in the garage and try to forget the gentle hum of the wheels and the feeling of wind through our hair. Have you ever gotten on a bike after several years of not riding? Your balance is slightly off, you wobble down the street, and you wonder why the seat feels about seven feet higher off the ground than before. You wonder if you’ll fall and shatter on the road. You pray no cars come down the street while you struggle to control the contraption in the middle of God and everybody. Your child looks on in bemusement or outright ridicules your lack of coordination. Yes, you can forget how to ride a bike. But it does come back to you after an hour or two, …

For the Holiday You’re Running From

I run hard two miles early every other morning, my black shoes slapping the pavement with intensity. I run hard. Hard enough to soak my shirt. Hard enough tear ligaments from my joints. Hard enough to shatter bones in my feet . . . twice. I can’t run hard enough or fast enough. “When was the last time you talked to him?” my husband innocently asked about the person wounding my soul. The soul scab ripped open, and I dashed down the street, breaking my own speed record the mile home, breaking into a sweat only when I burrowed into my closet under my blanket, patting away the sweat but unable to stop the internal bleeding. I could not run from the reality full of pain. He doesn’t love me. Did he ever love me? The questions I cried out to God twenty years ago, two decades past when first abandoned and disowned, the same came back with greater intensity than before. Why again? Can there be no trust, no protection, no reconciliation? Am I just a …