New York-Paris-Taize

This post was originally written for my church blog --November 21, 2015. 

When I was asked if there might be some reflections I could share with you after my recent race, the New York City Marathon, I had some ideas running (pun intended) around my head. A few hours after I began writing that piece, the world changed. The City of Light went dark. I spent the better part of Saturday morning trying to share my reflections on the different neighborhoods of New York, my recent experience in the Social Security Administration office and how we all belong to one another—how connected we all are, if we just look and listen. I was stuck.

Often, when words fail me, I put on my running shoes, plug in my headphones and turn to the songs of Taizé. They were introduced to me in college by my campus minister during Lent. She had recently been to Taizé and brought home the beautiful words and music to us. We’d gather once a week in the campus center, late at night, in a dark room with candles lit. It always struck me how much lighter the room seemed after a few minutes of singing the same words over and over. “Oh, Lord, hear my prayer. Oh, Lord, hear my prayer. When I call, answer me. Oh, Lord, hear my prayer. Oh, Lord, hear my prayer. Come and listen to me.” Those words are often my mantra while running.

So, this morning, hoping to break through my writer’s block, I put on my running shoes, distressed by the state of the world and began, “Oh, Lord, hear my prayer.” I recalled it was the same mantra I was singing in my head on the way to the starting corral of the NYC Marathon. I was nervous. Nervous about how big this race is. 50,000 runners. The largest in the world. Daunting. And, I’ll admit, an opportunity for terrorism. Truth be told, that is why I was afraid of the Verrazano Bridge. Not the steep incline, not the height, not the length. It was the iconic image of all those runners covering that bridge that got to me. How vulnerable we were on that bridge. I refused to let that darkness take control of my thoughts. “In the Lord I’ll be ever thankful. In the Lord, I will rejoice, Look to God do not be afraid. Lift up your voices the Lord is near.”

Once in the starting corral, I looked for a quiet spot to compose myself. It was wall-to-wall runners. And loud. I settled for a small spot on a curb with runners inches away from me on either side and to the front and back of me. I closed my eyes. And reflected on how it was All Saints Day. How nearly a year before, one of this congregation’s own beloved children had died. How we all gathered that Sunday. How dark it felt. “Within the darkest night, you kindle a fire that never dies away.” The laying on of hands, in that moment, that never felt so dark, and yet, so light at the same time. It was one of those moments that Glennon Melton of Momastery would call “brutiful.” One of those moments where life can be so brutal and so beautiful, at the same time. It, for me, was a reminder of how we are one family, in Christ, and how we are called to carry one another when the the burden is just too great to carry alone. And later that evening, as we gathered for Compline, the sanctuary had never felt so dark to me, but the candles had never seemed so bright, either. So, sitting, in that corral, I reflected on those moments and thought of loved ones’ names being read during worship, and I nearly broke down right there in the corral. “Oh, Lord hear my prayer.” I felt your presence with me there in the corral, and I was with you there in the pews. We belong to one another.

Taking the Long Way to Central Park

I know it’s cliché, but I love New York.  Now I love it even more.

I began my journey to the starting line a full 4 hours before my start time.  At the time, it seemed like I would have a lot of time to kill before I actually began running.  Standing on the platform, waiting for the subway, I encountered a local couple who were beginning to be anxious about how long the next train was taking.  I looked at my watch.  It was 6:36.  I told them the MTA app I used the night before had told me there would be a train at 6:38.  They looked relieved.  I was kind of proud of myself for doing the research…and the train did show up at 6:38.  But, then, I started wondering why they were anxious—maybe they had an earlier start time. Nope.  Same time as me.  But, we still had 3.5 hours to the start, I reasoned.  The subway ride was uneventful—8 stops.  We walked to the ferry terminal.  And then, to my horror, I understood their anxiety.  Thousands of runners trying to get on the same ferry.  These ferries hold 4,000, so I still thought I was OK.  Until the 1^st ferry filled in about 2 minutes.  They announced the next one would depart in 15 minutes—from a door on the exact opposite side of the terminal where we were standing.  It was like a mosh pit in there. I stuck with this local couple like glue and hoped we’d make it onto the next ferry.  I imagined we could go back and forth between these doors for hours, if we weren’t careful.  We made it through the doors seconds before they closed them and announced the ferry was full.  Whew.  It took me the 25 minute ride to remember to breathe again.

