Confirming Illness Through Injury

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A few months ago, a coworker commented on the fact that all of my self-photos on Facebook were taken after a race, when I was all sweaty and tired looking.  She diagnosed (with a smile on her face) that I must have some sort of obsession with running and perhaps should seek professional help.  I smiled back at the suggestion and headed into my office, assuming that I was a well-rounded enough person to have more than one hobby in my life.  And I sit here today knowing that I do have other hobbies: reading, dancing around my apartment (while kind-of cleaning), travel, singing (as long as I’m alone in the car or bathroom), and decoupage.

But after the past two weeks, I also have to acknowledge that my friend was right too.  About three weeks ago, I started using the stair machine at the gym (or what my friend Nikki calls the Stairway to Hell).  I would use it for 22 minutes, or the length of an episode of Go On on my iPad, and then walk on the treadmill for an hour before heading home.  So on that Tuesday when my thigh started hurting a little, I figured it was just a new muscle group being used and backed off a bit to give it time to recover.  Then over the weekend, I had a great time running an evening Summer Solstice 5K on Friday, did some solo running downtown on Saturday morning, and was on time for my Sunday morning running group.  I kept up with four other women on Sunday morning, turning back towards the start before them because of a halff marathon coming up.  Suddenly around mile 6, my left calf (the same leg as the sore thigh) felt light it had gotten a significant bruising and I had to walk for a few minutes.  I was able to mostly jog the final two miles back to my car but for the rest of the day I was limping through life.  And the pain was still there Monday morning.  And Tuesday morning.  And Wednesday when I finally went to the doctor.  When she asked me what I hoped to achieve through the appointment, my quick response was “drugs and a diagnosis.”  What I was too embarrassed or afraid to ask for was the promise that I would be able to run again.  As she worked through the tests, I slowly realized I was more worried about not being able to run than not being able to walk.  And how messed up those priorities were.  Or were they?

I walked out of my appointment that day with a semi-diagnosis (strained muscles due to overuse) and a prescription for ibuprofen and muscle relaxers.  Success!  Oh, and I wasn’t supposed to do any jarring exercise like, oh say running for a while.  I couldn’t look my doctor in the eye at that point as I did the quick math to realize I was 8 days away from my scheduled and paid for 10th half marathon.  I knew that as long as I could walk, I was heading to the Foot Traffic Flat on Sauvie Island July 4th.

I didn’t ask anyone if they thought I should still do the run, because I knew every logical friend, family member, neighbor, pet, and lawn gnome around me would say I shouldn’t.  That I should just forget the entry fee and focus on recovery.  And every single one of them would be right.

But I had to.  I hurt myself a bit more and yet I don’t regret the choice.  I ran slowly, walked often, and played leapfrog with a woman in a sparkly skort.  During the Newport Marathon, where I had to walk several miles due to illness and exhaustion, I was brought to new understandings of giving in versus giving up, the importance of completing the journey, and how support is never limited by location.  This time, I learned about the community I’ve gained through running, one that I am not willing to lose, and about knowing something is just a little bit foolish, and doing it anyways.

My leg is finally truly improving, thanks to medication, rest, and a massage that left several bruises on my leg.  Getting hurt helped me to realize that my friend’s diagnosis a few months ago was right.  I’m obsessed and well-rounded.  And I’m okay with that.

Vocabulary Lesson

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About two and half years ago I learned about Girls on the Run; a nationwide running program for elementary age girls that taught teamwork, self-esteem and positive body image while training for a 5K experience.  Because I was in seminary at that point, I didn’t have time to coach but I could spare one afternoon for a practice run and then the Starlight Run final event.  I was partnered with a fourth grader who was on the team for her second year, Stephanie.  Because of our green shirts, during the practice run, Stephanie and I talked about how the several hundred girls and their buddies looked like ants and we need to keep moving to keep our queen happy.  It was a pretty successful practice and I looked forward to our final event together a month later.  Unfortunately Starlight wasn’t quite so successful.  My girl had a few too many energetic bursts at the beginning where she would sprint full blast for a block or two, then have to walk as she tried to catch her breath.  It was a little bit frightening as I tried to keep up in downtown Portland with a girl I barely knew amid thousands of other strangers (about 500 of whom had the same shirt we did).  Around halfway through the run, Stephanie got a side-ache from all of those sprints and started crying that she wanted to stop and wanted her mom.  But the course was a big loop through downtown and the only way I knew to the end was forward.  So for the next mile and a half, Stephanie slowly walked and cried while I tried to just keep her moving forward and distracted from the pain.  I knew that if we just finished the run, that was what she would remember: finishing.  Not the pain.  Not the tears.  Just that she had finished.

