On Thanksgiving

I'm propped up in bed, looking out the window of my parents' home in Tennessee. The dead leaves that are left still fall and scatter around making room for a river view. It's lovely, but we're sick and it feels like we have been for a very long time. I came back home to heal, to recuperate, to mend something that feels broken in me yet new struggles await us. Thanksgiving always seems to be this way. Heartache, loss, illness. Over the years, I can think of many somber holidays and this one was no different. It is very fitting, though, I think. When I'm down, I can recall when I was up. I can marvel at the gift of healthy bodies and minds and be thankful. I can look at the ashes around me and know they once were something whole. Then I remember that God makes beauty from ashes. 

This Thanksgiving my true self came knocking and I saw how ugly it can be. Selfish. Unhappy. Tired. Broken. Broken but not to the point of being unable to repair. With Thanksgiving, I wish you all happiness and holiness and all the things you seek, but if you're in a space like me, I wish you self-reflection and self-awareness while you're down. Sit with it awhile. Analyze it and be thankful.

The running community mourns, too.

I don't watch the news if I don't have to. Call it uninformed, but I'd rather not know most of what I see when it is on. Scrolling through social media tells me enough and most of it isn't good. Eliza Fletcher's picture on my feed hit me hard pretty quickly, though. It's difficult to scroll on past that. It checked a lot of my boxes- female runner, in her 30's, mother, teacher, Tennessee. I hate to see how this ended for her, for her family, friends and entire community. And I don't know why I felt led to write something about this stranger, but I think it might be because I feel like she could've been me or I could've been her or that this could happen anywhere to any of my precious and fierce running friends.

Already I've heard or read:

"Why was she running in the dark?" to which I'd jump to defend her by saying that as a mom this might be her only time to herself. It's hard for me to even type this all out and break it down for you. If she's anything like the runners that I know, she made time for her goals. Period.

"Well, running in a crop top or bra is asking for something sinister." Be better than this, people. This might be the most egregious. Women can and should run in whatever clothing that is breathable and comfortable to them. When you say something like this, you participate in victim shaming. 

She should've done this, She should've done that.

What SHOULD be the case is this: Women shouldn't have to fear going out on a run every single time they step outside.

Unfortunately, women are often thinking and planning around obstacles always out of necessity and habit. I've talked to our male counterparts and the same thought process and fear rarely pops into their minds much less dealing with it every single day on every single run.

My reality is-

I don't listen to music while running because I'm afraid I won't hear someone approaching.

I don't run in the dark anymore because I've been scared too many times. I've been yelled at in the wee morning hours. Cat called at 5am. I had a panic attack the last time I ran a Ragnar (relay race) during my nighttime shift.

I don't even like to run alone anymore because I was followed once and that almost made me find a new way of exercising all together. Just the other day, someone stopped me while I was out and asked if I was sure it was a good idea to be running alone. Creepy, but they had a point.

I carry mace, but every time I strap it on I know in my mind that it's only a small tool. The same would be true for a gun, too. If I'm approached in a car, I can easily see how I could be overpowered while caught off guard.

We can take precautions, but anything can happen. The very last thing onlookers should do is shame Eliza Fletcher in any way for waking up and participating in a sport she loved. There's space for sadness, a big huge gaping hole for those people she left behind. There's no room in the conversation for discussing what she should have done.

I hope you'll keep running. I hope you will stay safe.

Other tips for those who run or are getting into running:

Use a tracking app. Tell someone what your route is and when you'll be back. Don't develop a set routine. Mix up your routes and times of day. Fight for your goals and those who attempt to destroy them.

Eliza's face is etched into my brain and I will think of her when I lace up. I pray for her boys and her entire family. The running community mourns, too. 

Sitting Here With My Sadness

I'm sitting outside on a lounge chair in the backyard of our home in Tennessee. Our home for a few days more. Soon it will be someone else's home. Scattered around me are guacamole and lime tostitos, my therapy of choice today. The birds are lifting up their songs and the breeze is just the slightest bit cold. There are a thousand tasks I need to do, but perhaps this one is the most important- sitting here with my sadness on leaving Tennessee behind again. It's not the house with its busted gutters and never ending yard work. It's not even the stuff inside our home, although there are plenty of antiques and art that remind me of people I love. It's not the stuff with price tags that is in my heart, but instead all the memories that come with this land. 

If I look beyond my outstretched feet, I can see where three little boys used to run around shirtless in the sun before their sisters even came to be. Merit was one when we bought this house. We brought two more babies home to it. This is the longest we've lived anywhere.

That's not all I see. I see friends and their babies filling our yard on playdates before the kids were even old enough to go to school. I see Daddy coming home from work in his scrubs and jumping into the blowup pool the kids were playing in. I see those grins that spread across their faces! I remember rocking my babies outside when they were fussin'. I recall the tree I looked forward to blooming every year that fell down while we were snowed in in Colorado. I see the place where I ran out of my house to talk to my best friend when she told me she had cancer. I see our sweet Holly dog's final resting place. I see the land we retreated to when we were told to "stay home" and I feel all the comfort it gave us when the whole world had gone crazy.

This place isn't a house to me. This place is where we finally moved home after Jordan's service. It's where we decided we wanted to raise our kids around family and friends who love them. It's the community we had when we decided that we could bring a little brown girl from the other side of the world and make her feel welcome because small town people ARE good people and would welcome her, too. 

New life is sprouting up all around me- flowers in the yard, buds in the trees, and nephews even. I don't want to leave. 

Until next time, Sweet Southern Comfort.

Why India?

The morning that we were to take custody of our daughter was supernatural. I awoke to the Muslim Call to Prayer in Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh, India. I showered and dressed and went downstairs to meet our lovely host, Manju. Together we shared chai and breakfast. My heart beat normally. My breath was steady. I’m an anxious person to my core and this overwhelming peace that had settled in was the best gift from God that day. Finally the time had come for us to get in the car and head to the place that held a part of my heart for so long. When we arrived, I eagerly yet calmly walked into the rest of my life.

