Yesterday was the first time I ever ran with three times on the line.

The first one was the one I always have: my time from the previous year.  My first experience with the Hippie Chick Quarter Marathon was three years ago.  It was the first time I had participated in a race with that all important “marathon” word in the title.  And the fact that a quarter marathon is just a few blocks longer than a 10K was an added bonus (and the fact I didn’t realize that “few blocks” was .35 miles until the actual run was probably a good thing).  I was excited last year to knock a few minutes off my time and hoped to do the same this year.  The goal was to beat at least 1:10 on the clock which would mean a less than 11 minute per mile pace.  Which brings me to time number two…

During the Shamrock Run in March, I had decided to run with a watch to see if I could improve my pace by staying more controlled at the beginning, rather than losing all energy when I was feeling good those first few miles, rather than just being me and surviving well until the end.  So I strapped on my Nike Watch and hit the button after crossing the starting line.  Now I had been using the regular watch function for a few weeks with my Girls on the Run coaching, and had made sure that the sync still worked with my shoe sensor, but I had not tried out the pacing information in a few months.  Whoops!  Unless I suddenly became an Olympic class athlete with 6.30 minute miles, that part of the watch was no longer functioning.  With the Newport Marathon coming up in a few weeks, and a small field there so its doubtful there will be pacers (volunteers who run at a certain pace so you can just follow them), I decided it was time for a new watch, a runner’s watch.  Oh yes, it was time for a Garmin.  A running store downtown helped me out with the new watch, and a new skort that ended up working less than great.  So again, as I crossed that starting line, I pushed the go button.  And for the next 10 minutes, the watch and some satellite hovering in space tried to find each other.  Turns out, you’re supposed to start the watch while standing still.  So no pacing resource for me.  But the clock still worked so I aimed to keep each mile marker on the course within 11 minutes of the last.  Not the fanciest method, but it was distracting to count in elevens and great fun when I would end up with a minute to spare at the next marker.  Plus, I had to get done with the whole run as quick as I could because of time number 3…

The first time I participated in the Hippie Chick Quarter Marathon, it was on Mother’s Day Sunday, then last year they shifted to Saturday because many of the women had more restful, less 5am alarm clock desires for their days.  When I signed up last fall, I was mostly aware that it was on Saturday again, that it was in May again, and that it would take me about an hour again.  No problem.  Then we get to January or February, and one of my students asks when the Warner Pacific College Spring Graduation is.  And now we have a problem.  I had signed up for a run the very same morning as the WPC Graduation.  Graduation is not only part of my job requirement, but it is also the celebration of so much had work by our students, staff and faculty.  Lets just say there were a few inappropriate words shared with the computer screen when I realized my error.  So now I had the most important time / deadline of all: complete a 6.55 mile run that started at 8am in time for a 10am graduation.  Oh, and the run is in Hillsboro while the ceremony is in Clackamas; locations that are approximately 37 minutes apart from each other.

When I crossed the finish line on Saturday morning, there were three times on the line and three main thoughts in my head.  First: “Hallelujah that clock says 1:10.”  My official time would come out later that day at about 1:06, meaning my pace was a minute faster than last year.  The second thought: “Where is my medal, where is water, and where is my bagel?” I’m not much of a deep thinker at the end of a race.  And last but not least: “I hope there is enough parking because I am getting to that ceremony NOW.”

Many speeding laws were broken over the 37 minutes that followed that finish line, and some less than safe choices were made about when and how to change my shoes, but I made it with 10 seconds spare.  And as I sat there, thankful for the cap that covered my highway dried hair, I celebrated my students for their journey and smiled at my own that morning.  I’m not saying that I would attempt that whole adventure again, but I found myself smiling without an ounce of regret.

