I have both ridiculed and idolized my friends who run half marathons and marathons. A few years ago I tried running, and it just didn’t work for me. My friend Anita and I would get up before sunrise, a time when only God should be stirring—and then only in case of emergency, and jog for about 35 minutes before making breakfasts and lunches and getting kids off to school. I pretended to like it for a couple of weeks. I was an impostor. So I stopped pretending to be a runner and returned to my normal morning routine—eeking out every last moment of sleep I could before the alarm went off.

So my neighbors, who happen to also be among my closest friends, had a bottle of wine after a long run one Saturday morning and signed up for a half-marathon. After thinking this through, the friend who did the marathon registration (let’s call her Anita for the heck of it) decided she didn’t want to run the marathon with our other two neighbors but rather to walk it. That’s where I come in. She asked me to walk it with her. I said yes.

The weekend of the marathon, I had no idea what to pack for our overnight stay in L.A. I packed a nice BCBG designer sweatsuit I’d purchased for a mere $40 at Ross and my athletic shoes. My marathon veteran friend Mary told me after the race that next time I should avoid loose-fitting clothes that don’t wick away the sweat and moisture. Now she tells me. I could have shaved perhaps an hour off my time if I’d opted for Spanx and a Wonder-bra.

We showed up at the Rose Bowl at 7-something in the morning on a Saturday which is just wrong in and of itself. I zeroed in on a few runners I knew I could beat including a 9-year-old girl who didn’t seem well-trained and a little boy who just appeared to be tagging along with his mother. I gave them a look that said, “You’re goin’ down, sucker.”

My two “real” runner friends darted across the starting line at a steady pace. Anita and I decided we’d run a mile, walk a mile. At mile 2 we kept running. I wasn’t even tired. And then I had to pee. Rather than waste precious time finding a proper toilet, Anita and I veered from the path, visited the bushes, and re-entered the beautiful riverside Pasadena course. In retrospect I think---really? Did I really believe I was such a contender that I couldn’t spare 1 minute to find a toilet?

We hit our first water station. It was so cool! People were handing out cups with water and Gatorade, and I saw a steady trail of empty cups strewn by the course by hard-working runners who couldn’t be bothered with aiming at the trashcan. Apparently, this is allowed because runners are studs. Throwing my cup down after chugging its contents was a highlight for me. Yeah, I’m a runner. I can litter. Yeah, I just threw that cup down. You can’t stop me. Cuz I’m a runner.

I’ll condense the next 9 or so miles for you---my knee started hurting at mile 3; I utilized the next 5 porta-potties; I may have whispered a curse word or two; I vowed to find new sedentary friends; I sweat in places I didn’t know had sweat glands.

By the end of the race at mile 13, my knee felt like a knife was being inserted at the joint with every point of impact. I struggled to keep pace with my friend Anita whose hard-headedness alone was driving her to RUN not walk. Our two runner friends who had the good sense to train for this event were waiting for us at the finish line. As I ran past them and through the finish line, I flashed a sincere hand gesture as if to say—thanks to you I may die of knee pain, exhaustion and embarrassment from excessive peeing of my pants in about 2 minutes.

But I finished. Granted I would have fared much better had I trained for this race. But I finished. Anita and I had started out with two goals: Don’t die, and run at least some of the course. We exceeded our own expectations for ourselves out of pure pride and stubbornness. I was NOT going to let that little 9-year-old boy beat me.

So here are my takeaways from my foray into the marathoning world. 1) Appreciate the gift of friendship. I never would have done a ½ marathon without my dear friends roping me into it and cheering me on. 2) Never quit. On the journey of life, even if you have to stop and pee a lot, walk really slowly, or visit First-Aid, don’t lose sight of your goal. It will be worth the effort when you cross the finish line. 3) Challenge yourself—step out of your comfort zone. You will grow from it. 4) And perhaps most importantly: train for the race and wear Depends OR fake sick on the morning of the race so you can stay in the hotel, order room service, and watch TV.

Today after getting gas, my daughter Charli (8 yrs old) asked, "Mom, did you put the nozzle back in the pump?" What a silly question. Well, not really.

