The central theme of the story is how one person can change the world. There are several stories about different little boys, but each story intertwines into the singular outcome of feeding billions of people. The story was so rich and meaningful that I found myself tearing up as I read the last few pages.

I highly recommend this book for parents seeking to teach a broader worldview and hearten the unique skills and abilities in their children.

I started crying before we even made it through the double doors. It might have been the functionality of his school: the student monitors stationed around the circle drive, the teachers on walkie-talkies organizing drop-off, the parents swinging briskly through the car line as if the world weren’t ending.  How did everyone else know what they were doing? Greg and I trudged up the front walk, our tiny baby son between us, very unready to let him go.

Toby was brilliant. None of the order and rush of the school bothered him. He said, “I’m so excited!” It felt strange. Three months ago he still cried when I dropped him at preschool. Today he was confident– a small, sweet, sparkly-eyed boy with his stuffed Dalmatian Samson peeking out of his backpack. He held my hand and for the first time, I knew he was doing it for my sake and not his own.

All of the kids and parents had to wait in the gym before the bell rang. I fake-smiled at the other moms, though I really wanted to watch the whole scene from a private room where I could noisy cry by myself. All I could think about was Toby’s new cargo shorts and how much he looked like Greg in them. “Don’t help me pull up my shorts,” he said while getting dressed this morning. “You have to do it yourself when you are in Kindergarten.” And he could.

He could also walk into his classroom without clinging to my shin, hang up his Lightning McQueen backpack on the hook labeled “Toby,” and find his own friends to sit with at a table. And all of that, though I’ve been working toward those goals for five years, made me inconsolably sad.

I didn’t want him to howl and lock his arms around my neck when it was time for me to go, but his total competence shattered the view I have of him, that pink-cheeked newborn swaddled up like a pea pod. I’m excited that he is growing into the man I always wanted him to be. He is everything I hoped for him and more. It’s just happening so much faster than I thought it would.

But I’m so proud of him. My dear sweet baby boy.

Look at my book I wrote! See my byline?! I am actually smart—it says so right there!

It’s an indulgent fantasy since most of my life is better than I imagined—Greg and my boys for example. There aren’t daydreams enough to equal the love I feel for them. And yet.

There are times that I’ve called Toby a big fat crybaby, or I’m annoyed at Greg for loving our cat more than I do, or I’m just feeling especially carnal for no immediate reason, and all I can do is compare myself to the nearest friend who seems to be doing things better. The friend is always sweeter, more genuine, more humble, more spiritual, more motherly, more likeable, more loved. When I resent her, I feel even worse about myself for being the villainous wretch in the fairy tale whom everyone despises.

If I were an alcoholic I would slosh down glass after glass of red wine to drown out my jealousy and disappointment. Since I’m not, I eat spoonfuls of Nutella right out of the jar and post something pithy on twitter to steal a few handfuls of admiration.

In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott describes the literary life: “As a writer, one will have over the years many experiences that stimulate and nourish the spirit. These will be quiet and deep inside, however, unaccompanied by thunder and tremulous angels.” That statement could be written a thousand different ways. “As a mother…”  “As a runner…” “As a human…”  

Why aren’t the quietly nourishing experiences enough? Certain corners of my soul are satisfied without pomp. Like when I run, I set one foot in front of the other, one mile at a time, day after day. I don’t care that I will never be Paula Radcliffe, because I’m running to hear my own heart beat, and the effort is its own reward. Other parts of me are more vulnerable, less sure of their own intrinsic worth. They need to be stoked and coddled and assured. If I’m being honest, that really bothers me.

On my desk is a picture of four Indian children from a balwadi in Mumbai. When I feel especially introspective, I look them in the eye and ask them, “What do you need from me?” My pulse stops when they speak because I know it is God. Love us, they say. And that’s all.

They don’t need my importance. They don’t need my self-esteem. They don’t need my trophies. Neither do my friends, my husband, or my own children. The more perfect I am, the less I am useful to them. My fragile self takes their place in my heart.