One of my favorite quotes from Grey’s Anatomy comes from the first season, when Meredith and her new friends are drowning within the workload and drama of Seattle Grace:

“Okay. Anyone who says you can sleep when you die… Tell them to come talk to me after a few months as an intern. Of course it’s not just the job that keeps us up all night. I mean if life’s so hard already, why do we bring so much trouble on ourselves. What’s up with the need to hit the self-destruct button? Maybe we like the pain. Maybe we’re wired that way because without it… I don’t know. Maybe we just wouldn’t feel real. What’s that saying… Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop. “

Those days that I sign up for an extra project, student, opportunity, or responsibility, the end of this quote will pop into my head as does the smile on Meredith’s face when she goes to sleep early at the end of the episode.  The pain of the experience promises the relief when it is over.  And the experience of relief challenges us to pick up the hammer again and do something good.

Why is this quote so prevalent on my mind this Saturday afternoon?  Because I’m spending this sunny afternoon grading the end of one Bible course and the beginning of another.  Because I woke up at 7am this morning (reminder: it’s Saturday) to go run 8 miles in preparation for my second marathon.  Because in a few weeks I’ll return to Harrison Park to spend my second spring coaching for Girls on the Run.  Because in July I’ll be traveling to California to start my doctorate program (fourth time I’ll be a “freshman” at a college).

With all of these new and somehow old projects, opportunities and responsibilities on the horizon, it feels more like picking up a jack hammer than just a piece of stick with a piece of metal on the end.  I look at my calendar in wonder.  How is this all going to fit together?  And how did the middle school me with one friend in the world (literally), a stack of books to hide behind (also literal), and bunch of tactics to get out of PE end up with this life?

I’ll admit there are unmet dreams in my life, and struggles that I am praying for resolution on every day.  But there is so much to smile at because it does not make sense (for example, why is my highlight for Presidents’ Day, a day off, joining a run that night) and because it somehow all fits who I am and who I want to be.

I’ve admitted freely to friends that I often struggle with potlucks and large group gatherings without structure; I believe it comes from growing up primarily as an only child.  When there are more people and conversations than I can keep track of, I find myself shifting to a content wall flower with a book or knitting to keep my hands occupied as I listen in on the conversations around me.   So at a coffee gathering this morning, I learned details about infant sleeping patterns, online dating, good books to read, and when you should move for love.  It was peaceful and a great way to a late morning.

However the highlight of the time was a one-on-one conversation with a young boy named Thomas.

I noticed Thomas was sitting away from the group a bit with a Bible so I quickly grabbed my phone, knowing this would be an adorable picture for his mother.  By the time I had phone / camera in hand, he had shifted from “reading” to poking the pages so instead of a photo session it was time to protect the pages.  I sat beside him as he explained that he had read the whole book…Now, let me step back for just a second and explain that Thomas is three-years-old.  Okay…I asked what he had read, which led to about two minutes of searching forward and backwards through the book, to find that one page and section which had apparently stood out the most.  Finally we landed in the book of Jude (he had said all along that it was near the end).  When asked what it said, the response was simple and confident, “God is so good.”  Well, I couldn’t argue with that.  A few pages away, another section read, ” God is so great.”

Then the reading went back to sorting forwards and backwards through the pages until we landed around Leviticus (a section which few grown ups read).  This time the summary was different, “God made everything.”  I confirmed with Thomas that he meant everything everything, and was given the affirmative.  Jumping forward a few hundred pages, the Bible again said, “God made everything.”  This time, I had to ask what everything meant by asking if that included animals, people, and trees.  Yes, yes, and yes.  When I suggested we should write God a thank you note for creating us, Thomas responded we couldn’t because God was up in Heaven.  I shared my disappointed and asked if there was any way to thank him.  After thinking for a moment, he shared “Thank you God.”  We talked for another few minutes, including confirmation that the God was was listening all the time, even if we can’t hear Him talk back, and the Bible said “God created you and me”.

Who knows where this conversation might have gone if suddenly Thomas’ finger had not touched the glass beside us and “boinked” back near my nose.  Theology is nice, but a glass cabinet that makes fingers boink and fly is just miraculous.