Upon arrival, we were met by a council of sorts. Women in kurtas and saris and a few men sat down with us in a circle offering up more chai and conversation and wanted to know, “Why India?”

How many times have I had that asked since? There are several ways I could answer that question, but honestly the only one that is the most true is because God himself placed this specific child in our hearts and by following Him, we found her. We believe in this Holy Father who says, “I will not leave you as orphans. I will come to you.”

On the day we were matched with her, I remember feeling so blue. I had flown to our home in Tennessee after only being in Colorado for a few days with my family. My dearest friend had just suffered the loss of her father, an unimaginable debt in our lives and many others throughout our small community. I had gone back to attend the funeral and try to offer my meager support in the hardest of times. I decided to stay with my mom that weekend, despite owning our house just ten minutes down the road. Isn’t there just something about your mom’s place? It doesn’t matter that you didn’t grow up in that exact house, her peace and security she offers will follow anywhere she goes. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to create in my own family and I truly hurt for each and every person who has never experienced that love from their mom.

I was headed out the door- ready to meet my friends for a quick run. Running is an outlet for me and has been since the birth of our second child. It helps me to alleviate stress and I use it as my therapy. My friends were meeting me at the local track and I was hurrying out the door, borrowing my step dad’s hat and hoping desperately that my Garmin watch was charged (otherwise obviously the run won't count). Just as I was walking out the door, my cell rang and I just knew. The name that popped up on the caller id was connected to my adoption agency in Virginia. My mom was nearby and saw the excited look on my face. I ran back through the front door of her recently built home and pointed at the phone as we settled into my room (the guest room I’ve never actually lived in). She sat down at the desk. I perched on the bed and I put the phone on speaker mode.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Kacy. This is Lisa. How are you?”

“I’m good. It’s nice to hear from you!”

“Yes, I’m calling because I got a referral for your family today that I thought you might be interested in hearing about.”

I could hardly contain my excitement. I had been waiting for these words for so, so long.

Our coordinator had hardly told me her name and a little bit about her before I blurted out that she was definitely the one. I didn’t know her history. I hadn’t talked to my husband about her. I had learned her name thirty seconds ago, but I knew this was our girl and I was so incredibly happy. On the spot, I told our agency that we would be accepting, but out of respect for my husband and the process I would at least give him a call.

And that’s what I did. Just after I called a friend who had adopted from India a few years prior. She said, “You need to call Jordan!” as she laughed and cried with me. It was surreal. I had a name. I would soon have an email with a face.

I recall my mom writing down the letters “Aayushi” on a piece of scrap mail and us both practicing the word that was so foreign to our southern accents. Aayushi means long life and it became my prayer for her over the next year. My mother-in-law wrote it down on a piece of paper adorned with stickers and hung it on her refrigerator. We all awaited news of our girl on the other side of the world.

 I arrived at our local community track and checked my email on my phone. I saw the most beautiful full cheeked, tiny, chocolate- skinned baby flash up on my small screen and I was in love. I showed my friends as we ran a few miles and they rejoiced with me. I’ll never forget that day. I had a renewed purpose and it was getting to this baby girl as fast as I possibly could.

Why India? It was because that’s where Aayushi was.

Story of Us

My bare feet are propped up on the railing of a lanai in Central India. The breeze, while warm to me, has the locals in their winter wear. I feel it rolling off the water in front of me as I look out and see the most vast, open, unpopulated area I’ve seen since we arrived in this country two days ago. It’s the only space that hasn’t inhabited people upon people and I prefer to look out at it.

The ride to our tiny hotel was New York City on steroids. Horns honk constantly and outside the window tuktuks share the road with mopeds, walkers, cars, bicycles, and motorcycles. The weaving and beeping is unreal as the road lines are completely ignored by all who dare drive them. Entire families squeeze on motorcycles, the women with a side saddle approach and the kids sandwiched in between their parents or the handlebars. I had to look down a couple of times so I wouldn’t see how close we came to grazing people who didn’t even flinch.

The lush landscape boasts beautiful flowers and the city walls and structures are a sea of color. I’m romanticizing it, though. I’ve never seen such far stretching poverty either.

I feel sad here.

My Ari Jo spent her earliest days here without a family.

It’s not ugly to me, but the dense smog drains the sky of all color and makes me feel dreary. Inside I see my husband covered completely in a blanket, trying to shut the world out. I did this to him. The last time he was in the East, he was at war and ask any veteran, it’s hard to separate the two. I see him trying, though. It’s the way he calls her “our daughter” and “our little girl” that remind me he would do anything for us, even facing his biggest fears. I hope he sleeps. Tomorrow we get to meet our daughter for the first time and life will never be the same.

In my early college years, I always imagined I would adopt. Looking back, I see that it was a desire God planted in my heart, but at the time I think I just wanted to keep my body to myself. Little did I know, there’s no mother on Earth, biological, step, adoptive or otherwise that gets to keep a little privacy. Every bathroom trip or shower, every bottle or breast, every sleep deprived night, is shared with the little ones you love.

I grew up in a small town outside of Knoxville, Tennessee. I decided to leave that little town for a slightly bigger one in a college town in Middle Tennessee. My husband Jordan did the same, although I didn’t know him yet. We met thanks to his matchmaking mother and my talkative sister who were working together in the same office. They exchanged our facebook profiles and the rest is all history.

Jordan and I talked back and forth online and through texts. I thought he was becoming a friend. I agreed to meet up with him when he got into town. He was stationed at Ft. Wainwright, Alaska and was set to deploy in the coming months in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Before he left, he would come to Tennessee to visit his parents.  The night of our anti-date, I stressed for hours on what to wear. I suppose that should have been my first hint that I might care a little more than a friendly meeting encompassed. I finally landed on some black shorts and a floral print, silky top. I truly don’t know why I remember that. I recall very little in my head.