A few months back I drove away with the nozzle in my gas tank and ripped the hose right out of the pump. A friend from church happened to be getting gas at the same time, of course. She told her son...who knows my son. It was soon on Facebook.

Just a couple of weeks ago a friend texted me to say she had pulled up to the gas pumps on the wrong side of her vehicle--not a new car so she should have known what side the tank was on. I told her about my experience with ripping the hose out of the gas pump and she felt better about her faux pas. Once again I am reminded that my gift in life is helping others put their own screw-ups into perspective.

And as I drove away from the pump today, I answered my daughter’s question. “No, honey. I did not drive away with the nozzle in my tank. And I consider that a small victory.”

As I sit at my computer working on a collaborative book project, I hear a steady, rhythmic sound---not thunderous or frightening, but definitely a sign of life in the Espinoza household at 10:11 PM. I glance out the glass French doors of my office and see my 16-year-old son and his friend juggling my fake apples from the kitchen. For a moment, I contemplate telling them to stop lest my lovely red apples sustain irreparable dents and scratches, revealing their inauthenticity and rendering them unfit for the fake fruit bowl. Then I remember how incredibly grateful I am that my 16-year-old is hanging out at home. And that his friend feels at home here too. Upstairs my middle son is with a couple of friends videotaping some kind of crazy, funny bit…probably to post on Facebook or You-tube or some other venue where creative geniuses can display their creations with no idea how truly creative they are. (We won’t mention the ones who are truly un-creative and should be denied access to any public forum.)

One time my sons squirted ketchup in various spots of the front and backyards during the filming of a “murder mystery” for a school project—what’s a murder mystery without blood? Another time I was awakened after midnight to the sound of someone puking in the backyard. No, it’s not what you think. Apparently, a regular highlight of most Espinoza multiple human sleepovers is a challenge to drink the most disgusting cocktail of refrigerator and pantry contents imaginable---BBQ sauce, chocolate syrup, flour, tomato sauce, pepper, etc.---you get the picture. Call me crazy, but I love that someday one of these kids just might tell their kids about the night they “won” a contest for drinking the most disgusting concoction ever…and our home was the featured venue.

I do not regret for one moment the parenting decisions throughout the years to…set up a Little Tykes playset in the living room, turn a beautiful custom built-in into a container for games, paper dolls, art supplies and video games, install tile throughout the downstairs and buy an inexpensive set of couches so our primary concern would not be preserving the integrity of our investment, replace an unused formal dining table with a pool table our kids can enjoy with their friends. I could go on and on.

So my point, and I do have one (to borrow from comedienne Ellen DeGeneres), is that when it comes to kids, it is more important to have a home than to have a house that is quiet, orderly, neat, clean and fit for HGTV. I’d rather have my son juggling apples.

I’m up at midnight on a Saturday night putting away groceries and browning meat for a delicious crockpot stew to be eaten tomorrow after church by my family of 6. Actually, I’m fantasizing that they will all be home at the same time and equally enthusiastic about the culinary offering I’m preparing which includes more colorful vegetables than most of them are able to bear.

As I cook, I am watching an episode of Oprah entitled Your Best Life. It’s about how Oprah has fallen off the wagon of weight loss and maintenance, and it features a guest shot by Carney Wilson who has also experienced an up-and-down battle with weight, including lap band surgery.

I feel for these women. I have been 100 pounds all my adult life…except for during my four pregnancies. I have never battled weight. Still, at 5’1” there’s not much chance of my filling the bill for “Super-Model of the Year”---well, maybe for Kids R’Us.

But it dawns on me as I hear them talking. It’s not really about the weight. Plenty of women reach their target weight and are still not happy. And plenty of women are beyond the culturally desirable weight specifications and are confident and content with who they are. At 100 pounds, I am unsatisfied with things about myself that are no less real and painful than the dissatisfaction many women have about themselves due to weight or other issues. We ALL have crap that we deal with in our heads.

I think I had a God moment over the sautéing skillet of beef and onions. When we believe this life is all there is, we will do anything…ANYTHING to make the most of it. Don’t get me wrong. I believe in living IN the moment—in enjoying your children without wishing for the next stage of development when it will be easier and in savoring a God-created sunset because it has been given as a gift for today. But my ultimate hope, the thing that gets me out of bed when the day seems far less than promising, is not today’s sunset…or tomorrow’s. My hope is in a life beyond the life that I experience in this physical body within this framework of perceived time.