Last weekend, during the Newport Marathon, I thought a lot about Stephanie because I was having my own physical and mental breakdown.  This was my second marathon and one I had been training for for months (including 3 half-marathons in about six weeks to give a good idea of a realistic time goal).  I had the right outfit, the broken in but not quite done shoes, the routine breakfast, and a fully charged iPod with music and a Stephen Colbert book on tape.  I also had bronchitis which had kept me up most of the night and passed out coughing the rest.  Adrenaline and stubbornness got me up that morning at 5:15am, and my mom helped me get to the starting line.  The first 5K loop was just fine; we wandered through a neighborhood around the park, the morning cold starting to burn off and the legs remembering what they were here for.  Then it was down through a cute area of shops and restaurants that my mother and I had wandered through the night before.  My favorite part was on the boardwalk; running over the wooden boards with boats lining one side and the sea air wafting in.  I felt like I could run forever in that section.  I had finally figured out how to use my Garmin watch (third try was the charm) so I could keep track of my pace and stick close to my 12 minute per mile goal.  I slipped off during a needed porta-potty break but was basically on target for the first 16 miles.  Then I started to feel exhausted and unhappy and saw myself in tears by the time I was at the finish line.  My legs were okay and my feet were sore but still usable, and yet I started to just feel tired in my heart and soul.  By mile 18, I knew that if I laid down on the side of the highway, I would fall asleep.  I had to walk.  I hated myself at that moment.  I hated that I was about to fail.  I had a reasonable time goal and so much training behind me, but the night without sleep was victorious.  In some ways it was good that I was dehydrated because it kept me from crying, which might have freaked out the volunteers or the cheering random drivers who would pass every few minutes.  I walked for about a mile before I texted my mom to share what was going on.  Thanks to my iPhone, I was able to share my situation on Facebook as well, which led to some needed pick me up encouragement later on.  After about a mile of walking, listening to music, and fighting to urge to just lay down, I thought of Stephanie and my belief that if she finished, that’s the memory that would last.  After another mile, I was able to accept that I was not going to “run” this marathon, but I was going to “complete” it and no one would think me a failure (except myself, but I’m working on that part).  I listened to the random shuffle of music on my headphones and stared at the water on my left as I slowly walked back into town.  I focused on the idea of “giving in” to the exhaustion and illness I was feeling, but not “giving up” by stopping.  That part I could onto: I did not stop.  After about three or four miles, I was in a better mental place but still very very far from the finish line so I challenged myself to run from one light post to the next, with the promise I could then walk as much as I needed.  After a few successful, though painful, attempts, I increased the distance to two light posts and then to three, still walking in between as much as I needed to breathe again.  With one mile to go, and hopes to beating my previous marathon time (which it turns out, I had totally remembered wrong), I began to jog that final stretch, seeing finishers headed the other direction and the busier intersections mean that I was close to the city again.  After one last panic at how to cross the street to the finish line (there was no way in h-e-double hockey sticks I was going past it to the crosswalk), I was so grateful to see my mother and receive my fused glass medal at the finish.

During my first marathon, in October 2012, I learned that I could survive running 26.2 miles.  During this marathon, I learned that I could survive walking.  Hopefully the Portland Marathon in October 2013 won’t require quite the same level of breakdown to have a breakthrough.

Rock n’ Roll Recap

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When you sign up for a Rock n’ Roll running event, you are not just signing up for a run.  You truly are signing up for an event.  Heading down to the Waterfront that Sunday morning (on the Max because I wanted to be Portland Green, and avoid a parking nightmare), I already felt like a rock star with my number showing and cliff bar in hand.  Why yes, I was going to run a half marathon this morning.  What are you doing up so early, strangers on the train.  Over half the Red Line train ended up pouring out at the same stop as me; we were a few blocks from the river and already hearing the music bouncing off the buildings.

This was going to be fun.

