I wrote this post to possibly share through a project taking place at Warner, but wanted to share it here before the editing process begins.

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I went to college after high school because that’s what I was supposed to do.  In my family, you went to church on Sunday, you obeyed your parents, you collected Happy Meal toys, and you went to college after high school.  My only real decision was my location and my major, and the second part of that was not decided until after my first semester, but I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.

Because of a mission trip to Alaska my junior year of high school, I dreamed of going to college there one day.  But once I found out that most of the majors were about wildlife or minerals, my interest dwindled considerably.  In addition I was the first grandchild, so the family said I needed to remain in the state.  No problem!  I looked at colleges throughout Washington, and enjoyed a brief fantasy about Harvard when they sent me an application packet, before narrowing it down to Western Washington, Whitworth, Whitman, Washington State, or Seattle Pacific (had to have one non-“W” in there).  I applied to Whitworth first, primarily because of their application deadline, and was overjoyed at my acceptance without knowing if I really wanted to go or who I really wanted to be.  Just before the application deadlines for the other schools, I received a new brochure from Whitworth that was sent to my address under a slightly different name.  Looking through I spotted a service organization that included mission trips to Alaska.  I literally fell of the bed as the figurative lightning struck.  I had found my new home!  The irony is that the organization mentioned had never done a single mission trip but rather served lunches in downtown Spokane; an unusual misprint in that brochure that guided my next four years.

So off to Spokane I went, with big hopes, dreams, and wishes about becoming a fabulous something.  My first semester was spent primarily in the all-guy’s dorm enjoying my new-found freedom (no, nothing bad happened) and attending general education courses in my pajamas.  I lived in an all-girl’s dorm, survived the laundry room drama sessions, played powder-puff football, and just enjoyed this new world.

Now I mentioned before that I had not selected a major yet so I was among the many many undeclared freshman; not a place I wanted to be.  As I talked with friends and dorm mates, I kept finding myself rejecting their majors as possibilities for my own.  Education?  No.  Biology?  No.  Sociology?  No.  Psychology?  No.  Business?  No.  Religion?  Hmmm…I have no idea what I would do with that so why not.  I had grown up in the church but only during the autumn before college had decided that my faith needed to be more than a “Get out of Hell” card.  So the spring semester included my first religion courses with the plan of one day working in children’s ministry.

While the major stayed the same, the career goals shifted a few more times during those four years, but I want to skip to my senior year for now.

Whitworth College had a wonderful concept called “Jan Term” which was a three-week period in January where students took one intense course or were able to take an off-campus course.  This was a great option for those who wanted to travel but could not fit a semester abroad into their four or five-year plans.  Over my years at Whitworth I survived an upper-division philosophy course that included 10 hours of homework a day, a weeklong jazz adventure in Cuba, an administrative ministry course with every personality test ever created, and finally a three-week trip to Germany where we studied Reformation and World War II history.  During the Germany trip I learned about “two-beer theology”, the Swiss education system, and the value of an iPod when traveling with a group of 30 people for 21 days.  Oh, and there were some cathedrals and museums in there too.

The most significant moment came near the end of our time in Germany, just before we ventured on to Switzerland for a few days in the Alps.  We were in a monastery, with most of the group listening to a speaker and me wandering just a bit behind the group.  I vividly remember walking past a low bookshelf and realizing every single book on there was written hundreds of years ago, and I could not read a single word on a single page.  In that moment I realized I was not done with my education.  I realized that God had, for some reason, given me an academic gift and I needed to find out why.  I had to continue on to graduate school some day and that I still needed to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up.

As I type this story, I am one graded paper away from completing my second Master’s Degree, and I am in some ways still wandering through that library, amazed at the accomplishments of mankind and wondering who I should be when I grow up.  There are simply too many books, too many experiences, and too many opportunities to stop now.

This quote from Notting Hill summarizes my feeling well today, on the day after my first half marathon and on the first day of my 30s.  Or maybe it fits for the entire weekend.  I took a nap on Friday, to be awoken by the Portland Opera calling for the 7th time to get me to subscribe, then headed to Barnes and Noble to grade papers.  Then Saturday morning the alarm went off at 5:15 to get me to Hillsboro by 6:30 for an 8am start (they recommended an early arrival due to traffic and I trusted them since 4,000+ runners and walkers were coming).  Then I spent the afternoon with friends so I could witness their daughter’s first hip hop performance; at 5 years old she was an amazing jumping bean who definitely got the hop part down pat.  The evening involved my first bath in 3 years (I shower, goodness you people have weird minds).  And today I slept in, had a few friends over for pie, and am now back at Barnes and Noble finishing up grading.  So this weekend has been surreal but nice.