Who are you that lies when you stare in my face
Telling me that I’m just a trace of the person I once was
Cause I just can’t tell if you’re telling the truth or a lie
On you I just can’t rely
After all you’re just a piece of glass

– Piece of Glass, Caedmon’s Call

For years I ignored what I saw in the mirror.  I would tell myself that it was just a bad sweater, that I had a big dinner the night before, or the lighting in this room was off.  When I would try on clothes at the store, it was the brand that ran small or this piece must have been mislabeled.  When it was time for a photograph, even though I’m short, I would try to be in the back row, or at least have a pillow or small child to hide behind; it wasn’t because of my size but rather that the camera added at least 30 pounds.  The only time I believed I looked like my true self was under a stack of blankets in bed, where I imagined myself almost invisible if anyone happened to look in.  For about 14 years, I lied to myself and the mirrors around me went right along with it because I only saw what I wanted to and ignored the rest.

Three years ago I finally looked in the mirror for real, and at the scale, and saw the 250 pounds I had been ignoring for years and years.  I looked back at those photographs and realized that I may be behind a pillow, but my hips certainly weren’t.  Old Navy, Macy’s, Nordestrom, Target, and Shopko couldn’t all have decided to run small.  And the mirror, that used to be my partner in crime, stared silently back; perhaps it gave a quiet Mmhmm.

This piece of glass has gone from partner to enemy over the past few years, as I see potential and need for change in every glance.  Sometimes I put on an old sweater and stand before it, reminding it of all that has changed but usually I just stick my tongue out and walk away, hoping that we will get to be honest friends one day.  The women of Caedmon’s Call and Barlow Girls understand this epic struggle with a thing that defines so much.

In one of the Twilight books, a main character weds another and at the altar sees and believes for the first time how much he loves her; a truth that he has been declaring for pages but she could not believe because of self-esteem issues.  I love the possibility of that moment, and not just because I’m a hopeless and hopeful romantic.  One day I want to see and love myself as God does, and to believe wholeheartedly the kind words of others about me.  The mirror may have defined me before I walked out the door this morning, but maybe tomorrow we will smile together in friendship.

Who are you to tell me
That I’m less than what I should be?
Who are you? Who are you?
I don’t need to listen
To the list of things I should do
I won’t try, I won’t try

– Mirror, Barlow Girl

The original purpose of this blog was to chronicle and share what happens after August 2011, my graduation date from Western Seminary.  I had been working a very full-time job for four and a half years while also attending school part time and teaching part time; a combination that left little time for other options and opportunities.  I wanted to be intentional about doing something with my new-found time and thought the semi-anonymous accountability of the internet would benefit this next chapter.  Plus I have this dream of one day being published on the shelf at Barnes and Noble, so the writing practice could not hurt.

The adventures so far have primarily revolved around running, an unexpected hobby / obsession I picked up a few years ago, but mixed in have been the random (first and probably last massage) and the painful (loss of Nana, possible re-emergence of Potential Dad).

This time I’m writing about one of the scariest things I’ve ever done: signing up for an on-line dating website.

Last Saturday, I signed up for Plenty of Fish; a free online dating website recommended by a friend.  I had spent most of that day grading papers and still wrestling with thoughts about my father’s message from the week before.  It was out of that mix of grading and emotional exhaustion that I thought, why the h-e-double-hockey-sticks not (usually the voice in my head just says why not, but I was feeling a bit beat up so it was a bit more liberal in its language).  The whole process took me about an hour and probably would have been much faster if I didn’t keep pausing with my finger hovering over the delete key.  I know several happy, normal couples who met through the internet so I have no doubt about its possibility, but as I’ve shared before, I have no idea how to talk to a guy I like so what in the world was I attempting to do here?  Invite more awkward situations into my life?  So I typed quickly, before self-doubt could take over, and tried to be authentically me, with mentions of running, church, the Muppets, and paradox (because I am a true WPC Knight).  After hitting that final submit key, I went back to grading a few more papers and then headed home for a movie and hopefully early bed.