Footlocker Welcomes You to Staten Island.  Once we arrived on Staten Island, we had a short walk to the buses.  I was impressed with how many buses there were and how quickly they loaded and pulled away.  I thought, “easy, peasy, we will be at the runner’s village in a few minutes.”  Nope.  Traffic was so tied up it took nearly an hour to get there.  It was after 9 by the time we got off the bus.  It’s a pretty long walk to the village to which I was assigned.  I had to be in my corral by 9:40 when they would close the doors (aka giant Goodwill bins)—if you don’t make it into the corral, you have to wait until the next wave.  So, no milling around the runner’s village for me.  I got into the corral in plenty of time and had about 20 minutes to get myself together for the start. 

At 10, we began to slowly walk up the hill to the start on the Verrazano Bridge.  Helicopters were flying overhead, the crowd was getting excited.  The enormity of this race started to sink in.  The cannon fired, and we were off.  I had decided long before I even made it to the starting line that I wasn’t going to push for a PR in New York.  I wanted to soak in every moment and stay comfortable for as long as possible.  Don’t’ get me wrong, there is nothing easy about a marathon.  As the signs say “If running a marathon was easy, everyone would do it.” But, it is possible to hold back your pace and not make it a miserable experience. The Verrazano Bridge was not as bad as I had anticipated. The views, even from the bottom deck were spectacular.

Footlocker Welcomes You to Brooklyn. I spent the next 13 miles “sightseeing” through Brooklyn, enjoying every moment.  The crowds were huge and loud.  Two hours passed relatively quickly.  I slowed down a bit at a party zone to try and catch a glimpse of Meb Keflezighi running with the elites (it was being broadcast on a huge screen).  I also tried to wrap my head around the fact that the elites were finishing the whole course in the time it had taken me to cover nearly half.

Footlocker Welcomes You to Queens.  I headed into Queens. The crowds were just as big. We were only in Queens for a couple of miles.  When I saw the Queensboro Bridge (aka Simon and Garfunkel’s 59^th Street Bridge) I was still “feelin’ groovy.”  The Queensboro Bridge is where a lot of runners “hit the wall,” and I was determined that wasn’t happening to me.  I slowed down my pace to make the climb.  There are no spectators on the bridges, so it was silent, except for the sound of hundreds of feet slapping the road, heavy breathing and the occasional gust of wind. As I reached the peak of the climb, I thought, “huh, not as bad as I was anticipating.” Then I saw a runner collapsed at my left.  Medics were already there giving him oxygen and an ambulance was making its way up the other side of the bridge.   I said a quick prayer for him and started the silent descent to the bottom of the bridge.  And then I heard it: a ROAR.  A crowd so big and so loud at the foot of the bridge on First Avenue, it was exhilarating and disorienting at the same time. 

Footlocker Welcomes You to Manhattan.  First Avenue—it’s long.  59^th Street, all the way up to 125^th street to the Willis Avenue Bridge.  I was still feeling pretty good, though.  And just trying to get to The Bronx.  One foot in front of the other.  Another bridge—the bridges were starting to get old.

Footlocker Welcomes You to The Bronx.  Finally.  Mile 20. I was still plodding along but going fast enough that it was difficult to stop when a group of us encountered two women trying to cross the course with strollers.  One runner tripped over a stroller.  I stopped far too abruptly and sent that force up into my IT band.  Uh-oh.  Some of the runners used some unkind words.  The women apologized to me—I offered them grace, regrouped and headed toward “The Last Damn Bridge.”  There was a woman on that bridge holding a sign that said that.  It made me laugh.

