On a run

I haven’t talked about running here for a long time, and I’m not sure why. I usually Instagram/FB/Twitter my runs but not always. I’m still running, a lot. I run three days a week, sometimes more, with at least one of them being 10 KM in distance. The other two runs fall between 6K and 8K, if not more.

(Side note: If my RunKeeper app says that I ran, say, 7.7 K, I keep running until it says 8K. Hi, my name is Angella, and I like whole numbers.)

Last fall I started running 10 KM for two of those runs and carried that through the spring. Then summer hit and it felt like THE SURFACE OF THE SUN at 7 a.m. I was back to one 10K per week. Now that the weather has cooled, I’ve been able to get that second 10K in, time permitting. Yay, running!

I don’t get the “runner’s high” that people talk about, but I feel good after every run. I love that I’m being proactive about my heart health, I love my legs (I’ve hated my legs my entire life), and I love that I’m burning calories. I don’t count calories, but seeing what I burned lets me be free from the fear of food that I struggled with for so long.

There’s something in me that wants to have anyone and everyone who is interested in running to run. I’m constantly telling people in my life who have started running that I will run with them if they want me to. It’s usually rebuffed with comments that they couldn’t keep up with me, but I will run with anyone at any pace, if that’s what they need to get them moving. At Family Camp in September, those conversations ended up with me running on Sunday morning with three people who are new to running and it was SO FUN. I’ve run twice in the past week with another friend, which made her realize that running with someone else is WAY BETTER. Her running days are opposite of my usual running days, but I told her that I will show up whenever she needs me.

So, local friends, if you want to run or walk or run/walk, I would love to be there with you. For those who are not local, my friend Chris told me at Blissdom Canada that he connects with other runners on RunKeeper and we could do that. I just tried to find him on RunKeeper and failed, so if you can’t find me, leave me a comment and we can DM or text or tweet or something?

Or maybe we can kick it old school and send messages via carrier pigeons. While running. Because that visual just made my day.


I’ve been writing my feelings on the Internet for over nine years now, and I am always amused by the articles that come around a few times a year that claim that blogging is dead. (They are posting these articles on blogs, for the record. The “Blogging is dead” writers are writing that for hits and likes and whatever else gives them five minutes of fame.) Blogs are not dead, and will not be dead as long as there are people who want to share their stories. Spoiler alert: There are a lot of the people on the Earth with stories to tell, and they will keep telling them for as long as they live.

I am a story teller and always have been. After the initial “Hey, how are you?” greeting, I usually follow with, “So did I tell you…”

I am also a listener and I love to hear what people have to say, to write, and to show by their body language. (Sometimes hugs say it all.)

When this medium first opened, I shared a lot. I was adamant that I was going to share my story, and all of my stories. As I’ve matured (Ha!), I have a better understanding that my story is intertwined with the story of others, and sometimes that shared story doesn’t need to be told online. Sharing stories in confidence with the people you love and trust is one thing, but some of those stories aren’t to be shared with everyone who has a laptop.

Last week I was really quiet because a lot happened that I felt wasn’t to be talked about online. It’s been sad, in that I lost someone I love to illness. It was also amazing in that I have a restored relationship with someone else I love because of that shared loss. That’s all I can say about that. Finis.

I’m going to keep telling stories, because I can’t not tell stories. It’s just that some stories are meant for pen and paper and not for the Internet. As it should be.


I have eight brothers and sisters. No, my family is not emulating the Duggars, but there are nine of us kids who all share the same father, Al. (Hi, Dad and Gail!) The nine of us kids span a few generations, and are spread across the country, and one of us even lives in London, England with her new husband. (Hi, Dayna and Matt!) Getting all nine of us together is almost impossible, but it did happen once upon a time.

On Matthew’s side of the family, there is just him and his sister and brother.


(All three of them are in ministry in their respective churches and their hearts shine through in all they do.)

That side of the family tree is a little less complicated compared to mine. Between the three of them and their spouses there were eight kids born in under five years. There was a flurry of boys and we finished off with two girls, only a year apart. Totally crazy, but totally awesome. While we get to see The Other Dykstras often because they live here, when all three families get together it’s the best. I grew up with all of my cousins living across the country, so I love that these eight can connect and play just be family together.


These two girls may look nothing alike, but when they get together they are inseparable.
Angella Dykstra

We wrangled my brother Lance to take a photo of the lot of us.

Dykstras and Peters

And then he took a shot of us “being funny.”


When we talked about taking family photos, Matthew said that he’d like one with his siblings and their spouses.


(Thanks again, Lance!)

Having grown up across the country from my Aunties and Uncles and cousins, I love that my kids have an Auntie, two Uncles, and two cousins in their daily lives, as well as more cousins and family who we get to connect with more than a few times a year. This is in addition to other grandparents and other aunties and uncles who call often and send birthday cards and connect with my kids.

I’m feeling beyond thankful.


One of the perks of being a Life Made Delicious food blogger is that they love to send me packages in the mail. When they send product, I’m usually amused because it’s almost always food that we already have in our pantry. This month they mixed it up, because Franken Berry cereal is back for a limited time!

(My kids are allowed a treat cereal on Saturday mornings and Graham has had Franken Berry cereal for three weeks in a row. It’s obviously a hit.)

I could probably end my review there, but I’m not going to. I do a lot of cooking and baking from scratch, not because I’m Super Mom, but because I really love to cook and bake. That said, there are only so many hours in a day and when I need to make a big batch of brownies or cupcakes, I buy a Betty Crocker mix. I always have, and always will, regardless of my current role at Life Made Delicious.

Emily had her birthday party last week and I made 36 (!) cupcakes for all of the friends she invited (She’s a social butterfly)(I wonder where she gets that from?) and I relied on Betty Crocker to make it happen. She did not fail, and I was not surprised.

Do you rely on our friend Betty? Or are you more hard core than I am?

Eight years ago, I was laying on the couch with mild contractions, knowing that I would be giving birth to a baby in the next twenty-four hours or so. I was scheduled to be induced in the morning because I grow big babies. I’d had my membranes stripped in preparation (TMI!) and I was already 3cm dilated when I had my appointment on the morning of October 10th. My body was getting ready to introduce me to my baby, but I wouldn’t meet that baby until the next day.

We decided to have a third baby because we felt like we both wanted a third baby, be it a third boy or a first girl. Did I want to have a girl? Absolutely. Would I be sad if my third baby was a boy? Absolutely not. Everyone (Including Matthew) told me that they thought I was having a third boy.

When the baby arrived, it was a girl. A GIRL. My doctor and my nurse both screamed, “IT’S A GIRL!!!” There’s something to be said about the element of surprise, because I can still hear their voices eight years later. My baby was a girlMy girl. Emily. Miss Emily, if we’re going to be specific, because something about her name screams to have a ‘Miss’ in front of it. It is also fitting to add ‘Little Miss’ in front of anything and everything she does. Little Miss Drama, Little Miss Creative, Little Miss Fish, and so on.

All of the above to say that I cannot believe that my baby — my baby girl — is eight years old. I remember counting her fingers and her toes and now we spend time after school talking about multiplication and division.

I love that she is so much like me, and that she is nothing like me at all. She’s a fireball of love and of justice and of creative energy and of a connection to the God who created her.
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