The sincere quest for life beyond the surface is commendable. It is appropriate. But our human souls have been created to long for even more than that. As St. Augustine said centuries ago, our souls “are restless until they find their rest in thee, oh, Lord.” In every heart is a hole that only its creator can fill.

The question Oprah’s advisor suggests we ask is, “What are you really hungry for?” As I am about to embark on a 2-week fast which allows me fruits, veggies, water, herbal tea, and whole grains, my initial answer is, “I am hungry for God Himself.” I hate that I must set aside succulent left over Christmas chocolates for the next 14 days and that I won’t be able to enjoy a strong cup of hot coffee after taking the kids to school. I hate that I can’t grab some cheddar cheese to melt over tasty nachos or look forward to nibbling on one of the warm chocolate chip cookies my sons have baked after dinner.

I am motivated to deny myself for one reason---I believe that God Himself is the greatest need I have. And God meets me beyond the boundaries I know in my physical life, here and now. If I believed my life stopped when my heart stopped, I would grapple with every ounce of energy to preserve, maintain and prolong the very best life possible. I would be obsessed with everything that happens between my point of birth and my inevitable point of death.

But I believe there is life AFTER this life. In fact, I believe the life after this one is more real than anything we experience here in our tiny universe.

There is so much written these days about living your best life---now. I get that. God wants us to live what He calls an “abundant life.” That means a life of joy, service, love, peace, and hope---beyond what any present circumstance can offer. My best life, the best life I could ever imagine, is the one I will enter when I am no longer confined by a body that gets sick and a mind that worries and a heart that longs to be loved with no limits. My best life will come when my physical appearance is no longer a daily regimen to keep, my accomplishments are no longer a disguised down-payment on grace and my soul is at rest in the home where it was meant to dwell---in the forever presence of the God who loved me and sacrificed everything to be with me.

I will never achieve perfect balance in this life. I will never achieve perfect health. I will never achieve perfect relationships. I will never achieve perfect accomplishments or perfect appearance. What I can strive for is saying a simple ‘yes’ to God every day I live.

And when I take my last breath, I get to look forward to even more than I’ve ever dreamed---my very best AFTERlife.

Jingle bells, camel smells, Dubai all the way. Our entire family spent Christmas in Dubai and just got home Monday. With a 12-hour time difference, our bodies are protesting---telling us it’s time to sleep when it’s really time to throw on some clothes and start the day. We celebrated our “normal” Christmas Eve last night, January 1, 2009. Seven-year-old Charli fell asleep around 5:30 before we opened gifts, woke up just long enough to tear open a few of hers, and promptly went back to sleep.

Why Dubai? My sister-in-law is a pilot for Emirates Airlines based in Dubai, and we went out to spend Christmas with her. Emirates Airlines rocks! Each of us had our own TV screen with lots of movies, TV shows and video games to keep us occupied on the 16-hour flight. We could even view live footage from the under-plane or front-view cameras. The flight attendants were quite amused with me when I told them, “This food is delicious! I love it!” I’m not used to spicy, flavorful food on a plane. These days I’m not used to ANY kind of food on a plane.

How was Dubai? Over-the-top. I fell in love with the bathrooms. Even at the waterpark we went to, the bathrooms had marble floors and granite countertops. In every hotel and restaurant, the bathroom doors were made out of beautiful wood and reached all the way to the floor…like a REAL bathroom, not the kind where you can hand a roll of toilet paper all the way down the row under the stalls.

We stayed at the Harbour Hotel on the Dubai Marina where we’d often stroll, gawking at the giant yachts. Grocery shopping at Spinneys gave us a taste of local life. However, the adjacent Starbucks, Johnny Rockets and Coffee Bean transported us back home. Well, almost. The sweet smell of shisha rarely permeates the air at my local Starbucks here in Southern Cal.

