I’m happy to report that my last two workouts have been pain-free! Free of foolish, unnecessary pain, that is; no shrunken tights attempting to truncate me, no acidic vinegar wreaking havoc on the ol’ bread basket. It’s amazing how much more enjoyable exercise can be if your clothes are comfy and your intestines are at ease!
Besides the blissful absence of self-inflicted and exercise-exacerbated pain in my life, I’m also happy to report further progress in my “resolution” to bust through impregnable plateaus, in and out of the weight room.
I mentioned in a prior post that my daily routine is as predictable as a romantic comedy plot. Writing, reading, devotionalizing (sure to be in the dictionary soon), and working out may make your eyelids heavy just reading about it, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. And that’s the problem. Just because a routine is cozy and worn-in doesn’t mean it’s faultless with no room for improvement.
I think we can all agree that Uggs are both comfy and warm, but there’s a time and a place (and a season!) to wear them. If we learn anything from watching “The Fashion Police” (yes, I find it informative), we know it’s a major felony to wear Uggs with short denim skirts in Miami. And were any of us to get a call from Prince Harry (too bad William’s getting hitched!) asking us to fly across the pond and join him for dinner in jolly olde London, we’d pack pumps or stilettos, not flip-flops!
I need to get to the point and my aforementioned positive report…
Yesterday, my routine was replaced with an overdue drive to my dad’s childhood home, a sprawling and secluded two-hundred acre farm where he lived from the age of one to eighteen. My dad’s mother made the decision to relocate from her assisted living community and return to the farm a few months ago. There’s no excuse to explain away why it took me so long to visit her; the honest answer for such appalling granddaughter behavior lies in my own resistance to the new.
I’d never been to the farm without my dad. I wasn’t looking forward to the deluge of memories that was doubtless going to break loose as we drove down the sandy lane to my grandparents’ house and parked outside the faded red barn. I wasn’t looking forward to taking in the serenity of the placid spring-fed pond where I caught my first fish. I would have much rather stayed at home and let my mom and brother go without me. I would have loved nothing more than to stay within the safe familiar confines of my routine. But something within me told me it was time to go, time to face an outing to the farm without my dad, time to face the new.
I’m so glad I went. God always blesses us for our obedience, and even a day trip to see one’s grandmother can be teeming with unexpected treasures…
I spent nearly an hour rummaging through a musty room at the back of the farm house, not knowing what I might find buried beneath mountains of old discolored photographs, newspaper clippings, letters, moldy out of print books, and run-down furniture. What I found brought more tears to my eyes, but these were sweet tears, the kind that flow when you welcome a loved one home after weeks or months apart.
I discovered a beautiful poem my dad wrote, as well as two written by my deceased grandpa. I found a short story and several plays my grandpa wrote and then typed on a 1950s typewriter. I even came across a minuscule news story announcing my father, Mitchell D. Anderson, has earned a 4.0 his first semester at college! I felt so proud reading it, as if the article had been published yesterday.
I ended up carrying home a virtual treasure chest of writings, documents, photos, even my dad’s favorite boyhood sci-fi book called Omnivore. And to think, I never would have known any of these priceless pieces of my family’s past existed had I continued to stay away from that precious place.
Stay fit, stay faithful ~<3 Di