He picked me up in an old white Toyota Tacoma truck and we set off for an Italian restaurant that no longer exists. He talked the whole time, asking me questions and getting very little of a response. I liked to hear his stories and I liked sharing mine less. I think it made him uneasy, this woman of few words. He later told me he didn’t think the date was going too well because I was so quiet. By the end of the night, he walked me to my (parents’) front door and told me goodnight. I told him I had a good time and made a bee line to get inside. Upon entry, I wondered if he would ever try to call me again. I knew how I was coming across. I wasn’t not interested, though. On the contrary, I had this gut feeling that I was going to marry him and I told my mama so when she awoke early the next morning.

We spent the next year conversing over emails and AOL chat sessions. We talked about everything under the sun. Everything except adoption.

I put my desire to adopt away for awhile as I fell in love with him and an idea of a family one day. We were wed on a snowy day in January in the hills of Tennessee and we started our lives together in the Alaskan Winter of Fairbanks after he returned home from the Middle East. We knew we wanted to have children and so we wanted to get started quickly if we could. We struggled for awhile in the beginning. About eleven months after we were married, I found out I was pregnant. It was a beautiful, scary, and special time in our lives. After that, the babies kept on coming. It wasn’t fair, I knew. There were so many people hurting, struggling to become mothers. I sat on my couch with four kids surrounding me and felt overwhelmed but happy. The urge to adopt was faint, if not all together gone.

I can’t say when it changed, but change it did. I started feeling very aware of the great need for parents for children domestically and internationally. I became involved in foster care and then started testing the waters of international adoption conversations with my husband. Over that year, every sermon I heard was pointing me to His plan. Every song in worship brought me to tears. I knew I was standing in direct opposition to what God was calling me toward. I felt miserable not walking with Him. Jordan’s stance was clear. “We have four children, Kacy. Now, you want five? Why did I have a vasectomy if that was the case?” The conversations never went well and I decided that I had to give it to God. For the following year, I didn’t bring it up, not once. Instead, I prayed, “Lord, if this is not for us, please remove the desire from my heart and Lord, if this is for us, please give the desire to Jordan.” Then I waited.

At the close of 2019, he took me out to a nice dinner and told me he wanted to talk to me about something. We dressed in our best and sat down in an elegant steakhouse we could ill afford. It was there over flickering candlelight and boozy coffee drinks that we toasted to our next adventure: international adoption. He had come to me that night and said he had been thinking and he thought we should move forward in what God was calling us to do.

Obedience. That’s what has me listening to Hindi into the setting sun and typing up this love story for a girl who has for two years been on the other side of the world, but who is now just on the other side of town and tomorrow will be on the other side of this couch.

That conversation my husband and I had over two years ago happened right around the time that a beautiful, worthy, image bearer of Almighty God was born in Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh, India.

There are no mistakes.

Monumental Marathon Re-cap

I've had a few days to process the marathon. If running bores you to tears, this isn't the post for you. I usually write out what happened, what I learned, and what I could improve upon. I just went back and read it all and it dawned on me that I never really cheer myself on. Every time I attempt this distance, I lament how I could have done better. I'm constantly disappointed for a time after the race which I think is just bananas. When I PR'd on the hilliest course in my hometown, I was really proud of myself, but I'm beginning to understand it might be because I know I'm not alone there. I knew teachers, coaches, familiar faces, and friends were all along the route. I knew my Loudon Lacers were nearby running, too. My family was waiting for me at that finish line. My body was in constant motion toward them.

Something broke in me at Indianapolis. It was my slowest marathon out of the five I've attempted. Admittedly, my plan was not thought out. I had a lot of other stressors on my mind and when I showed up to race this flat course, I thought, "I'll just hold around a 9'06 pace for as long as I can". In order to PR, I just needed to be under 9'45. I kinda thought I had that in the bag. My training had consisted of a half (13.1 miles) at marathon pace and I was able to hold that at 8'54 at 9,000 ft of elevation! Then later, my 20 miler was done at a slower pace of 10'15 but I felt totally fine. Although I cut corners for sure due to travel and laziness, I thought I was ready to race. The marathon is a beast, though and I was definitely unprepared.

I stayed on task miles 1-14 with my pace at or well below the mark to PR. I had planned to dedicate all my miles to my children. The first five miles I talked to God about Ari Jo. I felt in control of my body. I felt good. I ate my first Gu at mile 5-6 at the completion of that segment and moved on to praying for sweet Saylor girl. Those miles also felt good. I was well ahead of the 4 hour pace group and feeling on track to PR. Around mile 7 or 8 I decided to throw off my top layer so I took my shirt off and tossed it. Unbeknownst to me, I also took off the headphones that were around my neck. One hundred and sixty dollars just thrown away. When I started to slow around mile 11, I noticed they were gone and just felt sick that I had done that. There was nothing I could do about it, though and so I ran on.

In the past, I've made the mistake of starting off too fast in marathons so I wanted to back off a bit even though I felt pretty good so I hovered around 9'40 for miles 11-14. I had moved on to praying for Merit and slipping a few desperate prayers in there for me, too. At this point, I had crossed the half way point just under two hours which was perfect for what I wanted to do for the rest of the race....

But my wheels fell off. Mile 15 is when I started to pray for Abel. The crowds were starting to trigger me for some reason. When I would run up and see a big group of people looking for their people, I was reminded how alone I was in this race. In NYC, I knew my family was around these miles, looking for me and when I saw them, it literally gave me strength to go on. Not in Indy. I saw these crowds and started struggling to breathe. The pressure I put on myself to do well was crushing me. I didn't have any strength to draw on from anyone else. I was gasping for air and not the way I might if I was physically tired. No, I was having a panic attack. Afraid to stop, I dizzily kept on making deep, loud gasps for air. Multiple times, the medical tents tried to help me, but I knew if I stopped, I wouldn't start back again and I had to keep moving. Miles 15-19 were around 10-11 min paces. At mile 20, I took my fourth and final Gu and started whispering prayers for Kinley. The prayers allowed me to focus on something other than myself for a bit, but I'll be honest in saying I felt absolutely terrible and while my mind was breaking down, so was my body. I couldn't seem to propel myself. My legs weren't going. I wanted to sprint and I could hardly walk. I had completely fallen off and watched sadly as the 4 and 4:15 pace group passed me. As always, I reached out to the running group from back home and tried to put a smile on my face as I checked in with them. They told me they were proud of me and to keep going and so I did. I was run/walking the rest of the race and it was truly difficult for me to even finish. As I hit mile 26, I ran as hard as my legs would carry me which happened to be a 10 min pace and crossed the finish line, nearly passing out. I found my friends, sat down, and was so relieved it was over.