First, the half marathon…this was the longest run I had ever done; it was double the length of my previous race.  I jogged the first 6 miles, walked a mile, jogged 2 miles, and then mostly jogged the rest because the pain in my left calf was starting to affect my knee and ankle.  It seemed like walking was a better plan then heading to a doctor’s office on Monday for a torn something.  I was happy to reach my base goal of jogging the first 6 miles and completing the whole thing, but fell a bit short of my stretch goal of 3 hours (my official time was 3:11.36, a 14:37 average pace).  So what was I thinking when I travelled across that finish line?

1. Where is a masseuse when you need one?
2. OMG – I can’t believe I made it.
3. I can do better.

 In late July I’ll be starting with a Running Group to help get me off my plateau and meet some new people.  I’m excited because it’ll be starting right as Western ends, and my fee is being covered by my mother’s birthday present to me: money to help with the Bucket List I’ve put on hold for the past few years.My next few runs are 5Ks and then the London Parks Half Marathon in October.

And about being 30…well I’m still processing that part.  A good friend asked me a few weeks ago why I was so caught up in this one day and change in age.  The logical part of my brain knows it’s no big deal, that age is just one label among many, and in many ways I am in better physical shape at 30 than I was at 18.  I think this birthday is like graduation day (which I’m also experiencing this summer); you are forced by the calendar to consider who you are, who you want to be, and if that person is who you wanted to be as a youth.  When I graduated college, I had no expectation of one day working with adult students (I don’t think I even knew there were adult students other than those taking community college courses for fun) or going to seminary (I didn’t want to be one of those Christians).  What I did expect was to work at a church, to get married, to travel, to write, and to magically be thin.  At 30, it’s just not quite what I expected.

But I must end this pondering on the right note: I love being in Portland and getting to be an active part of the transformation possible through education; I have some dear friends who support me better than I support myself sometimes; and this is a season of opening doors, not closing ones.  Like I said, it’s surreal but nice.

At church this morning, I admit that I was not paying much attention.  My mind was wandering amid thoughts about my evaluation project, the coffee from the girl next to me right under my feet, and a short night’s sleep.  What I did get from the sermon was that the focus was on a passage in Matthew describing the Kingdom of God as a mustard seed, an almost invisible and insignificant thing that can grow large enough for birds to nest.  The pastor compared this transformation to what is possible for the church, despite all of its flaws and foibles.

Whatever whispers of the sermon I did mange to hear were brought together near the end of the service, as some members of the congregation went forward while the majority stood singing and waiting their turn (a tradition that encourages reflection and choice).  The final song was Come Thou Font, with lyrics that have been sung for generations and a melody line that was updated more recently.

God of Glory, Voice of Thunder
Split the cedars, Bring us under
Oh the shadows of your wings
You give us strength, 
You give us peace

As the chorus was repeated at the end, I was able to close my eyes in comfortable familiarity rather than concentrate on the PowerPoint before me.  My eyes flashed open and a smile arose on my face as I realized, in sudden amazement, that I was standing among hundreds of people singing and since it was noon on Sunday, there were probably thousands and thousands of other believers singing across the nation, possibly even these exact same words.  I looked to the giant stained glass window before me and realized how significant all of these insignificant voices would be to God as He listened and took pleasure in the works of His work.

This past February a friend from Bible Study encouraged members of the group to sign up for the Worst Day of the Year Ride.  Its an 18 mile bike ride through downtown Portland that falls on a weekend in February that is anticipated to be the coldest / wettest / just plain nastiest of the year.  While I was intrigued by the idea, I also realized that my bike was in another state at that point and I hadn’t touched it in at least a decade.  Actually my bike skills are even sadder than that since I didn’t learn to ride a bike until Middle School (a good bonding experience with the step-dad) and even then I preferred a scooter or, in all truth, the television to riding around my hilly neighborhood.  So when I saw the email I thought “Yea…no” and hit delete. 

But the idea stayed in my head, especially as I would attempt to weave around bikers on Division, Lincoln, Hawthorne, 96th, Powell, Naito…seriously where are all of these people coming from.  After a few weeks, I decided to ask my parents about my bike in the garage to see if it was salvageable (not sure what a decade does) or if I’d be starting from total scratch.  My step-dad, as a surprise, had my bike all cleaned up with new wheels and brought it to Portland as my birthday present (my b-day is June 12th so plenty of shopping days left).

So now that I’ve shared all of that context, the real point of this post is that this morning, after some repair work to the chain, I went for a four mile bike ride up 96th and then the I-205 trail.  I purposely waited for a weekend morning, in case “easy as riding a bike” was not quite true for me.  But in my gym clothes and cute new flower helmet, I manged to stay upright the whole time and my legs are only slightly spaghetti like.

I will need to learn a few things before February though, like how to signal, how to add air to my tires, and where to put my keys.  But this was a first step, and a I’m happy to share that I hope to take a second next Saturday.

Aaron and Joe, I’ll be there next year!