Footlocker Welcomes You to Manhattan!!  Finally.  Headed toward the finish-- 5^th Avenue through East Harlem and the Upper East Side and then Central Park.  People screaming my name.  I was getting tired. I thought I would be excited when I finally reached Central Park.  I wasn’t.  So many hills.  So close to the finish, but it felt so far.  My IT band started talking to me.  I really don’t remember much about Central Park, except that I was digging really deep.  The pictures of me in the park are pretty intense. I remember running around Columbus Circle and heading up a long hill to the finish.  The FINISH.  I saw it and picked up my pace.  And just like that, I was finished.  Wait.  I’m done?!?!  It went too quickly!!  Granted, I'm not quick, but, it sure went by more quickly than it ever has before.  Then, I heard the clanking and swishing sound of the medals being pulled off their stands and onto runners—if you’ve ever been at a finish line, you know that glorious sound I’m talking about.  And then the crinkling and rustling of the Mylar blankets being placed around runners’ shoulders. 

The race ended with the same crush of people with which it began.  We had to wind our way another half mile, or so, to get out of the park.  There were Red Cross spotters (truly, that’s what their badges said) everywhere, looking for people who showed signs of distress.  I pulled out my phone to let Scott know I was finished and was making my way to the family meetup area.  I was shocked to see 15 text messages and another 10 Facebook notifications of people congratulating me.  Everyone already knew I had finished!  I had no idea so many people were tracking me.  I learned my neighbors had been group texting about my progress all day.  And then I lost it. Sobbing there in a sea of runners and Red Cross spotters.  So grateful for all of my cheerleaders.  You were all there at that finish with me.

What an amazing, amazing day. Not my fastest race, but, by far, the most enjoyable. I left my Garmin running—by the time we reached the hotel, I had logged over 30 miles. 30 miles!  Each neighborhood had its own diverse vibe.  I saw gospel choirs, Hasidic Jews headed to work and school, children giving high fives, partiers, congregations stepping out from worship to cheer on runners, a Presbyterian church founded by an abolitionist, an LGBT marching band, drumming circles, choirs and bands of schoolchildren, all races and nationalities—a snapshot of all that is wonderful about NYC.  So many stories.  And runners of all abilities—fast, slow, celebrities, visually impaired with guides, wheelchairs, people using walkers—all inspiring. All of us trying to get to Central Park.  Some of those marathoners crossed the finish in the dark, long after I had showered, eaten and iced my legs down.  That takes strength. 

The next day at Penn Station, someone asked me if I’d do it again.  The course and spectators?  In a heartbeat.  It is a tough course.  All of those bridges mean it’s a hilly course.  But, I loved nearly every minute of it.  The logistics of getting to the start and getting out at the finish?  I didn’t love that so much.  That’s part of the experience, though. Given the logistics, would I run it again?  Probably not (probably). Maybe not (maybe).

Conversations in the Car with Coach

This picture captured the moment I knew my boy was going to be OK in high school. A spontaneous moment with heads bowed before a race, they weren’t praying to win but for strength of body and mind along the way.  My boy had found his tribe—the cross country team, a group of hard-working, high-achievers.  They’ve all learned something most runners eventually learn: the hard work of running translates into real life.  Plugging away at something that doesn’t show immediate results or give instant gratification is hard, but the payoff can be big somewhere down the road (or cross country trail).

The leader of this “tribe” is Coach T.  Quiet and unassuming, he is the unsung hero of this team and decades of other teams who have run long before my boy was even crawling.  He frequently stands at the edge of the race course and quietly encourages his runners as they go by. He gives them advice and suggests subtle tweaks to their form.  They listen because you can see their posture change as they run by.  I’ve thoroughly enjoyed watching him coach my boy, taking his awkward gait to a runner’s form. I find myself wishing Coach could fix my form.  He has been the cross country and track coach since my son’s high school opened.  You can’t go far in this area without running into someone who knows him or knows someone who does.  Kevin Bacon has six degrees of separation, but I’d bet Coach T has TWO degrees of separation.  Coach has an incredible memory.  He remembers a kid’s PR whether it was last season or a season 20 years ago.