Days later, I'm still not sure where the disconnect was, but I'm sure several things went wrong. I learned that:

- I can't cut corners on training

- Sleep and nutrition the day before is way more important than I knew

- Stress is a factor and I can't treat the marathon like it's no big deal- not ever

I truly never wanted to do this again. As the days have passed, though, I know I can't let this performance be my last. I will keep running and I will try again to reach my goal. I will simply be more prepared next time. 

I felt so sad after the race but then I read the words my Papaw sent that said, 

Kacy,

You may not have met your expectations but you have exceeded ours your entire life! 

Congratulations

 on completing another marathon!

Love Papaw

And I truly started to remember that what I had accomplished was no small feat and I needed to remember how grateful I am that I can even run. I love this sport for all it teaches me. Grit, grace, gumption, gratitude...Thank you all for your texts, calls, messages, and love on race day. I felt them all!

Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us-

Where is my brain on this third day of November? It's in a minefield. 

I've managed to squish two major life events into this month and I thought one would help the other and I may have bitten off more than I can chew. Well, I definitely did, but I'm hoping the Lord will just keep moving me in the right direction. In three days, I'll be running another marathon out of state. Nevermind I haven't properly trained. Nevermind my knees are feeling wonky after a two mile walk. I have to run 26.2 miles very soon. Mentally, I am elsewhere.

I spent the day-- no, literally all day-- filling out paperwork so that we could get our emergency visas to India to go pick up our daughter who is officially ours on paper! The process was tedious and time consuming and very involved. It was hard to focus with the children running around, tending to piano lessons, meal prep, and trying to do school in some way today. I have no idea if I did it properly, but I turned it in and now I wait.

It feels like that time I signed up to take the GRE on the very weekend that my other half deployed to Iraq. Spoiler alert: Not the best decision.

Tomorrow we'll have a call with our agency regarding travel and timelines and all of this would be so much easier if we miraculously got her birth certificate, passport, and our visas in the meantime. These are our last obstacles in being with our fifth child.

When I close my eyes to sleep at night, I picture holding her for the first time. Will she be scared? Indifferent? Will I feel like home to her eventually? 

I've never seen her smile. In all the videos and pictures we've been sent of her life, there have never been visibly happy ones. We have a lot of firsts ahead of us. Tomorrow is her birthday. She will be two years old. Obviously, I wanted to be with her before this day. I want to know her. I want to be the one who meets her needs. The only reason this is all possible is because of a whisper that I heard from God back in college that got stronger and stronger until the message was loud and clear and I could hear nothing else. It has been two years since that day. It's almost as if on the day of her birth that God was letting me know she was out there and I better get started trying to find her. That's what this girl means to me. She is a good and perfect gift that James 1:17 references. I know we're embarking on hard, messy times but we're walking with the God of the Universe and there's nowhere else I'd want to be.

My race. Our adoption. Let's go finish what was started!

"...Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus..." (Hebrews 12:1-2)

Honor to Wait: Adoption Tales

I'm reviewing the files in my head and coming up with very little that's working. How to stay sane in 2021? I don't know. From the devastation in Afghanistan, Cuba, Haiti, and our own backyard to the fights over the vaccine to the lack of word from India about our daughter, this week feels heavy. For me, upping my water intake, lessening caffeine, working out, turning off social media, and writing always seem to help.

And so here I am.

I wanted to give you a peak into the adoption process as I see it now. I have no update. Weeks go by without a word from India or my agency. I reach out for bread crumbs and there are none. How many times should I check the court app? Maybe if I refresh my email one more time, I'll see her face or read good news. I was warned that hardships were coming when we started this process, but I knew it was where God was leading. Right now, it feels like it will never end or never begin, I should say. I see people bringing their Indian babies home and while I'm happy to see another orphan find a loving family, it feels so foreign to me- like how did you do that? It's impossible. You can jump through the hoop, you can hop on one leg while juggling, you can get three hundred papers notarized, certified, and apostilled and it's still not enough. You can raise up four awesome kids and still have to prove that you can parent. You have to get one person, a stranger, to determine whether you can care for a child better than a group home housing many, many of God's little image bearers. And that one person can take as much time as they want. I get it, but it's maddening.

I want to help her learn to walk, to communicate, to take her to appointments to check on her heart, to have her know what it's like to be loved-

Children belong in loving families. That's the answer to much of our problems around the world today yet it is so hard to do financially, spiritually, emotionally, and physically.

This past weekend, we finally told many of J's coworkers about our plans to adopt Ari Jo. I could talk about her forever. The words just spill out and my excitement over another precious child is evident. I can't shut up. It has cost me "friends" but maybe that's what is meant to happen. Perhaps we're called to sing the praises of this little girl we don't even know, to notice her, to love her because He first loved us.

It is so hard in every way, but it's our honor to wait.

Ode to the small town-

Happy 4th of July, friends. I'm writing tonight with many thoughts floating through my head. I knew I'd feel a certain longing when the this date rolled around. It happens that way with most holidays. Most of my adult life, I've lived away from those I love. And as I approached this day, I tried to place a bandage on the wound, like perhaps it wouldn't hurt as bad because I'm surrounded with 14ers and beautiful views. Just this morning, I ran a 5k through the mountains of Colorado. Anyone would be lucky to live the life I have. Still, my roots are strong and when we moved back to Tennessee, I hoped it would be forever. I love adventure, but I love deep connection, too. 

