Broken Hallelujahs

Leonard Cohen died last week. The moment I heard the news, I remembered I was running a marathon in a few days. I know you are going to find this hard to believe, but I had actually forgotten about it. The shock and fog of the election results made me forget. Why did Leonard Cohen’s death remind me?  For most of my marathon training years, I’ve had the privilege to train with Jimbo. I’m not going to “out” his age, but his running ability could put most 20-somethings to shame, and he as a few decades on them.  We’ve spent countless hours pounding pavement, pondering Presbyterian polity (I was on the Session when I began this journey), politics, the environment, and Leonard Cohen on a few occasions.  So, I remembered Jimbo, and I remembered the marathon. And I felt absolute dread. How could I run this race NOW? It seemed silly, really.  But then I remembered the brutal heat of the summer.  I’d survived all of those miles in that, and I had actually been feeling strong a few days earlier. So, I convinced myself I’d get up Saturday morning, get in the starting corral and take it one step at a time.

Saturday, I got up at an hour that really could still be considered the middle of the night to head downtown.  My friends and I sat in a warm hotel lobby waiting for the sun to come up.  The usual pre-race buzz seemed a little more subdued this year. Or, maybe it was I who was more subdued.  Jimbo and I chatted about the election and Leonard Cohen.  My teammates and I headed up the hill to the start.  By all accounts, it was an absolutely gorgeous day.  A PERFECT day for running a marathon. We got into the starting corral.  We listened to the national anthem.  The race began, and I managed to forget the week and remembered to put one foot in front of the other. We passed a sign that said “Love your run, love your neighbor.”  I actually crossed over from the opposite side of the street to touch the sign and thank the person holding it. I felt strong and fast.

 

Somewhere between miles 12 and 13, a tendon at the front of my ankle started “talking’ to me. It got louder and louder. By the time I approached the bridge to cross back over the river toward downtown, I’d decided that this race was going to be my first DNF (Did Not Finish).  I was so confident that I was stopping, I’d composed a witty Facebook status about it in my head.  I’d made peace with it.  I walked most of that bridge, and I was looking to the right toward the finish when I reached the end.  But, here’s the thing, when I got to the end of the bridge, I didn’t stop.  I saw John.  He was a coach on the first half marathon training team I’d ever joined.  I never see or talk with John except on marathon day.  Every year, without fail, he is standing in the same spot after the bridge, looking for his friends.  He shouted, “Hey, Kimberly!” I laughed, and said, “John!  Our annual meet-up.  Great to see you!”  Maybe I’ll quit when I get to Main Street.

Right before I turned onto Main Street, I saw Monte, a neighbor and fellow runner. He was on his bike.  I told him what was going on, and he asked me if I wanted some Tylenol.  “Sure, I’ll try it and see what happens.”  He pedaled ahead and had it ready to hand to me by the time I reached him. And then Coach Elliott appeared out of nowhere.  He got me halfway down Main Street.  Maybe I’ll quit at the end of Main Street.  As Elliott left me, Coach Karen joined me. We joked around a bit, talked about some different goals we each had for 2017, maybe something different than the marathon.  She reminded me that a lot of people had struggled this week, and it was impacting their race.  I decided, well, if I quit, I won’t get the medal or the fleece blanket.  And I really wanted that fleece blanket.  I told her, “If I run/walk the rest I can finish, even if it takes me six hours.”  She looked at her watch and said there was no way it was going to take me six hours. Just like that, I’m at mile 17.

Coach Laura saw me just before the Boulevard Bridge (about mile 19).  I told her what was going on, but I’m finishing, no matter what! Then Elliott reappears. He tells me there is a headwind and to get behind him—he will take the brunt of it for me. Somehow, I find myself at mile 20 with my foot and spirits feeling a little better. In fact, a spectator shouts out my name and says “Hey!  We saw you at mile 13.  You looked like you were in pain.  You look great now!!”  I smiled and headed under the Pope Arch.

After the Pope Arch, a surprise.  Megan!!!  My forever mile 20 dedication. She was handing out Jell-O shots and offered me one.  “No thanks, but I’ll take a hug.”