Last Spring, at a meet, Coach T collapsed. In the days that followed, he had a stroke. He fought his way back all summer --fighting his way back to coaching the cross country team this fall.  His speech, mobility and cognitive abilities were left intact after the stroke.  That’s pretty amazing.  He does have a complication that prevents him from driving for the time-being. But he isn’t finished coaching.  Parents have been taking turns driving him to factor appointments and to and from practices. He is so grateful for the support.  He jokes that it’s too bad he had to have a stroke to realize how big his support network is. He thanks me profusely (and I’m sure everyone else who helps him) every time I pick him up.  I’m the one who should be thanking him.  It occurred to me yesterday when he was showing me the huge maple tree in his backyard that during all of these car rides, he is telling me his story. Tell me your story.. He has lived in his house since he was 10 years old. They moved here from Ohio, and they brought the maple tree with them to have something from ‘home’ in their yard. That tree takes up a large portion of the backyard now. Tell me your story.

As most of you know, I could talk all day about running.  So can Coach T.  He always asks me about how MY training is going, my current weekly mileage, my long run distance.  I told him I was starting to become tired at this point in the training.  He reminded me that races aren’t won in November, they are won in June and July.  He’s wise—and right.  That reminder made it easier for me to get up this morning and run 9 miles. In a way, my wish to have him coach me, came true.  If I could just get my left leg to not look so wonky on turnover…

I sense Coach T is beginning to wonder how he can keep coaching if he continues to be dependent on us to get him to and from practices and events (and, oh, he is the voice of the football games on Friday nights).  He desperately wants to stick with this group of kids through their senior year.  He sees the potential in them and wants to see it come to fruition.  I don’t know if that’s possible—I really hope it is—but if it isn’t, I know these kids have already learned more from Coach than running.  Things that will stay with them, no matter who their running coach is.  We will keep driving him as long we can. Until the day comes that he decides he can’t coach, I will continue to look forward to hearing more of his story in my car. Tell me your story, Coach.

How Can She Call Herself a Christian?

An update: the text that follows is a piece I wrote for my church blog.  In the weeks and months that have followed, dozens of you, from both sides of the aisle, have reached out to me to tell me how much you identified with what I had to say.  I am humbled and grateful that these words continue to spark conversation.  That tells me we all have so much more in common with one another than we thought. We just need to listen.  The political campaign season, in full swing, has become longer and LOUDER.  I continue to listen for candidates who speak the language of grace:

“If she is a [insert political label], how can she call herself a Christian?!?”  That question was asked in bewilderment about me during a conversation for which I was not present.  After I heard about this conversation, I spent days pondering what my response might have been, had I been present.  I’m far better expressing myself through the written word than the spoken word, so I find myself grateful that I’ve had the gift of time to formulate a response.  My knee jerk response was 1) God probably isn’t concerned about my vote and 2) God probably isn’t even particularly concerned whether I am American.  That does not mean I do not appreciate or feel passionately about either of those things. They just probably are not at the top of God’s list of important things—the things Christ taught us about His kingdom while he was here.

In Matthew 22:36-40 (NRSV), Jesus teaches us about the most important commandments: ³⁶ “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” ³⁷ He said to him, “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ ³⁸ This is the greatest and first commandment. ³⁹ And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ ⁴⁰ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” Every decision I make, I ask myself, am I loving God and am I loving my neighbor?

In Matthew 25:34-40 (NRSV), Jesus tells us how to love God and Neighbor:    “³⁴ Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; ³⁵ for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, ³⁶ I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ ³⁷ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? ³⁸ And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? ³⁹ And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ ⁴⁰ And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family,  you did it to me.’” Every ballot I cast, I ask myself if my decision is helping the least of these or hurting the least of these.