I had signed up for the inaugural event in Spring 2012 for two main reasons: I had been reading about the company for months in Runners’ World Monthly, and the course traveled outside of the normal downtown routes.  This year, unfortunately the event incorporated a lot more of Naito and less Laurelhurst, but it did still venture up that long SE Hawthorne hill.  For the first time I was running a race with a friend, and during that particular mile, I came to adore and hate my friend Patricia, depending on the block we were on.  Based on the comments from other runners, there was a general enjoyment of the course but definite hope that it will keep SE part of its scenic route.

Now I must give a shout out for all of the volunteers who make this a well oiled machine.  There was plenty of water and Gu along the course, and lots of cheerleaders too.  Much like the Portland Marathon, the best part was just the people on their front lawns, cheering on strangers and giving that boost of belief that would keep us going to the end.  And that official volunteer keeping the porta potty area clear near Corral 16; your job was far from glamorous, but you kept at it with a smile and speediness that I appreciated so much.

13.1 miles and about 2:30 later (which was right on target for my goal), Patricia and I cross the line with fists pumping into the air and tons of random strangers cheering for their loved ones coming in around us.  We placed our new medals on each other’s necks, toasted with chocolate milk and bagels, and then sat on a curb with her family to enjoy this mass of celebrating people for a while.  Yes, the event was a bit on the expensive and busy side, but it was well-organized, well celebrated, and well worth the mileage.

Plus, it was fun.

Racing the Clock

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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.

Woman in the Mirror

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If this blog is anything, it’s about a journey.

In third grade, I became a Christian by accepting Christ as my savior at summer camp, primarily because everyone else in the room had their hands raised and it seemed like a good idea.  It was not until years later that I realized that faith was about more than lief after death.  And even now I’m still learning what my life is supposed to mean amid increasing pressures to believe this, that or the other; or maybe its to believe this, that and the other.  Despite the degrees on my way, I still have many of the same wandering prayers of my childhood as I ask God why, when, and how.

In high school I knew I was going to college; that was never really a question in my family or in my own mind.  The requirement was that the school be in Washington, due to cost and travel, but beyond that the field seemed wide open.  At Whitworth College I decided on a major based on a lunch conversation about career goals, and finally hearing an idea that didn’t immediately bore me.  After trying out children’s ministry (too much volunteer hounding) and youth ministry (too ADHD for my personality), I walked across the graduation stage with a lovely degree, and no idea what to do with it.  Three years later, I would complete a similar wondering and wandering walk after Geneva College, and five years later it would be from Western Seminary.  I keep going to school because my personality needs the purpose, and my faith believes there is some reason I’m good at school.  Not sure what that reason is, but I’ll continue trying to figure it out through a doctoral program starting this summer.

Outside of faith and education, my latest journey (and one that has been just as life transforming) has been through the streets of Portland via tennis shoes.  I’ve lost 70 pounds over the past three years, and gained a whole new worldview, including new priorities for my time and finances, new vocabulary, new friends, and a lot of new race shirts filling my closet.  I have 30 pounds and a few minutes off my running pace to go, and hopefully a story brewing within the experience that I can share to encourage others.

Despite all of the changes and growth, there are days when I look in the mirror, and if I’m honest, I regret what I see.  Somehow in losing weight, I also lost the denial I had been in for so many years about my size and poor health.  When there are a few people on a couch, I don’t sit beside them because I fear I won’t fit.  When I look through clothing racks, I still pull a few different sizes because that Large couldn’t possibly fit me.  When I eat with others, I often feel guilty afterwards for not choosing the smaller, healthier portion.  And when I have a really good work out at the gym, I think maybe now I’ll be good enough for some guy to look my way.

I’m not saying the thoughts in the thoughts in the paragraph above are right, or that they dominate my life.  There are times I look in the mirror and do like the fact that there is an inward curve between my chest and hips now, rather than just a circle of flesh.  And I have done some happy dances in the dressing room as a size 12 skirt fits or medium workout pants hangs just right.

I’m just feeling a bit extra honest and transparent today, perhaps because of raw emotions since the Boston Marathon bombing and not quite enough sleep any night for the past week.  I want my story to be an encouragement to others, and to be real to what my journey truly is rather than a cheer-leading facade.  And those negative thoughts, thoughts that no  one can talk me out of right now, are real and are part of what my journey includes.  They are the lasting wounds of past sugary, salty, lazy mistakes and they can be healed through time and hard work.