Someone sent me a beautiful prayer yesterday, written by Father Larry Hein, mentor to Brennen Manning:

May all your expectations be frustrated, may all your plans be thwarted, may all your desires be withered into nothingness, if it proves necessary for you to experience the powerlessness and poverty of a child and sing and dance in the love of God who is Father, Son and Spirit.

That is my hope—yield to the things that rub the shine off my penny, because those are the very things making me great. I’m not seven anymore, so I don’t have to think like I did then. I can put my head down, one patch of road at a time, and run past my insecurity to the place where nothing remains. No trophies. No thunder. No tremulous angels.

And then there’s room enough for love.

This article originally published in the Feb.-Mar. 2010 issue of Deeper. For more articles on faith and family or to subscribe via e-mail to the Mom’s Moments and Deeper Newsletters, go here.

My son, Toby, turned five on January 12^th. Our family laughed over pizza at his favorite restaurant just as the whole of Port Au Prince crumbled to the ground. We didn’t learn the news until the next day when the pictures spilled from our T.V. along with a painful realization. During the chaos and death, we were celebrating life. The irony felt like a stone in my heart.

I wanted to shield Toby from Haiti’s devastation– tuck him in bed, kiss his unharmed head to sleep unburdened. But instead of peace, the thought gave me shame. I remembered Everson, a five-year-old-boy, pictured lying on a piece of cardboard in the Haitian dirt. If Everson could survive the horror in Port Au Prince, my son was strong enough to know about it. He could fight for Everson. He could fight for Haiti.

I copied a few pictures of the rubble and the one of Everson, and sat down with Toby to explain earthquakes and tragedy. It was short and simple- nothing to paralyze him in fear. He listened, awed by the extreme destruction. I prayed aloud, thanking God for the safety and comfort we enjoyed and asking Him to help the people in Haiti who had neither. Toby listened, and then ran off to play. That was that.

Before bed, we performed our usual nighttime ritual, each family member praying in turn. When we got to Toby, he thanked God for his favorite things: trash trucks and his family. Then he added “God, You know that ‘earthcrank’ in Haiti? I’m gonna need you to clean that up.” It was completely un-elegant, utterly simple. The kind of prayer that penetrates the heart of God.

A few days later, we bought aspirin and cold medicine and added it to the large collection boxes in our church lobby, bound for the under-supplied Haitian hospitals. Toby and his younger brother, Charlie, dropped our gifts into the bins with pride. Later in the car, I saw Toby’s face looking thoughtful in the rear view mirror. “What are you thinking buddy?”

“I’m praying for Haiti in my mind,” he said. My heart skipped a beat.

Like every parent, I am familiar with protecting my kids. Nothing feels better than burying their faces in my chest against any sign of doom. Only I don’t want to raise children who bury their faces when trouble comes. I want to raise children who will stand. Children who see disaster, hunger, or pain, and storm the gates of heaven like mighty warriors.

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” Matthew 19:14 (NIV)

She wrote:

Recently I came to a place where God asked me if He was enough. If all I ever had was Him, would I be happy with my life. As I was humbled and answered Him “yes,” everything else appeared as such a blessing. My husband, my boys, my family, my friends, my house, my neighbours, my writing.

It’s like the story of Abraham and Isaac – I really don’t like that story – but all God wanted to know was where Abraham’s true loyalty was directed. Once God KNEW Abraham was solely devoted to Him and His purposes, He blessed Abraham with descendants as numerous as the grains of sand or the stars in the sky.

He’s put desires and dreams in your heart for a reason – to glorify Him and to bless you. He’ll show you, when His timing is perfect, what you are supposed to do with those dreams and desires. It starts with what’s right in front of you – your family, friends, your world.

Blessings on you today as you go about living God’s will right where you are.

That is my prayer for myself… for God to be enough. Then to “start with what’s right in front of me.” I can do that, one little step at a time.