In John 21:15-17 (NRSV), Jesus gives further instruction: “¹⁵ When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” ¹⁶ A second time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Tend my sheep.” ¹⁷ He said to him the third time, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.”  I have written previously about how this passage speaks to me and how it has shaped my life.  Every lever I pull, I ask myself if I am feeding His sheep.

So you see, I don’t make my decisions in the absence of Christ.  He is fully present with me in that booth.  He is fully present with me everywhere I go.

Our son is about to be confirmed into the Church.  As we review the PCUSA Study Catechism: Confirmation Version, the first two questions speak loudly to me:

Question 1:  What is God’s purpose for your life?  God wills that I should live by the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, for the love of God,  and in the communion of the Holy Spirit.

Question 2: How do you live by the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ? I am not my own.  I have been bought with a price. The Lord Jesus Christ loved me and gave himself for me.  I entrust myself completely to his care, giving thanks each day for his wonderful goodness.

Do I get it right every day? Absolutely not.  Some days, I fail abysmally. Those are the days Christ saves me from myself.  But through Christ, I get up each day with a new start—with gratitude for his grace.  What does gratitude for God’s grace look like in my life?  It looks an awful lot like urban gardening, block parties, health and wellness initiatives in underserved areas, living in community with this congregation and telling stories.  I don’t do these things because they are good things to do.  I do them out of profound gratitude for the grace bestowed upon me through Christ.  These things I do, they are like air for me.  I am CALLED to do these things, in my breathing in and my breathing out. How I vote, begins to seem trivial when it is stacked up against those things. My call may not look your call.  That’s OK.  That is what makes us the body of Christ.

So how do I call myself a Christian?  Through God’s abundant grace.  It is for all of us.  In Christ, there is no conservative, no liberal.  No left, no right.  No American, no non-American. We are brothers and sisters.  We belong to one another.  We don’t have to vote the same way to sit in communion.  There is room for all of us at Christ’s table.  Christ’s table is the perfect place to tell our stories.  Tell me your story, and I will tell you mine.

May all of you know the love of Christ.  May His peace dwell in your hearts and call you to serve in gratitude.  May the peace of Christ be with you.

It all started with a mouse

Disney. If you were aware of our recent trip to Disney, you knew this was coming, didn’t you?  I can’t promise anything particularly profound—let’s just see where this goes.

I’ll admit it.   I was not looking forward to this trip.  I’d much rather go to my beloved Seattle (Seattle) or the ocean.  Don’t get me wrong.  As a kid, Disneyland was one of my favorite places on the planet.  For part of my childhood we lived within a 30 minute drive of Disneyland.  It was simpler going to Disney then, more spontaneous.  My parents would purchase ticket books when we arrived at the gates, and we rode rides until we were out of tickets.  Does anyone remember those ticket books—A through E tickets?  The E tickets were for the more popular rides, and there were fewer E tickets in the book.  I researched and discovered that the “E ticket” system was abandoned in 1982.  When we migrated to the East Coast, my parents took us to Disneyworld a couple of years after Epcot opened.  Much larger than Disneyland, Disneyworld was slightly overwhelming but still manageable. 

Jump forward to Spring 2015 when we started making our own Disney plans.  I bought guides and did online research.  It’s what I love to do—organize things—but even I found the whole process overwhelming and discouraging.  I’m too late to get reservations for dining in August?!  It’s April!!!!  It quickly became clear to me that we weren’t going to be very spontaneous.  I marked my calendar to make sure I got FastPasses for the rides we wanted to ride with really long lines.  I planned out each and every day.  I was exhausted by the process. How is this fun?  How is this magical?! Do we HAVE to go?!? This is NOT the Disney of my childhood.  Call me Uncle Scrooge.

The first evening we were in Orlando, we headed to Downtown Disney and drove under a sign that said, “Walt Disney World. Where Dreams Come True.”  I teared up.  What is happening to me?!?! They have got to be pumping something into the air here. The following day, when we stepped onto Main Street at Magic Kingdom, I teared up again.  Main Street is the same Main Street of my childhood.  Time stands still there. We rode our first ride, Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin (yes, we had a Fast Pass).  Do you know how many times we watched Toy Story, day after day, when the boys were little?  It was fun to watch them delight in Buzz Lightyear again.