The people were warm and hospitable. Every nationality you can imagine is represented in Dubai. Adventurous eater that I am, I seized every opportunity to fill my plate with one of everything---from savory meats to decadent desserts and mouth-watering side dishes. My husband, whose idea of culinary adventure is anything with more than 3 ingredients, wasn’t quite so thrilled, but he did love the marinated grilled meats and the coffee.

We were blessed to experience some of the best that Dubai has to offer…sunset camel rides, dinner and entertainment at world-famous Bab Al Shams, high tea at the spectacular Burj Al Arab (the sailboat hotel in the ocean), Ski Dubai in the gargantuan Emirates Mall, dinner at the beautiful Al Muna restaurant in the Madinat Souk, and shopping beside Dubai Creek in the authentic souks just to name a few. We also visited the Abu Dhabi Falcon Hospital where we each held falcons and learned about these majestic birds that are revered by the people of the Middle East. Atlantis hotel and waterpark were unbelievable---we slid down a waterslide into a plexiglass tunnel surrounded by a tank of sharks and other exotic fish. Surreal!

What was it like spending Christmas in Dubai? I’ve never seen more beautiful or abundant Christmas decorations than in Dubai. Everywhere we went, elaborately adorned trees, sparkling lights, lush wreaths and garlands were a constant reminder of the holiday season. A special Christmas Eve dinner prepared right in our own kitchen suite was reminiscent of our typical homestyle holiday fare. Charli used an entire tub of green and red sprinkles to decorate the Christmas tree cake.

Now for the real question…is it time to wake up or go to sleep?

I watched Boston Legal tonight...the season finale. I love the chemistry between the actors--James Spader and William Shatner. They are brilliant at their craft.

Tonight Spader’s character, Alan Shore, and Shatner’s character, Denny Krane, got married. This wasn’t a marriage accompanied by consummation, as both are unabashedly heterosexual. This was a marriage based upon a foundation of trust, love and unshakable friendship. I’ll forego the details underlying the decision to marry. Rent the season’s DVD if you’re dying to know.

Whether you agree or disagree with the political or ideological statements made by Boston Legal’s writers, the bottom line of tonight’s episode is this: people are desperate to be loved, accepted and cared for. In the middle of life’s most frightening, confusing circumstances, we just want to know someone is there who will not leave us or sell us out to the highest bidder. We want to know there is hope.

The Bible says that God will never leave us or forsake us. Alan Shore may pledge his unwavering devotion to Denny Krane, but will he really stick around when Krane is in a nursing home and can no longer deliver witty quips and steady companionship, with a good stiff drink, at the end of a long day in court?

I’m not trying to wax super-spiritual. It just hit me again as I watched this episode of Boston Legal that the universal need of people--you and me-- is to have a friend that loves us with no strings attached. God loves like that. He sent Christ to show us that kind of love—a love for the outcast, the one on the fringe, the sick, the weak, the lonely, the struggling, the one for whom hope has seemingly died. If there is any message God intends for the Christmas season, this is it. There is hope, acceptance, and love in Christ. He wants to be with us.

I’m thankful for relationships God has placed in my life to to show me His love. My husband has loved me through circumstances that reflected God’s forgiving heart. My kids have shown me how much God delights in having me as His precious daughter. Friends have supported me in ways that demonstrate God’s desire to strengthen and encourage me. These people are God—with skin on. He has sent them to me because He loves me. I know that God Himself is the source of all encouragement, strength, joy, acceptance, love, and hope.

I don’t extrapolate theology from pop culture. I do see pop culture reflecting the need of all humanity. Hyper-sexuality, over-achieving, hunger for fame and money, grasping for relationships at all points on the spectrum---these are all symptoms of one thing. We need God. As St. Augustine said over 1600 years ago, “Thou hast made us for Thyself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee.”

Thanks Denny. Thanks Alan. Here’s to the love of a good Friend.

It is impossible for me to prepare anything requiring heat without the whole scenario ending in discovery of a new space age building material, detonated smoke alarms, or combustion. I’ve come to terms with my destiny and no longer try to fight it. Mario Andretti was meant to drive fast. Donald Trump was born to pioneer the onion loaf combover. Wayne Newton was placed on this earth to play Vegas. I was born to burn food.