So, is God enough for you? Who or what is in front of you waiting for you to start moving?

My favorite part of this new blog design is the tag line: “Find a destination, run fast.” The only problem is me not having a destination.

I spend a lot of time writing about my boys. This blog may become the longest book ever written, and if the climax is Toby and Charlie’s passage into adulthood I’m gonna go ahead and delete myself from your Google reader to spare you the ennui. Being a mom is the purest part of me, the easiest cause to wholly pledge myself, but I want to give more to my kids than devotion. I want my boys to see meaning beyond themselves. I will have to show them in my own life.

Recently I met with some girlfriends to talk about our purposes. We are over the cusp of thirty, and bubbling with energy and passion. If we blink once we will be forty, ten years spent on something. What will it be? Micro-managing our kids? Jogging the saddle bags off our thighs? Twitter? We decided to figure out God’s plan before we are blinded by our own busyness.

After our meeting, the mystery of my purpose itched around in my brain, clouded by all my failed ventures. You know how there are people that can touch anything and have success? I’m the opposite. I can throw myself head first into something and ferociously tank it. I’m not an awesome runner despite years of dedicated training. I’m not a good salesperson, marketer, or administrator. I liked my blog so I went all the way and bought my own domain just as my traffic plunged downtown. I’m like Abe Lincoln, but without the final redemption of being President.  

I dreamed out some really fun destinies, but they all required a great turn of fate and conveniently culminated with my own personal success.

Do you remember Andi Hawkins? They are building a theme park in Orlando based on her best-selling fantasy novels. Weren’t the characters so engaging?! I heard she is donating all of the profits to World Vision. Isn’t she a complete inspiration? Or…Can you believe Andi Hawkins was the first woman to ever win a marathon while pushing a baby jogger? She is on the cover of Runner’s World eating whey protein brownies with her two super-happy kids. Isn’t she such an awesome role model for healthy motherhood? I’m following her on Twitter…

Dreaming made me feel bad for how little I have actually achieved. There are so many things I haven’t started–things I haven’t finished. My under-performance slumped over my shoulders like regret.

“God what do you have for me to do?” A thought came to me. I stared at the mirror wondering if I would be satisfied with my life if I were just a wingman. What if I were made to support others– never destined for greatness, for fame, for glory? What if it were just me and my big mouth speaking life into my friends as we walk unceremoniously toward heaven?  Would I look back in ten years unashamed?

I got excited. I thought of all the people around me, and the joy I feel enoucarging them, praying for them. God’s breath filled the space I carved for my own glory and I welled over with peace.

What better purpose could I teach my boys? Toby and Charlie, I want to see you move mountains, but don’t be deceived. There is nothing unsatisfying in the sky God opens for you. It might look plain before you take off, but when His wind lifts your wings you won’t even care if it makes you invisible.

And he is so grouchy. His preschool teacher mentioned this in the most sensitive manner. “Is Charlie, okay? He seems a little… out of it,” she said very helpfully, very “it’s probably an ear infection and out of your control” -ishly. I appreciated her grace, but really, what can you say when your son’s crankiness is noteworthy among other two-year-olds?

I made an appointment with Charlie’s doctor, hoping he wouldn’t prescribe The Strong-Willed Child and a spanking spoon (Oh parenting shame). Instead, we took home a clean bill of health and a bottle of my new BFF, melatonin.

It wasn’t easy to dispense melatonin to Charlie’s skinny little self. He could only have half an adult dose, which is .1 milliliters. My brain locks up over anything metric, so I dabbed a weensy drop on my finger and stuck it in his mouth. He didn’t cry or spit it out, but he didn’t drop into an instant coma, either. He was still talking when I closed the door. Over the next few minutes he lost his gusto and drooped into beautiful silence. Eureka!

It’s been five days and I am a happy mama. Glory to melatonin, herb of the heavens.*

*If you have any more suggestions, bring it on. If the melatonin quits working, I am fresh out of ideas.

