You should have seen me right before our mini-getaway last weekend: I was haggard, bloated, teary-eyed and greasy-haired. I was a mother.

But then we took a four day break, and I felt better immediately.

Not because I wanted to get away from my children. Not at all. I was just tired of disciplining.

I was exhausted from constantly being the firm hand, the solid wall, the immovable fortress of behavior in this home. I didn’t want to send anyone else to their room or put anyone else on the “naughty” step. I was tired of making my seven-year-old earn her video game time and enforce reluctant apologies from my three-year-old. I didn’t feel like bringing my want-to-yell voice carefully down to a calm and patient request for obedience.

Tired of staying sharp to the emotional ups and downs of my oldest.
Tired of grasping defiant wrists to hoist my youngest away from the playground when it’s time to go.
Tired of walking away from tantrums.
Tired of watching any and all forms of discipline fall into the oubliette of childhood.

I wasn’t weary of my children. I was weary of disciplining.

And when I realized that, then I cried.

[And most women will agree with me that a good cry fixes a lot of things.]

Does God ever get tired of being the firm fortress like I do? And I’m not even that solid; I jiggle and waver at the slightest change in plans. Does He ever lie down exhausted because He’s just had too much of me? I’ve ignored Him and spat on his attention for the last time. Does He burst into tears because I never seem to get it right? Are my emotional sweeps too great for Him to be comfortable with me?

Does He just need a break?

No.

Never.

Even when I choose to walk away from His gentleness or His good plans for me He still pursues me. He doesn’t need a break, He doesn’t melt into tears of frustration, He doesn’t need a nap. He just is. His love never wanes for me or needs a boost of adrenaline. He never needs a shot or four of espresso to make it through the afternoon.

And He disciplines me in firm kindness like the perfect mother I am not.

I hate treadmills.

I love running, but I hate treadmills. It’s something about the purposelessness of it: going in one direction as fast as I possibly can for close to an hour and then at the end of it all, never having moved one inch closer to the mirror I’m running in front of.

So I’ve pretty much avoided them altogether for the past six months. I’ve been running outside at least twice a week and taking fitness classes on the days in between, but my feet haven’t set foot on a treadmill for a long time.

Until last week.

My friend, trying to get back in shape after her third baby, has been working out every day at 5 am and invited me to meet her. And now I’m working out with her two days a week. She’s incredibly motivated (which is rubbing off on me) and needs me to keep her company during her cardio days. So I’ve been finding myself next to her on the treadmill, twice a week.

So I ran. Last week it was five mile runs (which were difficult), and this morning I pushed myself to six. I haven’t run six miles on a treadmill in at least a year.

I pushed myself. Its been a long time since I’ve pushed myself to do anything. Lately I’ve been relaxing into the I-don’t-feel-like-it mode with just about everything: eating, house cleaning, and exercise. I’ve been doing just what’s necessary and then not much more. I’m kind of sick of it. I want to feel like I’ve done my absolute best, run my absolute farthest and extended myself to the edge of what I am capable.

And I always find I’m capable of much more than I think.

So this is the week of doing my best. And trying my hardest. Starting today. Wednesday. And I’m going to get back up on that treadmill on Friday.

You?