One day while grilling chicken, I decided that if I’d just concentrate on grilling rather than running in and out of the house tending to both the grill and the stovetop simultaneously, I could turn out a platter of chicken still moist and juicy in the middle and much lower on the color saturation scale. Perfect time to phone a friend and chat while sitting just three feet away from the simmering chicken. It was a wonderful conversation we had. Until I saw smoke billowing from the big blue Weber. “Crud, the chicken’s on fire. Bye!”

The grill is temperamental I reasoned. It doesn’t cook evenly. So I repeated my single-course strategy in the kitchen. Concentrating only on the rolls in the oven would yield perfectly puffy nicely browned bread. Meanwhile, two or three dirty dishes in the sink begged for my attention. Presently the smell directly to the left of the sink alerted me that the rolls were done…well done. Honestly, my family is so accustomed to seeing rolls with the black tops shaved off, they hardly even notice any more. When served rolls at someone else’s house, they probably ask, “Why does your mom leave the tops on the rolls?”

Then there are boiled items---rice, potatoes, beans. One particular bean instance comes to mind. I’m not sure when the last drop of water had evaporated from the pot, but by the time I finally remembered putting the beans on to boil, there was a layer of something resembling petrified volcanic ash on the bottom that left permanent bean imprints on my supposedly “stainless” steel---don’t ask me how. You can’t question destiny.

Usually I am rather laissez faire about my charcoal creations. I model for my kids a healthy acceptance of imperfections, humming a happy tune as I chisel away in search of some salvageable morsel of food beneath—like a sculptor removing everything that doesn’t resemble the intended masterpiece.

The other day, however, my carefree constitution collapsed. My only consolation—the steak had been on sale. Oh, and I had pulled my husband’s New York strip off the grill early to check for doneness. So he was a happy camper. The rest I left sizzling so they’d get a bit more done. They did. Unfortunately for the rest of the family, Michelangelo himself couldn’t have salvaged the solid black chunks I threw into the sink. I said a bad word. OK, two.

The next night I was determined to redeem myself. I’d thawed out ground beef for burgers and reckoned that if I pulled out my George Foreman grill, juicy foolproof burgers would be just minutes away. In went the patties and off I skipped to the laundry room to throw in some clothes, then to the office to return e-mails. At some point, I recalled that I’d been involved in some other activity…ah, yes, making burgers!!! I plopped the petrified patties onto buns slathered with lots of condiments—surely they’d work like leather softener does on shoes and my kids would never know the difference. My oldest son, bless his heart, made a valiant effort but finally gave in and said, “Mom, I’m sorry…this burger is way crunchier than a burger should be. I tried to eat it, but I’m getting abrasions on my throat every time I swallow. It hurts.”

At least my family never has to wonder when dinner’s going to be ready. Summoned by the scent of blackened whatever or the sound of the smoke alarms, they come running, knowing full well some skillful sculpting may be necessary before digging into the evening’s dinner offering…the burnt variety that is. You just can’t argue with destiny.

I am now officially my 5-year-old daughter’s soccer coach. Have I ever coached soccer before? No. Have I ever played soccer before? Please…I’m from Texas. When I was in school, we had the three F’s—FHA (Future Homemakers of America), FFA (Future Farmers of America) and football. And I know how to skin a squirrel. But soccer…no.

You’re saying, “But you’ve watched a bit of soccer on TV, surely when Mia Hamm became a star in the Olympics.” Nope. In fact, I couldn’t even swear that Mia Hamm was in the Olympics or if soccer is even an Olympic sport. I’m pretty sure I heard something to that effect though.

This was my response to the fervent appeal that went out for Head Coaches this season when unexpected droves of Southern California parents like myself decided their children needed the experience of playing a sport and would look cute in a soccer uniform. “Here’s what I know about soccer…you get the ball in a net. You can’t throw it. And the kids look adorable.” They still wanted me to coach.

So here I am armed with a player roster, a coach’s handbook, an un-inflated soccer ball, a first-aid kit (Lord, help us all) and a really nifty gym bag they gave me as a perk. I know only a tad bit more about soccer than I do about capturing and taming a Bengal tiger and teaching it to become a vegetarian.