In the Hall of Presidents, I was moved by seeing all 43 presidents together on stage, acknowledging how they are all connected.  I found myself wishing for more civil discourse outside of Magic Kingdom’s Liberty Square. 

And you know me, I’m ALWAYS quietly observing those around me.  Disney is a diverse place, both cast members (employees) and guests.  I found myself wanting to hear their stories.  I tried to make eye contact with a woman in a burka. Tell me your story (Tell me your story). Florida in August.  It was about a billion degrees with a billion percent humidity.  I thought I would pass out in my tank top, shorts and sandals.  And this woman was covered from head-to-toe in black with only her eyes exposed (her husband comfortable in his short sleeves and shorts).  I’m not really sure what I was trying to say to her with the eye contact.  Maybe, “I see you.  I acknowledge you.  You’ve got to be miserably hot.  Go in peace.”  I don’t know.

I found myself uncomfortable at Epcot in a presentation at American Adventure.  It was an animatronic presentation of the history of the United States.  The animatronics were amazing. Its intent was to highlight the “land of opportunity for everyone” and how great the American spirit is.  True.  Sort of.  The presentation felt sort of boastful, not as humble as the Hall of Presidents.  I know that’s not what Disney intended, but it made me uncomfortable.  We still have a deep divide between the “have” and “have nots”.  Opportunity still isn’t equal for everyone.  Disney is certainly not an affordable vacation for everyone. I acknowledge that I am a “have,” an enlightened “have,” but a “have,” nonetheless.  No amount of Disney magic is going to change that.  I was acutely aware that every time I paid $2.75 for a bottle of water that there are people who are trying to feed themselves on $4.00 a day.  I’d like to say I came up with a profound solution to this problem.  I did not.  I’ll take suggestions.  One thing I love about Disney is that it will never be finished.  And we won’t either.  There will always be work to do.

The “magic” for me happened at night.  The play of lights against the dark sky.  The music.  I really can’t even put it into words.  The light shows, fireworks and music, are, well, magical.  And the cast members, they are so kind to everyone.  What if we all treated each other with that same kindness out in the real world? There is just something about Disney that you have to experience to understand.  I get that now.  Will we go back?  I don’t know.  But Disney does have a marathon…

So, we enjoyed a magical week at Walt Disney World.  Although, I will bet that my kids don’t think there was anything magical about me making them wait 90 minutes in line for the Peter Pan ride, a childhood favorite of mine.  We insulated ourselves from the real world for a bit.  It was a nice respite.  We are back now.  And ISIS is still recruiting, Donald Trump is still incredibly LOUD and a friend of mine still needs a new liver.  #nodisneymagichere.  Or is there?  Could we possibly be just a little kinder to one another?  Could dream a dream as big as Walt Disney’s and make it happen in our little corner of the world?  Could we feed people and provide them with more opportunity on our corner of Main Street?

Tell Me Your Story

Tell me your story.  Sometimes on a run, when I’m listening, a word or phrase will bubble up from somewhere in my brain and become my mantra for the run—sort of a runner’s lectio divina.  Today’s phrase was, “tell me your story.” Troubled by the news of earthquakes and violence and loud shouts of of “WHY?!?! and What can I do?” swirling in my head, “tell me your story” quietly appeared in response.

Tell me your story.  Tell me your experience with poverty.  Tell me your experience with wealth.  Tell me your story of opportunity.  Tell me your story of oppression.  Tell me your story of exclusion.  Tell me your story of inclusion.  We all have stories.  They are all valid.  Until we really start listening to each other, I don’t think we are going to make progress.  We have to go through it, not around it.  We have to look each other in the eyes and tell our stories. When I want to improve my running performance, I remind myself to get comfortable with being uncomfortable.  A life lesson, really.  If we want to improve conditions and relationships, we are all going to have to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. Tell me your story.  Your story may not make me feel great about my actions.  Mine might not make you feel great, either. Tell me your story, anyway.  I acknowledge that the issues we face are far more complex and cannot be solved with simple conversations, but it will change both of us. It will change how you feel about me and how I feel about you.  Tell me your story.  