It doesn't make sense to some and that's okay. Who would know that my great grandfather sat on the same porch for years and viewed the fourth of July parade in the exact same pants every year? Who would know that after traveling around with my Army brats that one day we would return and gather candy thrown out by a hometown police force or fire squad? I certainly couldn't have guessed that my deaf child would hear fireworks for the first time in the place that I call home. Every year at this very time, I snap a photo with my best friend. It's made extra special that the last three of my children have maternity/one year photos with her. It's even more so when you see the progression of battle photos- last year fighting cancer. This year, beating it. 

I feel disconnected and a part of something great all at the same time. Here's to the small towns, the families that make them, and the people who have made them possible by defending our nation's wars and ideals. Onward and upward! To a more perfect union-

Home Sweet Home

I've had writer's block for a couple of years, I think. I've countless posts started and unfinished sitting in my drafts. Ten years ago, the Internet was a different place. People didn't see every single meal or workout or happening in real time. There were still some folks who would enjoy sitting down and reading a post with several paragraphs about nothing at all. Now, we're all so busy we think, "Just give me the bottom line." So, it's likely that no one will read this, but I still want to write because my happiest times seem to be when I have catharsis working in my favor.

Happy Sunday, y'all. I'm looking out my large picture window from my chair on the opposite side of the room and I have already seen deer, squirrels, and an array of Fall colors revealing themselves. I have a single cup of coffee, all that could be scrounged up here at the house. My phone sits beside me where a book should be. I think we would all be a lot happier without that constant notification and distraction. There's a chill in the air because I refuse to use heat in October. Our house is sitting around 62 degrees and I wouldn't want it any other way. The room I'm in is clean and nothing makes me feel more cozy than a tidy space with a hot beverage and words to consume or pour out. Home is a good place to be.

Had you asked me this some months ago during the time when we were told to stay home, my reaction might have been different. It has been a brutal year for so many. Some of those people don't have a safe place to call home and that's not lost on me. It's something I've had on my brain in some form or fashion all year long- whether it was the adoption or the pandemic or creating a loving home for my own family. Also, what is home? Can I truly build a home anywhere and stoke the fires of education, spirituality, and connectivity wherever we go? We've been home in Tennessee for seven years now- in this house for five years. It is the longest we have been in any home or any other state during our marriage. It has been good to us. We've had family down the road. His and mine. We've had a real sense of community as our kids have grown, faced a diagnosis, battled infections and illnesses, and figured out what life was like outside of the army community. We've made friends here and lost friends, too. It's almost been a refining process this year. When life is really really good you recognize it because at one point it was very very hard. 

I guess that's all I mean to say today. If you're in the midst of a storm right now, please keep pushing. Joy comes in the morning. If you just got out of a storm, celebrate. Let's not be so busy in this life that we forget to intentionally prioritize and savor a slow morning at home curled up in a blanket with our people around us. Life is too short to ignore your blessings and not shout them out when you see them and today I'm thankful for this day that the Lord has made.

NYC Marathon Recap 2019

I am home from New York City and while I should definitely be folding and putting away laundry, instead I'm thinking about my latest journey through The Big Apple. The best way to see the city? The NYC Marathon, of course!

I have a lot of thoughts, possibly some excuses to share with you regarding race day. I'm super proud that I got to do this, but as with every other time I've run a marathon, I feel a little regretful of my performance at times, too. I've talked a lot about marathon running as a formula that I haven't been able to figure out yet and that still rings true for me. Admittedly, I didn't feel prepared for this distance leading up to the big day. It's very hard to fit in all the training when life happens. I haven't been able to find the balance of homeschooling my kids, being a good wife/mother/friend/whatever, sickness/injury, travel, other interests, and trying to train hard for a time I'm really proud of. I run because it helps to manage my anxiety. It's difficult to decide how much emphasis I should give to this sport in light of all of that. In the very same breath, I wasn't ready this year and there's no one to blame but myself. Still, I wouldn't trade this experience for anything. I got to run a major world marathon again and that is not lost on me.
I couldn't wait to start, but I had a late start time. There was plenty of time for my nerves to build up and bubble over especially as I watched my step-dad and my husband's start times come and go.

Running by myself was the way to go, though. Part of the difficulty of this marathon is the enormous crowd. I spent so much energy attempting to weave in and out of people to keep a good pace. I'd fall in with someone a lot slower than me and not realize for awhile that I had slowed down. I'd get through the crowd for a bit and then encounter the same problem. The first mile, as usual, was the most crowded one. Runners are trying to set a good pace, others are climbing up on bridges to take in the scenery and capture a picture, and I was just trying to get my mind right. After that first mile, I settled in to a 9:15 pace. I knew I wouldn't keep that, but I wanted to be right there since that is a comfortable pace for me and I didn't want to start off too fast like I did in Napa Valley earlier this year. That plan served me well until about the half way mark. I began to get slower at mile 13 and my legs just would not go. I can't explain it. I didn't feel tired, out of breath, or have any major injuries or pain I was trying to manage. I just couldn't propel my legs. I think the lactic acid build up was a big issue for me in this race. I hardly walked at all, but my times began a downward spiral slipping into 10,11, and even a 12 minute mile. I ran to mile 16 where I thought I'd find my sister and I did. She kept me running to her because I couldn't wait to see a familiar face. I thought once or twice that I would just stop and walk back with her when I got to her. Good thing for that barrier between us when I finally did see her! I was moving, but it wasn't nearly as fast as I wanted to. I felt my mind start to drift..."This is dumb. Why do I do this to myself? No one cares if you just walk the rest of it out." So I did what any Loudon Lacer would do and I sent a Marco Polo to my running pals around mile 18. One of my friends in the group had a stroke a few months ago and it has been a long road for her to have to walk down. I had been thinking of her the whole time. I was imagining myself running for her and for others I don't even know who would love to be able to run right now and those who do run and would love an opportunity to run in this marathon. Who was I to quit?