I thought this would be a simple two-hour a week commitment. I’ve since learned of my THREE required meetings which altogether add up to a whopping nine hours.

Last night’s training was great. They served free pizza and soda and I got to bring home an entire leftover pepperoni pie for my kids! As far as the training itself, it was mostly about sportsmanship. You know, things like, “Johnny, you played so hard today…next time maybe try kicking the ball into OUR goal.” OR When disagreeing with a call, it’s best not to use the phrase, “You suck” in your communication. I can do that. Citizenship I know about. How to “make a pass” or “throw down the line”---not a clue.

So after the training session we had to fill out an evaluation form on the presentation. At the top of the form I had to write down the presenter’s name. Easy enough. Next, it asked for gender and ethnicity. I hesitated. What difference does it make what ethnicity or gender my presenter was? Oh, well, they have their reasons. I checked the African-American and the Male boxes and moved on. Then it hit me…they were asking for MY gender and ethnicity. So I scratched out my previous choices and checked off the Caucasian and Female boxes.

Right now some high-ranking officials in our soccer association are reading my evaluation form and breaking out in a sweat…”This person doesn’t even know whether she’s an African-American male or a Caucasian female and she’s coaching our kids??!!!” Perhaps next year they’ll be a little more discriminating in their coaching recruitment process. In the meantime, my team will get the best snacks ever, be able to milk any cows that may appear on the field and maybe even learn to skin a squirrel.

Today I lived one of those moments you hope you’ll only see on TV commercials. I went to the grocery story armed with my coupons and my special receipt-slashing list (see thegrocerygame.com under LINKS). This particular day, my son Chandler and his friend Chris (aka my Bonus kid) had come along to help. OK, they actually didn’t come to help. They had me drop them off at a nearby restaurant where they treated themselves to hot wings and had then migrated over to the store to encourage me in my money-saving food-gathering efforts a la --- “Mom, aren’t you finished yet?”

At last to the checkout stand I headed, much to the relief of the teenage tag-alongs, with a heaping cart of household items, foodstuff, and even a multi-pack of my favorite gum that would end up being FREE.

Chandler and Chris jumped right in to help unload the cart because they are such courteous young men---oh, and they were full of wings and needed to rush home to the facilities. The folks in line behind me quickly lamented their choice of check-stand #5 as they huffed and puffed and watched the checker inspect coupon after coupon against their respective items, making sure I’d purchased the required quantities and varieties to merit my “doubled” savings.

I barely even flinched when Chris picked up the Kotex and threw it on the conveyor belt. After all, I am a mature woman, not a giggling, embarrassed teenage girl confronting the infamous first-time purchasing of feminine hygiene products.

All seemed to be sailing along smoothly until the conveyor belt stopped abruptly. The checker shot a suspicious glance my way. “Kotex????” she queried, as if to say, “Don’t try to fool me, lady. You cannot use this coupon if you haven’t purchased the item.” Chandler and Chris flanked me on both sides. I could have turned around and asked, “Chris, hon, didn’t I see you put the Kotex on the belt?” --- (not to be confused with putting the belt on the Kotex—that’s so last century). Instead, I prayed silently that the checker would show mercy and simply accept my word that I had indeed purchased the required 16 ct. or higher package of Kotex WITH wings. I replied sheepishly, “Y—y—yes.”

Checker #5 peered into my eyes and looked as if she might insist on further questioning, perhaps even force me to dig through the bags and produce the package in question. Then my prayer was answered. As Chris and Chandler and I waited for the verdict, sensing fully the awkwardness of the moment, the checker resumed her duties, scanning the Fritos.

At last the final item was bagged, checker #5 was paid, and I took possession of proof positive that it pays to clip coupons and endure the irritated glances of the five-item “I’m in a hurry” shoppers behind me in line. I surveyed the receipt to get my “fix” for the week. My eye fell on two key figures---Total Spent $104, and then right beneath it---Total Saved $112. In an instant, my humiliation melted away into self-satisfaction. However, I will not be bringing my teenage son and my bonus kid along next time feminine hygiene products appear on my magical receipt-slashing list. They’ll thank me for it. And I’ll probably avoid checker #5.