My car has 105,000 miles, and a variety of damage. One person backed into me at Target and dented my front fender. Toby opened his door against the cart return rack at Wal-Mart three different times. My side panel has a two foot scrape from either a) pulling in too close to the lawn mower or b) Toby’s bike handlebars. I don’t dwell on these imperfections. My car is always covered with dirt film anyway, so I doubt a few dings make any aesthetic impact.

Two months ago my CD player quit working. At first I was ticked, but then I remembered the hours of Kidz Bop, and suddenly it’s death seemed an act of mercy. We never listen to regular radio because there are only so many safe ways to explain “booty” to a four-year-old. We have survived on our local Christian station even though they’re a little Barry Mannilow-ish in format. (They specialize in Michael W. Smith’s early work and also every version of “Shout to the Lord.” I’m not judging. I’m just giving facts.)

I was making it, I really was. Until yesterday. It was the Christmas Preview. Non-stop Christmas music all day. I pulled out of the Church parking lot to Bing Crosby’s “Silver Bells” complete with swooning background choir. It was hideous.

I love my car. My car gets me. Even when her backseat sprouts a landfill, she never judges. She does her job like a good little sedan. Its not her fault that someone stuck a penny in her disc changer. But even I have limits. She better pray the Bing Crosby CD gets lost or it’s AutoTrader time at the Hawkins house. I’m not kidding.

Like when Toby and Charlie stand in the church parking lot watching a train go by.  The wheels shriek wildly down the rails carrying a bazillion tons of metal.  “Be careful!” I say as if the train might suddenly derail, mysteriously roll across the highway, strangely bounce upon their fragile, tiny selves.  You are overreacting, I think, but I pull them back a little anyway.

Before nap, when I sat beside Charlie on the bed, he rubbed at his legs as if some invisible agent were eating at his bones.  “Boo boo,” he said whiningly and I kissed his shins, mentally sprinting past growing pains or itchy pants and aiming straight for cancer.  Later when Toby scratched his legs too, I realized it was just bug bites from the yard.  Of course…

Yesterday I tried to get some stuff done.  Every few minutes Toby would poke me with some irrelevant question about tornados or train tracks.  Over and over Charlie opened and slammed his bedroom door, running in and out with extreme cheerfulness yelling, “Night, night!” and “Good morning!”  They fought over the blue steam engine, a crinkled CD insert, cheese sticks.  Sometimes they drive me crazy.  I hope I don’t take them for granted.

That is how I make the best of things like loss or uncertainty. What better gift could I offer a grieving father? I scoop Charlie up and press his cheek against my chest, feel his runny nose wet the collar of my shirt.  I am so grateful that this noisy, strong-willed boy is mine, even just for today.  A beautiful muse, indeed.

Here is ten years of running expertise bulleted in Microsoft Word, just for YOU.  Drum roll…

• No need to go crazy on mileage.  A person can run a great half with a solid 6-8 mile base (Meaning you run those distances 2-3 times a week for a few months.)  DO NOT train over ten miles before the race. 
• Throw in a once a week 10 miler three or four times starting six weeks out.  Leave the last two weeks for tapering back down to 6 or 8. 
• Leave yourself a few days off before race day.
• Replace your running shoes after you accumulate the recommended maximum.  Don’t wait for your body to tell you your shoes are done.
• This is my SILVER tip:  On race day, stop at every water stop (after the 3-4 mile mark) and drink both a little cup of water and a little cup of powerade.  (Even if you aren’t thirsty.)  This will keep your body hydrated and your electrolytes adequate.
• This is my GOLD tip: Eat a couple of packs of Clif Shot Bloks (black cherry is my fav) and you will feel like you got fresh legs halfway through!!!  I eat 3-6 blocks (while running) starting at 6 miles, and then 3-6 blocks around ten miles.  Train with them first so you are used to eating and running.

Now you will all go out and beat my PR this season.  And I will be immensely satisfied, cuz I do love you so.

What are your best tips?