28 Years of Laura

At the time that this blog goes life - 3:58 pm - I will officially be 28 years old.

And, because you've only had the privilege of reading about my life for four of those 28 years, here's the Clif Notes on Laura Stiller.

Year One: I put my mom through 18 hours of labor before entering this world, only to spend the next few months colicky and projectile vomiting on her.


Two: I spent the days sitting on a blanket in the front yard eating orange push-ups and reading stacks of library books with my Mom. I spent the evenings sitting on Dad's lap smacking the space bar playing Space Commanders.


Three: My parents put me to work chasing their stray tennis balls at the tennis courts.

Four: The first brother, Matthew was born, and while I don't remember him coming home from the hospital, I do remember staying at the neighbor's house. She tried to put me to bed in her big master bed and I laid there wide awake, staring at the ceiling until Dad came and got me.


Five: I dressed up in my plastic necklace, plastic bracelets, a striped dress and a big bow in my hair for the first day of homeschool kindergarten.


Six: The other brother, Jonathan arrived. All I remember is playing at the neighbor's house one afternoon in July, coming home and Nana and Papa telling me that Mom and Dad had gone to the hospital. I said "okay," and continued on with my play date.


Seven: I met Lindsey, who had two younger brothers the same age as mine, and we became fast friends for the next 12+ years.


Eight: This was probably the year I had a roller skating birthday party. I thought I was so cool.



Nine: I got bangs. Big, fluffy, 80s bangs. It was 1990. I'm always slightly behind the times.


Ten: It was 5th grade. It was the worst grade ever. I had to write a research paper and I thought I was going to die.

Eleven: I was a in a rap . . . in Sunday School - yes, you did read that right. I was also Mary in the Christmas pageant. I had a very diverse acting career.



Twelve: Braces and glass - the typical middle school torture.



Thirteen - Sixteen: Somehow these have all run together. My mother could probably give you specific memories for each month in these years!


Seventeen: I finally got my driver's license and while out on the first drive by myself I saw a wreck and freaked out.


Eighteen: I went to prom and graduated from high school with fifteen other homeschoolers.


Nineteen: Collin County Community College was the place to study. I also worked a full summer at Pine Cove Christian Camps and fell in love with Jesus like never before.


Twenty: I transferred to Texas A&M and got lost on campus several times with all of the other 18-year-old freshman.

Twenty-One: My roommate gave me a bottle of cooking wine. Enough said.

Twenty-Two: I graduated from Texas A&M and put my degree to use driving school buses.



Twenty-Three: I got married and moved to South Carolina. It was the beginning of the craziest, scariest and best adventure of my life.


Twenty-Four: We joined a newlywed class in Columbia, SC. and found some amazing friends to walk with through our first years of marriage.


Twenty-Five: Danny started his masters at Dallas Theological Seminary, and we moved back home to Texas.



Twenty-Six: I changed jobs for something like the eighth time in two years. I was hoping this one would stick for a while - it has.

Twenty-Seven: I got my first digital slr camera and have subsequently taken a picture of everything in my apartment.

Twenty-Eight: Here we are today. So far this is the year I ate sushi on my birthday!

Why She Runs

Some people blog for accountability. There are bloggers who share their organizational goals, running goals, dieting goals, and every goal in between in the hopes that pressure from their readers will keep them on track.

I am no such a blogger.

First, there's only two of you who read this, and frankly, I don't trust you to come beating my door down if I fall off the bandwagon.

Second, I put enough pressure on myself for thousands of blog readers.

So, I've never blatantly shared on here that I am training for a marathon . . . until now. And, it may or may not surprise you to know that I was training for one last year.

See what I mean?

What if I had told ya'll to hold me accountable to running last year's White Rock Marathon, then I got injured (true story) and had all tens of ya'll breathing down my neck wondering why I wasn't on track to run my race?! I would have run myself straight through the tendinitis and strained hamstring into the grave.

So, thank goodness I didn't tell ya'll I was a little running fiend last year and instead let myself take a break and heal.

This year, however, with SuperFeet insoles for my ankles, a fabulous physical therapist for my hamstring and a roll of duck tape to hold me together running is going great!

Well, as good as self-inflicted torture can go.

Some people claim that they feel alive when they run. The Chariots of Fire runner claimed he felt the pleasure of God when he was running.

I, on the other hand, mostly just feel like I'm dying and like God is teaching me a great lesson in discipline and perseverance and endurance through the trial of running.

When I start off I'm always listening to Kari Jobe or Hillsong and running feels like worship. But, three miles in and I'm blaring the beats of Miley Cyrus, Boys Like Girls, Beyonce, Kelly Clarkson, Pink and others that I can't believe I'm admitting to just to keep my feet going. (You know you sing to Katy Perry in the shower, so stop looking at me like that!)

Because, in all honesty, I'm slow and long distances hurt. But, I keep going to bed early on Friday nights, getting up before dawn on Saturday morning, and running through more streets in Dallas than I even knew existed.

Why? WHY!?

Not because I feel alive while sucking air and sweating buckets. Not because I just want to eat ice cream and not gain a pound (okay, that's partly true). But because if other people can run 26.2 miles, then gosh darn it so can I!

So, you want to know what this all boils down to? I run because I'm stubborn.

Which is exactly what my Dad told Danny when he asked permission to date me.

One I'll be the wife of a . . . .

I married a dreamer, a visionary, a man with a gosh-darn LOT of ideas.

Sometimes he drives me crazy with his ever-changing goals, but sometimes he makes life so terribly exciting it's like throwing your hands up in the air on a roller coast just before it takes a big plunge.

So, to share with you a little piece of my husband and of my marriage, I give you just a smattering of all things Danny wants to do before we die.

• have a chicken coop in the backyard & slaughter them for dinner
• raise sheep
• roast coffee beans
  
• build a kayak
• refurbish an OLD VW bug
  
• open a laundromat with an attached internet cafe
• remodel a house
• build a fish hatchery in the garage & send our kids out to "catch" fish for dinner
  
• start a pizza pub
• make homemade yogurt
• sew his own pair of pants
• grow veggies in a community garden
• make flip flops out of tires
• make his own hammock
• put an engine on his bike
• start a dog-walking business (which he's actually doing HERE)

Are you tired yet? (And, can you believe that one day he expects me to be okay with raising fish, sheep, chickens in our yard while going to the COMMUNITY garden for our vegetables?)