After a cold, rainy weekend, the sun finally came out on Sunday evening.  A friend and I were in the community garden checking on the spinach and peas and pulling weeds.  Also in the garden, were a young mom and her energetic two-year old daughter.  They were enjoying each other and the playground.  My friend is more gifted at starting up a conversation than I.  I’m more a gifted listener and observer. So I listened.  During the course of that conversation we learned that this young woman and her husband live with their daughter in an apartment complex just down the street.  Sunday is her only day off.  She works a couple of jobs and still has trouble making ends meet.  We encouraged her to come back and pick some spinach and to come to the block party.  A random encounter in the garden does not seem so random today.  She was telling her story.  And that’s where we start: in the garden, on the street.  Tell me your story.

Social Media and Going Overboard...Almost

I’m sitting in a doctor’s office waiting for an eye exam.  My arms have finally become too short to help my presbyopic (that's not even a word) eyes read the Presbyterian hymnal on Sunday mornings.  While sitting here, I've been thinking about how, in recent days, I've been reminded by Glennon Melton, Anne Lamott and Mark Hinds that my story, in my voice, needs to be heard because it’s mine alone.  What follows is what has been on my mind this week.

I've mentioned before that I have a love-hate relationship with social media.  In recent weeks I find  I’m disappointed that society hasn't evolved as far as I had thought (or devolved) and, at the same time,  dreading the negative rhetoric that will appear on my timeline as we head into the 2016 political cycle. Just when I was beginning to think I should pull back from social media a bit, a couple of great things happened.

First, a friend put out a request for positive messages to be given to LGBTQ youth struggling to find their place in this world.  The messages that flooded the comment section were amazing.  Who among us doesn't want to be reminded, once in a while, that he/she is a child of God, wonderfully made and that the light he or she shines is vital to our world.  We belong to one another.  Social media did that.

Second, a re-connection with my very first friend (at least one that I remember) made me re-think a pull back.  I remember the day we met.  We had just moved into our Lake City neighborhood.  My dad told me we had met some neighbors who had a girl about my age. He took my 5-year old, incredibly shy hand and walked me over to their house.  I don’t remember what we talked about.  I just remember thinking I had my very first friend.

I remember their yard had a stream that ran through it and a huge (in my 5-year old eyes) garden.  There was a bridge over the stream that led from one part of the yard to the garden.  I remember spending long Seattle summer daylight hours building dams in that stream, each time trying to make the resulting pond deeper and deeper.

We walked the mile (uphill, of course) to school together every day.  The walk never seemed to take very long—until, one day, my friend was home sick, and I had to walk by myself.  My mom gave me a stick of gum (probably the one and only time I broke a school rule until Senior skip day) and assured me I could do it.  That was probably the first mile I ever ran.  I didn't enjoy it.  I made it to school in record time, I’m told.  I learned later that my mom watched me with her binoculars until I reached the top of that hill.  I slyly chewed that piece of gum ALL day. I've always been a quiet rebel, ;-)

The night before we moved to LA, my parents took my friend and me to my favorite Mexican restaurant for a farewell dinner.  That was a hard goodbye for me.  My first goodbye.  My parents promised we would see her every time we visited Seattle.  They kept that promise—no matter how packed our visits were, they always made sure I had time to see her.  That was such a gift.  We wrote letters to each other on our Current stationery (anyone else remember that stationery).  We always picked up where had left off on our last visit.

When I was 16, my parents let me fly from DC to Seattle by myself.  Props to them for letting a 16-year old with a plane change in Chicago do that.  Before cell phones.  Before e-mail.  Before online flight tracking.  The only way they knew I had arrived at my final destination was when I called them from my grandparents’ house.