Here’s to the journey…

What I think about when I think about running

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When I first started exercising and dreaming of weight loss, I started also reading autobiographies about fellow dreamers.  Books like The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl were inspiring because they were about real people who succeeded, stumbled, and had real world goals.  I tried to read one about an Olympian, but soon gave up because I just couldn’t connect with that lifestyle or see potential of following it.  After five months, I attempted my first 5K run (Starlight Run) and a new life was born.  I kept going to the gym, started running a lot more often, and focused my reading on runners, like Second Wind about a mid-life crisis that is resolved through completing (not winning) a half-marathon on every continent.  I signed up for Runner’s World Monthly, along with a bunch of online blogs and email newsletters, and devoured the stories for their inspiration.  After a couple of years, I even started to think I had my own story that could be on those pages and wondered what the ending would be.

One of the later books in this journey was What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.  The author, Haruki Murakami, was so intentional about his reflections in his marathon training that I was again inspired.  This time it was not about getting faster, thinner, or out on the road more often.  Instead it being aware of what was going on while those shoes were hitting the pavement.  So since then I really have tried to think when I run.  Crazy concept I know.   In this little experiment, I’ve also realized running and racing involve two very different wavelengths in me, even if the physical process is basically the same.

What I think about when I’m running:

  • Is there a Heaven? – for some reason this has been a bit of existential wondering ever since seeing a painful scene during The Hunger Games
  • How should I respond to Student A’s question / co-worker B’s email / supervisor C’s drop in? – sometimes I work out the conversations that will take place on Monday and sometimes I argue the conversations that will never happen (like if Student A is being extra twerpy but I can’t respond in kind)
  • What would it be like to live on Hawthorne, in Laurelhurst, or along the waterfront?
  • How can I find people to run with, either friends or someone more?

What I think about when I’m racing:

  • Catch the blond – this was the method to my madness during the Shamrock Run; trying to catch up with and then pass skinny blond women with pony tails
  • 1:10 – this was my goal time for the Bridge to Brews 10K yesterday
  • Where is that stupid finish line? – another major thought on Sunday after I had counted five turns at the end of the course but there was no finish line until after an unexpected sixth
  • Why am I doing this? – somewhere in the middle of every race, I question the sanity of paying money, to get up early, to drive to another part of down, to run and get sweaty
  • Why are there walkers near the front of the pack? – the organizers are so intentional and verbal about asking people to line up by intended pace, but there are always packs of women (sorry friends) who ignore the directions and line up in a pack of five to walk together; I love the fact they are out there too but not the fact I’m trying to get around them without getting run over myself
  • How did that woman with the stroller just pass me on a hill?
  • Road Kill – this is a phrase I learned from Hood to Coast; it refers to when you pass or are passed by another runner

As you can see, not many deep thoughts during a race, but there is a lot of music (all Taylor Swift this Sunday), some clarity by taking a break from deep thoughts, and the challenge of a clock that is ticking away.

At a meeting about a month ago, a co-worker described her musical hobby as something that came out of being asked if she could do anything with her life, what would she do.  Of course I asked myself that question during her presentation and was surprised when the answer back was “run”.  Now I don’t think I’m headed for the Olympics any time, but maybe I can somehow combine this internal answer with an external one I received a few months ago, “write”.   I’ll have to think about during my next run.

Back Around the Bend

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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.

Child Theology

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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.

Student C

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This is my do-over post for the weekend.  Last spring I had to complete a do-over run after a miserable experience on the roads that left me wondering why I had laced up, and after hitting “Publish” yesterday, I walked out of the coffee shop with the same feeling.

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Student C emailed me two weeks ago a short email.  Just two lines really.  She was not going to be able to come back to school due to money.  And she had passed math, a major hurdle at her previous school and a cause of stress throughout the fall.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  C and I had been working together throughout the fall, meeting, talking and just getting to know one another through the school.  During our final meeting before Christmas, I felt like I was just beginning to know her.  That last session included more of her family story than I had ever heard before.  In that conversation, I realized what a warrior spirit was sitting beside me and I was excited to grow from one another this spring.  And now, an email that took less than a minute to read was changing everything.