Skip to a few hours later as I’m chilling on the couch and enjoying an episode of Suits from Netflix.  I decided to pull up my email, in hopes of a message from Potential Dad or my Enrollment Counselor, or just a random friend (because that’s what email is for).  Instead I find four new messages from Plenty of Fish and six guys who clicked that they liked my photo.  Oh my gosh…male type people liked my photo.  Members of the opposite gender who don’t know me sent a message with the possibility of relationship.  I didn’t go online that night because the exact words and the people who wrote didn’t matter.  What mattered was that I have never had this giddy feeling before.  I floated through the rest of the evening and into a 10K the next morning, randomly smiling from time to time at the thought of the guys who clicked they wanted to “Meet Me.”  Even now, a week later and after discovering those fist guys were absolutely NOT GONNA HAPPEN candidates, I can smile at that experience, at that moment of possibility.  And now, a week later and with a few more religion papers graded, I can connect that feeling of hope with the reality of God’s love for me, of my family’s (even the crazy ones) care, and of friends who read through my strange adventures.  How amazing it is to be loved by real people today and to have the smiling hope of tomorrow’s Meet Me possibilities.

So the afternoon before my first marathon I should probably be thinking and writing about how I’m feeling.  I should be writing about what it feels like to have my mood swing back and forth between confidence and terror every five minutes.  Perhaps it would make sense to write about those friends I am so grateful for; people who have encouraged me every step of the past two and a half years, without ever judging or expecting anything other than friendship in return.  Sitting in a church coffee shop on a sunny Saturday, all of these things would be perfectly logical and lovely to write about.

But instead I want to write about love.  Not sure why, but I do.

Now I have no experience with romantic love.  None.  Nada.  Zippo.  But I’ve seen it in action and in absence in the relationships around me.  One couple I especially admire has been married for a few years and offers the honest example of what a partnership looks like.  It is obvious they love each other, they enjoy spending time together, and they complement each others strengths and weaknesses.  And they are not glued to each other’s hip, recognizing that a few separate activities or sitting apart at a social event does not spell doom for their relationship.  In contrast there is a marriage in my family where I often wonder why they are still together.  The two individuals are more business associates than beloved.  It seems like the only common ground is the house they live in, otherwise their schedules, interests, and social circles are totally distinct.  When I look to this second marriage, I mentally declare that singleness is better than that.

Now singleness in your 30’s is far from a piece of cake.  The church culture says something must be wrong that you’re not married, but that you should just focus on God and pray because that’s when Mr. Right shows up.  And the Bible says that singleness is better because it allows more time for service and worship (just over Song of Solomon on Valentine’s Day because nothing good can come from that devotional time).  And the rest of the world seems to be having lots of romantic fun if Match.com ads are any indication.  There are kind, well-meaning voices everywhere telling you what to do, not do, think, not think, and how great being single is (don’t get me wrong; having complete control over my schedule and bank account is pretty nice).

The one voice you won’t hear when it comes to love is mine, specifically when I’m around a guy I like.  I have memories back in high school where I would suddenly and completely clam up around the guy I liked.  I actually had a crush on one classmate for years and never said a word about it, thinking that nothing I said would work out as well as in my imagination.  Instead I attempted to develop ESP and watched while he dated other girls.  College and beyond were not much better with just three blind dates to my name and having not gotten that rush of a guy actually asking me out (rather than friends of friends).  I may argue in meetings, lecture in class, and meet with students all day long, but put my crush in the room and you might as well put duct tape over my mouth.  And if I do actually let a few words escape my lips, well then I starting having a Homer Simpson “Doh!” soundtrack playing in my head for the next few minutes as I splice and dice every word I said and how he reacted.

My head fully knows that life is so much more than romantic love, and that even those marriages I admire have their real struggles.  But as a single girl who is just a bit bored with her life, it sounds like a worthwhile challenge to try out.

Of course, if I can’t seem to speak to single members of the opposite sex, I might have to wait on a more dramatic option…

 Ah well, in the meanwhile I have a class to prepare for, doctorate studies to consider, a marathon tomorrow, a messy apartment, a few letters to write, a conference in November.