Mile 22, hey, that’s Noell!  “Hey, Noell! “ And only a mile to 23, the best water stop on the course. Monte reappears on his bike and asks if I need anything.  “No, I’m good—feeling better.” My boys hand me wet washcloths at the water stop and encourage me.  Carla gives me a hug.  GPPC members cheer (everyone should have their own personal water stop).  I jokingly ask Eleanor why I continue to do the marathon, and I’m on my way to Lombardy.

Lombardy.  Once a runner makes it to Lombardy, she knows, for sure, she will make it to the finish. The crowds build, all of the coaches reappear.  I ran the rest of the race, and I smiled all the way down the hill to the finish (there is photo evidence).  I even finished with a time that would have been a dream for me five years ago when I ran my first marathon.

I burst into tears when I crossed the finish—tears for a hard fought finish, tears for the week—a broken hallelujah.  And guess, what?!?  Jimbo qualified for the Boston Marathon.  I have a goal now. To keep moving until I can qualify, as well.  That’s the secret to life right there—just keep moving.

My foot is healing this week.  And I’m still disappointed about where we are as a country. But this marathon taught me something.  I’m stronger than I thought I was.  Even though I don’t always feel like it, I’ve got to keep showing up and putting one foot in front of the other.  Sometimes I’ll be in the cheering and coaching section, and sometimes, I’m going to need someone to take the brunt of the headwind for me so that I can carry on.

I don’t know what the next four years are going to bring, but I’m determined, more than ever, to continue to seek the light. I’m still with her, but I’ve always been with Him.  I am not going to change what I have always done: love God, love my neighbor, seek justice, and be a voice for the marginalized.  I’m just going to need to be a little louder, but it seems like I’m going to have more company along the way.  And that’s a good thing.  That’s grace. That grace is for you and for me. Let's get to work.

From where I sit

This week, I’ve been working on some words to share for a stewardship moment at church.  I got sidetracked by a video I’ve seen posted a few times this week on Facebook.  I’m sure that’s never happened to you, right? Have you seen this video? It’s about a college student and her father’s differing political viewpoints—she leans left, he leans right.  Weary of political talk, I’d scrolled on by when I’d seen it before.  I’m not entirely sure why I opened it this time.  But I did.  The video tells of an argument the two had about taxation and the wealthy and redistribution of wealth. The father responded by asking his daughter how she was doing in school. She told him that she had 4.0 GPA but that it was really hard to maintain—she was taking difficult classes and was studying all the time.  She had no time for a social life.  And then he asked his daughter how her friend was doing in school.  The daughter responded by telling him that the friend was partying all the time, taking easy classes, not going to class and barely maintaining a 2.0 GPA.  The father then suggested his daughter should go to the Dean’s office and ask the dean to deduct a point from her GPA and give to her friend.  That way, they would both have a 3.0 GPA.  Let that sink in for a second.  I could spend hours talking about how this is such an inappropriate and inaccurate, overly-simplified portrayal of the least, the impoverished, the marginalized.  I don’t think I need to do that here—nor do I want to.

Watching that video did make me feel discouraged because I had just returned home from a justice ministry meeting held in the sanctuary of our church.  It was a meeting filled with the rich diversity of God’s kingdom.  We heard encouraging words and reports of work the ministry has accomplished over the last year.  Job training and jobs for people in some of the area’s poorest communities.  People WANT to work.  Incremental progress being made in equalizing education in our area.  Real change happens from the bottom up, not the top down.  It is incremental, and it takes commitment and a willingness to stick it out for YEARS. 

So, I was frustrated, coming from that meeting, to such a simplistic interpretation of poverty.  I rarely debate on Facebook (because, has anyone’s mind every really been changed by a conversation over social media).  Most of you know I prefer to move through life quietly observing, but I feel, more and more, it is important to call out injustice when I see it. So, during the course of this respectful discussion, someone started a comment with “From where I sit…” and went on to say some things I agreed with and some things I didn’t.  That's reality, though, complex problems have complex solutions.  There are no absolutes.  But what really stuck with me from that conversation was “From where I sit.”