On that visit, my friend spent several days with me at my grandma’s on the Olympic Peninsula.  Grandma and great Aunt Lucy took us to Victoria, B.C. for the day.  It was a glorious day.  The water was pretty choppy on the ferry ride back.  The ferry kept rocking back and forth—so much so, we went out on deck for some fresh air.  We held on to the railing for dear life.  Just as we decided to head back inside, the ferry listed toward the water and a huge wave washed overboard.  We were pelted with cold sea water.  We aren't talking about a small boat.  We are talking about a 341 foot vessel capable of holding 1000 passengers and over 300 cars.  To list that close to the water was frightening, to say the least.  For a second, I was sure we were going overboard. When we made our way inside, Grandma and Aunt Lucy reported that everyone inside let out a collective gasp when they saw what was happening.

The last time I saw my friend, she was on a band trip to DC.  She had gotten permission to spend the night with us in Virginia.  We, as usual, picked up right where we left off.  We continued to write one another as we went off to college.  And then life and jobs happened, and I lost touch with her.  Every time we were in Seattle, I wondered where she was.  It turns out, not too far from the places we hang out when we are there. So, today, social media is a gift in my life. 

Thanks for listening to me ramble as I waited for my eyes to dilate.  And, just in case you are wondering, a pair of progressive lenses is in my future.  Maybe I’ll, once again, be able to read the notes on an unfamiliar hymn.  I can’t promise that I’ll sound good.  They aren't magic glasses, after all.

Lilies

My lilies of the valley are late this year.  By now, I am usually seeing their bright green shoots poking out of the ground, reaching for the sun.  It’s been a long, cold winter, so maybe they slept a little more deeply this year.  My particular lilies came from the garden of Scott’s Aunt Jane. In her garden, there is everything from beautiful roses to butter beans (I can’t eat butter beans without thinking of Jane.  I never learned to like them, but it makes me smile thinking about her passion for butter beans).   Jane’s garden in North Carolina is beautiful.  Whenever we would visit in the spring, she would give me various plants she had thinned from her ever-growing garden.  I’d leave there with high hopes and dreams of beautiful plants in our yard, and often, those plants didn't even survive the 6 hour drive home to Virginia.  The ones that did, they weren't happy in our clay soil.  But those lilies of the valley-- 4 or 5 of them survived, and I planted them in the bed in front of our house.  There are at least 50 of them last year.  I meant to ask Jane about how to thin them out on our last visit in December.  I forgot. Probably because we didn't spend any time in her sleeping garden.  Jane died unexpectedly this past week. 

Jane’s time in the hospital was spent treating people not as, herself, a patient.  83 years old, she was the picture of health. More active than most of us, I confess, our visits with her left me exhausted.  It was hard to keep up with her.  She knew every trail on and around Grandfather Mountain.  She would stop and point out every interesting plant, flower, and wildlife along the way.  She knew the people of that area, even more intimately.  She had spent decades getting to know all of them.  She knew who needed food, who needed clothing and who needed encouragement.  She found it for them, sometimes providing it herself.

When she retired, she married Kenneth, who, like Jane, lived and cared for the community around him.  The two were a perfect match.  Kenneth became our family. Together, in retirement, they continued to provide more for their community than most people are able in a lifetime.   If there was a need, they found a way to meet it.  They understood about feeding sheep.

Jane was a gardener—not just of plants, but of lives.  She embodied Micah 6:8:  She did justice, she loved kindness and walked humbly with God. She fought injustice and inequality, she founded a women’s shelter for domestic violence, and she became involved in her patients’ lives-- even paying for their prescriptions out of her own pocket when they could not afford it.  Those were seeds she was planting, a garden she was cultivating—a garden that was meant to resemble God’s kingdom.  All of those lives she touched, like her lilies, propagated and created new life.

I wait even more eagerly for the fragrance of those lilies this year.  I find myself grateful that they are late this year.  And when time comes to thin them out, let me know if you would like a couple.  I think that would have made Jane happy to see her garden growing beyond her reach.