Starting last Spring, I’ve started listening and even obeying one of the voices in my head.  Let me share a few examples before you decide whether I need a padded room or not…

During a chapel service at Warner Pacific, a few weeks before lent, Stephanie shared about different community service projects that we could start acting on right now.  They were shared within the context of repeatedly reading through Christ’s talk about the branch and the vine, as well as the upcoming Lenten Season.  She shared about Blood Water Mission, and their program 40 Days of Water, which challenges participants to give up all purchased beverages for 40 days and donate the saved funds to building water in Uganda.  No soda.  No milk.  No chai.  No bottled water.  No way!  I sat there thinking there was no way I could pull off my life without caffeine.  After sitting there for about 10 seconds in my smiley faced confidence, a voice inside asked, “Why not?”  Why couldn’t I survive without a drug in my system for a few weeks?  What about my lifestyle or strength of character was so out of balance that I couldn’t do something real this year for Lent?  Two days later I was signed up online and waiting for my bracelet to come in the mail that would serve as a daily reminder of my commitment / insanity.

Earlier this summer I started to think about my grandparents’ yearly trip to Hawaii and how often they had invited me to join them for a week.  I had turned them down over and over due to school or work commitments.  The voice questioned me again while sitting at a stranger’s house, listening to a testimony during a community gathering. “Why not?”  I was more prepared this time to respond: because, my grandparents and mother have been fighting for years and this would hurt my mother’s feelings, plus its expensive to fly to Hawaii and it might be boring when they need to rest for most of the afternoon.  Ha!  Argument over; I win.  Then I remembered the other trip I took with my grandparents a few years before that caused temporary hurt but was okay, and my grandparents would probably help with the cost, and I could go for a swim during their nap, and what would I truly regret the most.  Within a week I was having an awkward 20 minute phone conversation with my mom while wandering though Fred Meyer, and within a month I had my plane ticket purchased and time saved on the calendar for a trip in January.

I share these two previous stories all because I want to focus on one from the past two weeks, when I finally learned to listen to the voice the first time and got to participate in a miracle for one of my students.  I’ve been working with Heidi for over two years as she has pursued her Bachelors Degree.  During that time she has visited the hospital for heart issues, back pain, migraines, the attempted suicide of a family member, lupus (which I thought only existed on House) and other traumas.  She has remained strong through all of these crises and remained committed to school, even as we’ve had to turn her schedule upside down several times to try and make it work.  About three weeks ago she called again, which unfortunately is never a good sign, because her daughter was going in for brain surgery, her financial aid had not come in as expected, and she was in danger of losing her truck and home without payments by August 30th.  Working with our Director of Financial Aid and a member of the Business Office, we were able to figure out what went wrong with the aid within a few days and get the missing money to her student account within a week, but there are governmental rules and regulations about when and how funds can be given to students, and there was no way for that money to get to Heidi by August 30th.  The brick wall was high and solid on this one.

A few days later I sat in a Faculty Retreat, hearing about the upcoming year from various departments, including the President of the college.  My mind drifted to Heidi and wondering what could be done to help with this real life crisis; without a truck she was going to have to quit school.  My mind wandered to my different communities and who I could ask for help, when it come upon Imago Dei Community, my church for the past five years, and its Change for a Dollar program.  I knew these funds were used to help individuals in the community with immediate real world needs, and those helped didn’t have to be part of the church.  But I had no idea how to ask, who to ask, or how those funding decisions were made.  “Why not?”  During one of the presentations (sorry Andrea), I went onto the church’s website and emailed the general info email with my request and a short description of the need.  At worst I wouldn’t hear back or it would be too late, but at best then we would be able to help Heidi focus on her daughter and not this looming deadline.  A day later I heard back from one of the staff members, and a few days later I was talking with a pastor about Heidi and why she needed this help to give hope, to give peace, to give support during a time of crisis.  A week later I was walking away from the church office with funds from strangers; money given in belief that the hands and feet of the church can truly make a difference in this world.

When Heidi and I met later that morning, she shared about her daughter’s surgery and how her healing was progressing, then she sat back in her chair, “Now I have no idea why we’re meeting…?”  I responded that I had some very good news and handed her the envelope from Imago Dei.  I explained the program, the gift, and how much I wanted her to get to earn this degree she had been working and fighting so much for.  I don’t think she really believed me for at least 10 minutes, as she didn’t touch the envelope on the table between us.  Finally, as she picked it up and started to leave, she shared that she had been hoping and praying for a miracle, but had no idea how this was going to work out.  I smiled, knowing that my church, my community, had been that miracle for her.