As soon as I sent my video to my running friends, they responded with so much support. It kept me going. I imagined all of you (who were texting me telling me that I was doing great or to finish strong) were on the streets of NY that day and I couldn't stop. I felt the love all those miles away. At mile 20, you all told me I just had a 10 k left. At mile 23, you told me I just had a 5k. At mile 25, you told me I could do anything for one mile and somehow I busted out one of the fastest miles for the whole race. The finish line felt so good. Thank you all so much for cheering me on. My friends who run with me, my homeschooling group of mamas, those of you who watch my kids so I can do this thing I love, those of you who reach out in support and encouragement--you share in this race with me. It's always an incredible reminder that I'm not alone and I have good people who care deeply.
The biggest takeaway for me was this epiphany I had as ESPN cameras swarmed my face on Sunday. This was my second televised sporting event where I was competing with tens of thousands of the world's best runners. The start of the race was captured on the front of the Wall Street Journal. This marathon is a big deal and a big blessing to me. God has given me so much. I was happy to complete this race another time. I don't even mind too much that it was a minute slower than last time. Lord willing, I'll keep persevering.

It Didn't Even Hurt

I carried his growing body, his lanky limbs dangling loosely around my legs nearly over taking me. He is a lot bigger than last time I made this trek. I positioned his head on my shoulder as I walked him into the doors of our home, careful not to disturb the incision that was made on his head only hours before. His eyes fluttered opened, he picked up his head, and he pointed saying, "Take me to my brothers first."

"It didn't even hurt", he told them and then he went to his room and fell back asleep.

We are home from a nightmarish whirlwind of doctor appointments, diagnosis, CT scans, and a surgery that we didn't foresee having to deal with this year. It has been nearly four years since we have faced this infection. Four years for it to grow inside his curly little head. As you can imagine, it was rampant and his body had made interesting adjustments to compensate, growing bone and pushing the wires from the mostly explanted cochlear implant into the mastoid bone. It was a mess and left no hope to ever implant again, not that we wanted to anyway. The aim of surgery was to extract all foreign bodies and clean out the infection. We were told it was successful, but we've been told that before. I don't want to seem gloomy. We're incredibly hopeful. Many have been praying and that's truly all we needed. Still, through this I was able to see all the good in people, too. People taking off work to help, my sister-in-law watching the other kids while we stayed at the hospital, hundreds reaching out to pray with us, and old friends coming to Nashville with a gift goody bag full of a newly sewn shark pillow case, handwritten notes of encouragement, and cookies. People praying for my son in the midst of their own tragedies. My kindness list is very full. Thank you.

I've been so proud of my little people. Kinley hugged Abel and prayed over him before we left.

Abel never cried as he bravely asked the doctors exactly what they planned on doing and how long he would be asleep. They wheeled him away as he was putting the finishing touches on a drawing he was working on, leaving me with a wetness in my eyes I hoped wouldn't spill over again.

Before he left, I focused on Matthew 8:17-

"He took up our infirmities and bore our diseases."

I believe God did that and He will do that in Abel's life again. God bless this testimony snuggled up in his bunk bed back home with his siblings.

Napa Valley Marathon and the Power of Yet

Good Morning from Tennessee. I was welcomed home last night into the unseasonably frigid winter air after having spent a long weekend in Napa Valley, California. I want to share my trip, but first I want to jot down some thoughts on the race to talk myself through it and have a record of what needs work and what I did well. Warning: If you don't run, you might find this post terribly annoying.

It's hard to not be disappointed in my performance on Sunday. In the same breath, I know I ran a freaking marathon...again...and that feat is an enormous blessing that I should feel very proud of. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I'm too hard on myself. I'm disappointed after almost every race, even when I PR (set a Personal Record). The truth is that running fast is hard and with the amount of training and time I dedicate to it, I feel like I should be better at it. If I'm being totally honest, I am better at it than I was, but my progress feels so slow. Some people are born with the ability to be speedy, others aren't made that way but can set their goals to improve despite it. I'm in the second camp and the power of yet hasn't escaped me. I know I can improve. I can get faster. I have already. But man, is it frustrating to have a goal in mind half of the race, just to see it slip through your fingers with no good explanation except that I just couldn't do it that day.
I could look at a lot of setbacks that played into my performance on marathon number two. During training, I hurt my knee and was out for a few weeks. I was also diagnosed with rupturing ovarian cysts which can be incredibly painful and sabotaged more than a few training runs. My mileage just wasn't there for the improvements I wanted to make in my finishing time. Still, I shaved fourteen minutes off my previous time, crossing the finish line at four hours and eighteen minutes. Truly, when I left for California on Friday I believed I would be incredibly pleased with that time. When race day rolled around, though, a new story developed in my mind. God had answered my prayers that I wouldn't have knee pain or cyst pain that day and I felt so hopeful starting the race with two girls who are really just incredible, faster than I could ever even fathom being. I knew I could finish the twenty six miles even at mile zero. I was ready.

