about a month ago,
46 days ago to be exact,
i started doing a workout program called p90x.
it’s a fierce, very very intense at home dvd system from the evil geniuses who bring us
insanity
and
the asylum.
yep.
i started doing it because i’m what is called a “beach body coach”.
it means i can help you find a fitness program you’ll love
and encourage you when you feel like quitting.
first, i agree with you if you hate the name “beach body”.
feel ya.
but…
they make the best, and most effective systems and they’re really good ethical people so…
beachbody it is.
the jewel in the crown of beachbody is something called p90x. it’s nuts and long and hard and every time i do it i think i’m gonna puke.
(great salesman aren’t i)
anyway…it’s fierce. it’s not joke and i only decided to do it so i could have some street cred with the beachbody people.
it’s a 90 program and you work out 6-7 days a week.
i smoke through days 1-30 and am feeling like a boss.
then comes
day 31.
i push play and realize i cannot do this workout.
i can not do what he’s asking of me.
it’s not even that i don’t want to…i full blown can’t.
my arms will not do that.
i’m beat. i work full-time.
i cook and clean and do homework with kids and say prayer and tuck them
and…???…
do this vicious workout?
why?
why?
why am i doing this?
i’m i doing it to have a six-pack?
not. (although i’m getting one which kinda rocks)
do i want this to be my career?
no. i host a christian radio show and i love love love it!!!
why am i doing this thing?
i’m literally saying this out loud and i’m struggling to do push up.
is it because my college friend did it?
no…i love them. remember them fondly but this is not for them.
and now i’m starting to cry and do push ups and the only thing i’m saying is
“why am i doing this?”
am i doing it for my kids? to be strong for them?
yes and no. i do need to be fit for them, but not this fit.
why?
and now my husband hears me crying like a baby or more like a pussy
and he comes up stairs and i push pause and go sit on the coach and weep my damn head off.
for real.
and i ask him, “why the hell am i doing this? i can’t do everything. i can’t do everything”
and now i’m all like “is p90x actually giving me a breakdown? really? cuz i’m not cool with that either.”
and i stop and really really pray.
“god you show me why i’m doing this. if it’s not for you, lord. if it’s not for your glory then show me and i’ll stop right now, because if it’s not healthy or it’s not for you then it is pointless.
i’m overcome by this desire to get stronger, lift more, withstand more. is it a good thing?”
and i stop and be still and listen like i used to as a kid
when you’re walking in the woods and someone tells you that the indians used to put their ear to the ground to hear people
who are far far way walking toward you.
and you try it and it works.
i listened for the lord like that. like a kid with my ear to the ground.
and i did hear him.
are at least i hear him echo.
and the echo, well it sounded like a memory.
the memory of a story i heard.
if you know me, you know part of it.
it’s weird and true and the best way to share it is just to rip it off like band-aid
and just
spit it out.
my mom and dad were killed in a tornado.
as far and anyone knows, my dad was killed instantly but, as it turns out, mom lived for a little while.
in the first few years after the tornado, i didn’t really know the details of the after math.
so my brain made up details and the details it made up were so awful and full of screams and blood and gore, that i just went ahead and scoured the records for names and number of people who were actually there. who knew the truth. and i called them and interviewed them.
the neighbor who found mom and covered her with a blanket, the neighbor who spoke with her and realized her voice box was broken,
“what did she say?”, i asked.
“she said, “this is how i sleep.” he answered and her voice was so low it was barely human sounding”, he replied, “she was like a rag doll”
strangely this account gives me comfort, because if she was in pain she would have said something like, “help” or “my back”
she said, “this is how i sleep.” which were probably here last words.
i interviewed the e.m.t. who saw her in the rubble and passed her by.
i couldn’t believe it when he told me.
“what do you mean you passed her by? she was dying!”
“exactly. she was dying. there was no way to save her and that was obvious. we are there to help people who have a chance of surviving.”
“couldn’t you have just sat with her? prayed with her or something”
“no . there was a baby trapped in the debris of the house down the block. we had to find that baby.”
this was the conversation that came back to me
when i was falling apart on the couch
and wondering why i’m pushing play on this torture chamber of a workout.
and it hits me.
i am doing this because i want to be able to lift the beam.
if i’m ever called upon to, i want to be able to do it.
to lift it, push it, carry it.
it’s important.
it’s important to me.
and then, i think about the cross-the beam that christ lifted for me, so save me from the wreckage.
and now i want to do it for him.
for real.
the kid, by the way was 10 months old.
his name was nicholas stein and according to the local newspaper he was ” found blissfully playing beneath a door in the ravaged house and suffered only bumps and scrapes.”
i tried to find nick on facebook.
i didn’t find him.
i guess his parents are wise enough not to allow the now 13 or 14-year-old onto the site.
i’m not sure what i’d say to him, if anything.
i think, i’d just pray over his picture.
and then…
well….i’d pop in my darned dvd and push play
and lift.
i’d lift heavy.
i know you are. but, what am i? 