For the past few days I’ve been thinking a lot about Santa Claus.  To be specific I’ve been thinking about when a child learns the truth about Santa (for those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, please stop reading and go play outside instead).

I don’t remember exactly when or how I learned about Santa.  I think it had something to do with the Toys R Us price tags that would show up on my presents sometimes.  It seemed pretty odd that Santa, with all of those elves, could find time to build presents for thousands of children around the world, but had to go to a toy store for mine.  Plus it turns out my mom has the same trouble with price tags when it came to my birthday presents.  However I figured it out, it was a pretty gentle transition.

I do remember when my brother Mark found out.  It was about a week before Christmas and he was in elementary school.  He came into the living room so angry with our parents for lying to him.  I remember clearly that he declared that there was no Santa, no Tooth Fairy, and no God.  So so angry with us!  I’m not sure which parent talked to him and calmed him down, explaining the reasons for the stories and reminding him that there were still presents under the tree.  I realized in the experience that if I have kids someday, perhaps Santa should not be part of the holiday if a child can connect the telling of a fable with doubt in a Creator.

The reason this has been on my mind so much this week is a variety of conversations with friends and co-workers about the business world works.  As a company, any company, makes changes to grow and improve, I understand that those changes can have positive and negative impact on those involved.  I get the logic of this process.  What I do not get is how, when a friend is the one who is negatively impacted, you are just supposed to go back to normal the next day.  While in high school, one of my favorite math teachers lost his job due to district finances.  Around the same time, our Youth Pastor at church was let go for reasons never shared with the youth (which led to some wild and random rumors).  A few years ago, due to the struggling economy, 13 members of the college I serve at either lost their jobs or had a reduction of their hours.  Right now we are going through transitions again as part of a strategic reorganization to be more focused on the needs of our diverse urban population of traditional and adult students.  New programs and structures are being put in place while other programs, and some of their leaders, are having to move on.  Again, I get the logic that this how the business world works.  And I get that I do not have the authority, experience, or education to make these types of choices yet.

I can’t help feeling like a child being told there is no Santa Claus; I’d like to hand my rose-colored glasses to the grown ups and show them that maybe its better from my worldview.

This week has been one of paradox.

On the one hand I’m on vacation and exploring some new parts of Portland with my mother.  I’ve taken her to some of my own favorite areas, like the Grotto and Main Street in Gresham, while also exploring a few new to me places as well.  My two non-negotiable sites for the week were eating at the Multnomah Falls Restaurant and going to Pittock Mansion.  I’ve lived in Portland for almost six years and am glad to finally have these two crossed off the To Do list.  An unexpected triumph came yesterday during a training run when I wandered for 13 miles throughout NE Portland, and a little into SE.  My legs have been sore all day, but nothing like the pain of my first half-marathon over a year ago.  Yesterday was my longest solo / non-official run ever and the first time I’ve run with water bottles strapped to my side (a necessity in 70+ degree weather).  Like I said, unexpectant triumph.

On the other hand, this has been one of my least favorite weeks ever.  If you know me in the real world in Portland, you probably already know details of changes taking place at work.  And if you don’t know me or know the details, then simply imagine the sound of losing at Jenga and you get the gist.  It is not that the world has fallen apart, simply that the noise and heart rate make it feel that way right now.  With the tiles scattered across the table, its time to decide how to rebuild the tower.