I set off in mile one anxious to start fast, but not too fast. My plan was to hover around 8:50-9:10 minute miles. I loosely wanted to stay with the 4:00 or 4:10 pacers for as long as I possibly could. I think my first mistake is that I didn't look for them. I managed my clock on my own wrist and ended up sticking with the first group I found near me which was the pacers finishing at 3:55. I ran just in front of them for a long while and then I slowly slipped just behind them. I was with them for about fourteen miles and I was feeling so hopeful. The first half of the marathon felt great, but it was quickly into the second half that I felt my body giving up. In the last marathon, I didn't feel this until much later in the race so I started to worry that I set my sights too high and started off too fast.
A funny thing happens when I'm running long distances. I migrate from a lofty yet focused, hopeful goal into this thought "Well, most people don't go out and run a marathon. You are awesome and you deserve a little walk break." Ha! I tried to press on, but the hills were long instead of steep. They stretched out and messed with my head. The rain made me cold coupled with the wind pushing me backward and I could feel my newly created personal goal in my mind becoming unreachable. I kept putting one foot in front of the other, but it was the shuffle of an exhausted marathon runner instead of a prepared, strong athlete. Soon, the 3:55 group was out of my sight and I thought I would just try to stay in front of the 4:05 or 4:10 group. If they didn't pass me, I should be good. I never saw them pass me. I don't even know if they existed. At mile 20, I still had a pretty great time (for me). If I could have busted out those last six miles, I might even have made it around four hours. At that point my body was burning and aching around my stomach and back. I felt depleted. I knew I would regret my slow pace, but I was struggling, knew I was on pace to crush my previous time, and frankly, just didn't care. I lost my race in those last six miles.
Carol Dweck wrote, "In a growth mindset, people believe that their most basic abilities can be developed through dedication and hard work- brains and talent are just the starting point. This view creates a love of learning and a resilience that is essential for great accomplishment." As frustrating as running can be, I attribute it to saving me. I think God put this sport in my life, giving me deep connections with friends when I needed it most. Postpartum with all my babies was a difficult time and I searched for something I could work towards for myself. It has been a gift. This trip was a gift, too and I'm grateful to have had another opportunity to try to crack the code of marathon running. I remember when I used to think people who ran marathons were superhuman. Now, I've done two full marathons myself and I feel not at all like a super human. Instead, this sport draws me closer to Him. In my desperateness, I remember how much I need him in every area of my life. In the quiet moments as I ran along the Napa Valley Silverado Trail, I could call out to Him and ask for His strength and He gave it freely. I could cry out to a Savior who hears me and cares about every little detail of my life and tell Him thank you for the ability to run, for breath in my lungs, and for strong legs to carry me all over His beautiful creation. Running is a gift that brings me closer to Him.
Sometimes I really want to quit this sport, but I have so much room for improvement and I know I can do it. I'm not done. The power of yet feels so promising two days after the marathon. How quickly I forget the toll! How readily I remember that "Becoming is better than being"(Carol Dweck). I'm not done working toward figuring out this distance and when I come back at another chance, I'll know more than I did before.

Facing Fear

I hardly write here anymore. But old problems swell up, threatening to burst open into the comfortable life we've been living lately and when that happens, I want old faithful. This blog has been an outlet for me on some of our darkest days. I'm teetering on a nervous breakdown at the risk of sounding remorsefully weak. If you're new here, this post should give you a little background of our story with Abel. If you want to read even more, check out these posts. Abe has been through a lot. We have been through a lot. Before you start worrying (like me), I will preface this with- Abel is doing just fine. He currently has strep, but is on medication and won't be contagious soon. But what we discovered at the pediatrician yesterday sent me into a tailspin of despair. It's not terribly alarming news, it's just that I have so much PTSD associated with that time of our lives that the black cloud that has just been gathering over the years poured out all over me again when I heard it.

Lately we've noticed an odor coming from the ear that he had all that trouble with years ago. In short, he was simultaneously bilaterally implanted. He had all sorts of struggles and surgeries causing the surgeon to come to the decision to take out one of his implants nearly a year later. Months later, he was finally released from infectious disease and I never looked back. I despised Nashville and all that it represented to me. No longer was it the first place I ran the distance of a half marathon. No longer was it where I celebrated my birthdays in college. No longer was it a fun place to get away for a couple days. It was the city where I mourned so much of a normal life for my child. It felt suffocating when I drove into the awful traffic almost weekly that year. Nashville was the place we spent much of my son's early childhood in cold offices and caged hospital beds. I know this is a bit crazy, but it's how I felt. When I drove away from infectious disease that day, I knew I would only be back if I had to. Fast forward to now.

His pediatrician has cultured the bacteria in his ear and was a little concerned. The results are not back yet, but he wanted us to go ahead and get in with Abel's surgeon in Nashville to check up on him further. It might be nothing, but the fact that it could be something broke me open again. I cried all morning thinking of starting down this road again, both literally and figuratively. Over the years I've worked at trying to create happy memories of Nashville in my mind, but when I get off that exit I feel the heaviest curtain of dread fall around me. I know better, but I can't always shake it.

Tomorrow we will return to Vanderbilt to get him checked out. It's something we've needed to do for awhile now. I had pretty much laid to rest the idea of having him implanted again and so I saw no need to bring him back. I hoped to find an ENT around Knoxville who would see him, but because of his delicate history, no one was willing to take him on as a patient. Perhaps his infection is one that is easily handled. Perhaps it's not. But I'm writing here today because I know you'll join in praying for him. Thank you for allowing me to spill out my heart for all to see as dramatic as my sentiments may be. I feel better already. God is and always has been in control and He'll never leave us. He'll carry us with Him as we walk back into the doors of the Children's Hospital tomorrow and everything will be just fine. Deep breaths, Kacy.

TCS NYC Marathon

My heart sat heavy in my chest as I crossed the street to board a ferry that would take me to Staten Island, the start of one of the six major world marathons. I was joined by some of the fastest runners in the world and I would be running in the same race. How did I get here? It felt unreal. After a ferry ride and following a short bus ride, we pulled up to the start where tents and people stretched out far and wide. Men were dressed in heavy gear and machine guns decorated their middle. The Verrazzano Bridge sprawled out in front of me. I was finally there and what stood between me and a lofty personal goal was just 26.2 miles.