From where I sit most Sundays is Pew 22. John and Ruth used to sit behind us in Pew 24 (that’s probably why I’m still loyal to that row).  Ruth used to tell me about what it was like raising their 4 children and getting them to church on time every Sunday—precisely when I needed to hear those stories, as we were wrestling preschoolers and toddlers. From where I sit in Pew 22, I see Betsy who is devoted to our friends from the group homes that neighbor our church.  From Pew 22, I can see (and yes, sometimes hear) the mosh pit and remember that it wasn’t that long ago that our children were that squirmy during worship.  From Pew 22, I am challenged and encouraged as the Word is proclaimed. From Pew 22, I am frequently moved to tears by the music that fills the sanctuary. From Pew 22, I see my children sitting with friends they’ve known most of their lives—friends who are family to us.

At the justice ministry meeting, I sat in the same sanctuary but in an entirely different pew at the back.  I learned something.  Things look and sound different from the back of the sanctuary.  I walked around and talked with people from other worshiping communities around the city. That’s a hard thing for me to do, but it’s how we build relationships, right?  We have to sit in different places and meet different people.  Changing where I sat made me remember we are all sitting in different spaces—we come to the table with different perspectives, but the more conversations we have,  no matter where we are sitting, the more we are building God’s kingdom.

It doesn’t matter to Christ where we sit.  Zacchaeus sat in a sycamore tree, and still, Jesus invited him to come down and be by his side.  He offered grace, regardless of where Zacchaeus had been sitting.  This congregation, offers that same grace to anyone who walks through those doors.  It doesn’t matter where you sit, whether in Pew 22 or in the mosh pit, there is a place for you at the table.  This place, this community, has allowed me to grow into the person Christ has called me to be.  It has helped me find my voice for justice through the written word.  I am so grateful for that, and it is out of that gratitude that we pledge our money and time.  Yes, we need money to keep this place running and to support the ministries we share, but we also need the commitment of your presence.  Whether you serve on a committee, help out in the garden, grill hotdogs at the block party, deliver milk to a group home, or commit to attend a one-time justice ministry rally in the spring—we need you at the table. And, I promise the grace you experience will be overwhelming.  Just as Christ sought out Zacchaeus, He seeks you out, too.

And, for those of you who don’t attend the same house of worship as I, where do you sit in your communities, your lives?  Have you ever considered changing your seat and sitting in someone else’s?  Let’s all take a seat and figure this out TOGETHER.

Believe in Yourself

I, in general, do not share my children’s accomplishments because they are THEIR accomplishments, not mine.  It doesn’t mean I’m not proud of them.  I am extraordinarily proud of them, but they have their own stories to tell and share.  I share this story because it is really about Coach. Last night, I was at an indoor track meet.  In a building with that is known for its poor air quality and tiny track.  I was there to watch my son run the 1600 (1 mile).  Eleven times around a slippery track.  I’ve talked about how Coach quietly talks to his runners as they go by him (Conversations in the car with Coach).  He would offer advice each time  M rounded the curve, “Looking good, stay relaxed, etc.”  M had been in a pack of three at the front of the heat the entire race. With two laps to go, Coach said something to M that I couldn’t hear.  I watched his face change, his head move up, his chest open and his shoulders drop into a more relaxed position.He picked up his pace and moved in front to break away from the pack.  He finished first in his heat.  Not a PR (but, oh, so close), not the fastest in the race, but first in his heat!  On the ride home, I asked him what Coach had said to him that last time.  M told me Coach said, “M, you just have to believe in yourself.”  Wow.  Isn’t that what we all need to hear?  You just have to believe in yourself. We have what it takes to be the best version of ourselves, maybe not the best in the field, but the best, nonetheless.  Long after the good feelings of this race have vanished, long after M’s track days are over, I’ll bet that Coach’s advice to M to believe in himself will still be with him.

My application to be a coach for a local kids running program was accepted this week.  The goal of the program is to get elementary- and middle school-aged kids residing in low income neighborhoods of this region moving.  I’ve been interested in this program for a few years (Running Intersects with Education).  My children’s schedules just haven’t made that possible until now.  I’ve argued for years (and researchers have backed it up) that when you feel better physically, you feel better mentally.  And when you feel better, you just do better.  You do.  A program that aims to reduce childhood obesity and chronic diseases like diabetes?  Sign me up.  I got to thinking last night, what if some of these kids have never heard anyone tell them they believe in them.  Could I be that person?  I truly hope so.  Could you be that person for someone?  It doesn’t have to be a child.  I challenge all of you to look around and discover who that person might be.