It was with this paradox in mind that I wandered through Pittock Mansion this afternoon.  This building and grounds regularly showed up in every Portland travel guide I looked at, or any “Top 10” lists on the internet.  What I loved most were the “how did they do that” discoveries, like a shower with five nozzles or an office with two different phones (because apparently at one point Portland had two phone companies and you only call those people with the same company as you).  The weather was perfect and the gardens just amazing; I definitely want to head back soon to head out on the trails.  When I got to the basement, there was an exhibit celebrating 100 years of women’s right to vote in Portland.  Paintings lined the wall celebrating the woman’s voice and some famous women in Oregon history.  Two pieces especially stood out as I walked through and then for the rest of the day.  The first I admit I cannot remember the image of, only the name: Resolve.  That one word struck a chord inside as I considered this week and the ones ahead.  I turned it upside-down and sideways in my mind, trying to discern what that emotional verb means.  It is more than just a promise, a belief, or an action.  It is a gantlet.  The word declares “Here I stand.”  Tonight I pray for the strength of character found in such a word.

The second piece was entitled “Ripples of Hope.”  It had the silhouette of a girl on the end of a pier, with one foot just tapping the water, sending waves out into the lake.  With one touch, she was making a significant impact to her world.  Sometimes we are that touch of hope in the world, and sometimes we need someone to step in and remind us of the light at the end of the tunnel.  This week, I think I’m in both places as are many around me.  We want to be brave, to be supportive, to be the change we wish to see in the world.  And we need someone to lean on.  Tonight I pray for us all to experience good ripples.

“I am afraid.”

“I know.  You don’t have to be.  Whatever happens in your life goes through God’s hand first before he allows it to come to you.  Todd taught me that when we were together in Spain, and it changed my perspective on so many things.  I know I’ve told you this before, but, Katie, we have to remember that we’re not victims of all the horrible things that happen on this planet.  We’re victims of grace.  God’s expansive grace.  It all comes from him and is allowed by him.  Even the terrible and destructive things in life.” – from finally & forever, by Robin Jones Gunn

This past weekend was not one of the best on record so I dove into some literary comfort last night for a few hours, reading in bed until well past midnight so I could be swept up in the lives of Katie, Eli, Jim, Cheryl, and other characters living in Kenya.  Once you start getting into the AM hours, the beauty of a fictional new well in an African village can be quite exciting.

Robin Jones Gunn has been my literary comfort food for years now.  I first discovered her Christy Miller series through some friends in high school and have since then read the entire series (including the Sierra Jensen and Katie Weldon spin offs) multiple times, along with a few of her other adult books.  These stories seem almost effortless in how they combine life, love, faith, friendship, and the search for God in the everyday.  I give these stories credit for a turning point in my faith journey, and for the bracelet I wear every day to remind me of God’s plan and to pray for my future partner in life.  For several years I found myself connecting with Christy, trying to understand a potential Todd in my life who did not see the girl in front of him who was hoping for more than just friends.  Along with this character, I learned that my faith was more than just an end, eternal destination; it had to be a lifestyle now if it was going to be anything.  After college, I found myself drifting more to Sierra as I longed for adventure more than stability.  I wanted her creative view of the world and ability to see beauty in nature, in poetry, in an English castle.  Then Katie became my connection point as I read through the series a third time; this cycle during graduate school in Pennsylvania.  The cute red-head who often spoke first, and apologized later, seemed to resonate with my attempts to tight walk in the adult world.  Plus she was learning to support the changing romantic relationships around her while God continued to grow her through singleness.  Katie-Girl’s questions echoed my own, and the answers she received became mine too.

And last night’s reading marathon did far from disappoint this pattern.  After reading the paragraph quoted above, I read through the page several more times, trying to understand how being a victim could be viewed in such a positive light.  In my definition, being a victim is always negative, usually painful, and involves someone in power impacting you in ways beyond your will or control.  Why in the world would I want to be a victim?

I may have finished the book last night, but I have not come to answer to this paradox quite yet.  And that’s fine.  If I had, then I would not have spent 20 minutes this evening looking for the paragraph to type into this blog.   The question matters more than the answer this week, for the question challenges the individualized, independent, self-sufficient, materialistic, consumer, logical, scientific, and down-right messed up view of the western world.  Being a “victim of grace” is contrary to the promises of the 2012 political season that believes Americans can fix the economic struggles around us with just the right bill or tax cut.  Being a “victim” means submitting to the other.  And how does one find an other worthy of trusting?  How do you submit every day, while still having personality and free will?

Welcome to my late night paradox.