I arrived in a heated tent where runners were busy consuming food and water, stretching, relaxing, and feeling the same anxiousness that I was. As soon as I walked in, a cannon boomed. An eerie fear went over the entire crowd until we were reassured the sound signified the start of the professional women taking off. After that, the cannons continued. Wave after wave. Before I knew it, it was my turn to race. Alone in a crowd of 60,000 people, I made my way to the bridge. The loudspeakers were broadcasting many languages. The people around me, shoulder to shoulder, were speaking in their native tongues with excited pre-race jitters. There was so much activity to behold. Then, we were off!
The first mile is uphill, but because I've been training in the hills of Tennessee, I barely noticed. It was difficult to run with so many people. Slowing down and speeding up was as common in the first mile as it was in the last. I've never seen anything like it. It wasn't just the runners who were shoulder to shoulder, but the spectators, too! For twenty six long miles, people were cheering for us the entire time. The bridges were the only places that didn't hold fans of the race. It was amazing to see.
The NYC Marathon takes the runner through all five Burroughs: Staten Island, Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, and Manhattan. All walks of life, cultures, and personalities were displayed that day. There was so much support along the way for all of those crazy people who set out to run for twenty six miles, myself included.

I settled into a 9:30 pace pretty easily. I was right where I wanted to be. I felt good. I felt prepared. I was no longer scared of not being able to finish. My many months of training were paying off. I tried to manage my calorie intake by inhaling Gu packs every five miles or so. I carried my water with me so I wouldn't have to wait at the aid stations for too long. That worked in my favor for the first fifteen miles or so. But then, I decided to stop for gatorade on the following miles which slowed me down a bit. I couldn't believe how thick the crowds were still. In most races, I can outrun some folks and find a pocket where I'm not tripping over people every few minutes. Not so in the big apple.
The nervousness had long worn away and my hopes of catching a glimpse of my family in this enormous city were all but gone, too. It was just me and the pavement and I still had ten miles to go. At mile 16, I thought I heard my name. I was feeling quite like this whole marathon idea was dumb and so when I looked up and saw my sweet family yelling at me, I remember feeling so happy. Elated, seriously. My smile lit up my face. I was almost embarrassed at how pathetic it must have looked, but I didn't stop to talk. I knew if I slowed down to take a picture, I might not have the motivation to start up again. I waved so big and continued with my run and new wind in my wings. Around mile 19, my pace started to get consistently slower. My tired legs were stiff. People were starting to walk around me. They were trying to stretch at every opportunity, but I pressed on.
Again at mile 22, I saw my family again. They asked if I was ok. They said I looked good. I thought to myself, "Fake it till you make it!" I smiled and gave them a thumbs up, but really I was starting to feel lousy. It was at that moment when I knew I was going to run a marathon, though. I knew I could finish. Four miles left. I kept moving.

At mile 23, my chest started burning. I worried a little, but I couldn't stop now. No way. I walked some, trying to catch my breath from the pain that was catching in my chest and trying to stay hydrated. I didn't walk for very long and I began the slow shuffle of building up my pace again despite the discomfort I was feeling. Oh, those miles were hard. I was feeling completely exhausted when I heard my name again and I looked up to see my in-laws at mile 25 beaming with pride and waving to me. It gave me the boost I needed to finish the race.
I looked around me as I ran up to the massive blue finish line barriers to see the people I was finishing with. Tired faces surrounded me. Some were passing out. I walked to a smiling face who handed me a medal and immediately, I received texts from all over the country congratulating me on my finish. I knew the app that tracked me was working and I could feel the support from everyone. Great feeling. I was a marathoner now. And even more than that I was given the chance to compete in a world marathon qualifying race. I did it.

It wasn't without the help and support of so many people. From babysitting on training runs, to sending running gear, gifts, congratulatory champagne, to knowledgeable massage therapists, to race coordinators who become good friends, to people running alongside me in preparing, to buying a ticket to NYC to cheer me on, to people watching my kids so I could achieve this goal, to everyone who followed along with me on that big day with facebook posts, messages, and texts, to the Good Lord giving me great weather and a strong body that held up under the pressure. I'm honored. Thank you all for supporting me in this goal!

Persistent

Grief hasn’t come to me in the traditional albeit earth shattering ways that it has to others. No one died. But I feel it just the same. Tonight, years and years passed a deafness diagnosis and much understanding and acceptance, I felt it again as I clutched a sobbing five year old. Shaking, in the fetal position on his bed, he cried.

Twenty minutes ago, my son was asking me questions but his reactions to my responses clued me in that he wasn’t hearing me. My eyes and hands reached for the processor on his head that helps him to hear and it wasn’t there. I signed to him that he needed to show me where he last saw it and he took me outside and we found it. The hearing device itself was fine, but the dog had done a number to the headpiece, a magnet that connects to another one implanted in his head three years ago. Without that magnet, that four hundred and fifty dollar piece of equipment, my son is profoundly deaf.

Am I mad or am I sad? Oh, it’s for sure both.

But right now? This moment? It’s grief.

I told him that his dog had chewed it up and that because of this, he wouldn’t be able to hear in the water anymore. His understanding is on point in this area. He knows the cost both literally and figuratively. Monetarily speaking, we are out a lot of money. But the other cost is that it’s the beginning of summer in East Tennessee and if you want to make it, you will need a giant pool of water. The other even greater cost is that Abel won’t be able to hear much of our summer vacation. Pools, lakes, splash pads, a rainy day. What previously was a great sensory experience is now diminished quite a bit for him. Not to mention, it will be a safety issue, too. Costly hearing equipment, sure. The true cost is his ability to hear, though.

That’s what will take my breath away. That’s what turns my anger into gut punching sadness. His eyes filled with tears, he took off to his room, and he laid on his bed and he cried. I went to him trying to console him as he tried to get it together. He’s tough. He willed himself to stop his body from shaking with tears, he slowly dried his eyes, and finally he stood up. He straightened up his clothes and he went outside to enjoy the rest of the evening.

He knows life doesn’t stop for him. He knows how to be persistent. He’s five years old. I was nearly thirty when I learned that lesson. It took him to make me see that. So, again I’ll take a page from Abel’s story. I will stand up from the catharsis of my keyboard, dry my eyes, and straighten out my running shorts. Life doesn’t stop. Goals aren’t reached by sitting in sadness. Get it together, Mama. You’ve got this. You are stronger than you’ve ever imagined. YOU are, too (you who are reading this).

Thanks for the lesson, Abe.