I asked for details from C as well as checked in with a staff member to see if this could possibly be true after all of her hard work.  After a few emails back and forth, C asked if we could meet and I quickly agreed.  This had to be a mistake.

We sat together in my office, and within a few minutes I had to close the door as tears slowly ran down her face.  There was no mistake.  A few phone calls with another department confirmed there were only two ways for C to stay in school and both options required parental help.  In talking with C it was obvious that the parental help was not going to happen.  That small window I saw through in December was still just as dusty as before.  One parent could not, in their opinion, help financially and the other had not been there before and would not start supporting now.  I sat there, trying to find word and plans of encouragement as I saw hope escaping the conversation.  I wanted to speak a new vision into the room, a view that did admit to this road block but was not stopped by it.  I had to hold on for the girl, the woman before me who was just holding herself together.

Our conversation ended with a plan for the next step, but nothing solid for the one beyond it, the one that truly mattered.  For the rest of the week, that conversation loomed in the back of my mind, leading to prayers and tears for how financial aid, education, and parental responsibility ought to support a warrior spirit.  The conversation, and the loss in C’s eyes, hurt and still hurt.

And yet, there is goodness in that hurt.  That pain means our relationship was more than an item on a check list.  That pain means two strangers really can care for one another over a short period of time.  That pain means that even with other work struggles and responsibilities, there is room to care about the individual.

“If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?” (William Shakespeare).

If you feel pain, do we not love that much more fiercely? (Meg DuMez)

Student C, we are not done.

Travelin’ Prayers

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On Thursday night at Home Community, the conversation used four questions to sort thru Hebrews 9 and finally ended with comments about the ritual nature of faith, and how that piece can become too great in some churches but is a bit lost in other.  A few people around me pondered the idea of confessionals among couples and what would truly happen if you admitted your faults, your sins, your hidden screw ups in front of another person.  One married man admitted that nothing would happen, his wife would not suddenly abandon him, but that pride and vanity get in the way.  At this last comment heads around the room began to nod as we all admitted silently that with our closest friends and family members, there is no real danger in truth.  It is just with the person in the mirror that we have troubles.  As I left that evening, hoping for the sleep that I had been a bit short on all week, I kept thinking about confessions and what you can and cannot admit to the world.

Now my writing today is not about some great sin; sorry, you have to have a real in person conversation with me to get that kind of dirt.  Instead I found the topics of prayer and confession winding together in my mind this weekend, in part because I do not pray well.

Now, when it comes to hoping a light will turn green, a lost sock will reappear, a student will pass an exam, an illness will heal, I’m just dandy at prayer.  After a Bachelor of Arts in Religion and a Master of Arts in Biblical and Theological Studies, I know many many big, scriptural words and have the sound doctrine and exegesis to back it up (see, big words).  Yet outside of emergencies, I find myself talking to the ceiling for a moment or too and then wandering off in search of cookie, literally or figuratively.  When we are praying at church, I have to fight to not mentally drift to a to do list, to not keep my eyelids closed too long, or (if my eyes are open) to not wonder where someone got a cute sweater.  When I was a child, I assumed all the grown ups around me were somehow at peace in their stillness, but now I’m coming up short.

The difference comes when my body is at motion, then I can somehow put my mind to rest.  This last week, after a difficult experience, I was driving home and asking God to please change the situation, to give me what my heart so obviously desired.  My eyes were on the road, hands and ten and two, but my mind and heart were crying out as though in chapel.  As I turned a corner, somehow the prayer turned as well.  Instead of asking God for what I wanted, I asked Him to want what He wants.  He knows my heart already, and has His reasons for not answering right now, so I asked for a new want, a new need, a new prayer; one that would bring Him glory and me shalom.  As I ran a final lap yesterday morning, I had the same experience.  I jogged slowly across a frosty bridge and prayed for a friend, that he would get a new job, be at “home” after some transitions, and feel surrounded by love.  At the top of a short hill, the prayer again shifted and expanded to friends of this friend, strangers to me and asking that they would support him in ways I cannot.

I’m not completely sure of the point of this post, but had to get the words that had been bumping around my head for a few days out onto paper.  Maybe it is just to confess that there is a reason my foot might be tapping, leg shifting, and fingers dancing during prayer at church.  I’m trying to move enough to slow down.  No, it doesn’t make sense to me either but I’m sure it makes God smile.