Uphill Courage

I ran 20 miles yesterday.  I know, I’ve done that before.  Yesterday, was different, though.  I haven’t done it for two years…this is my marathon comeback season.  And I’ve been questioning whether I still have ‘it’ in me.  One of you reminded me this week about my purpose for running (her initials are AC for those of you who know me in the real world--wink). Basically, she asked, "weren’t you doing this for the joy you get out of it, for the meditation…if you aren’t enjoying it any more, you don’t have to do it."   I thought about that all week, and I had planned to make this training run the one that decided whether I would do the full marathon or switch to the half. I really believed the answer would be, “drop down to the half.” Instead, I found myself stretching my writing “muscles” again.  I can’t promise you’ll find anything profound here, but it felt pretty good to run and think again.  I’ve been too obsessed with distance and pace and not enough on the meditation.  I’ve learned this lesson before.  I guess I’m stubborn.

I showed up to the run with a sense of dread and anxiety.  I’d missed the first 20-miler, so I was already feeling my training was inadequate. Intellectually, I knew that wasn’t true, but there I was.  So, we started.  I knew immediately I wasn’t going to be able to keep the pace of the teammates I’ve grown accustomed to running with over the years.  I dropped back and decided it was time to run my own pace.  I quickly found myself in a no-person’s zone—too slow for the group in front of me, too fast for the group behind me.  I decided that I was going to have to figure out how to do the bulk of that 20 miles on my own. I was going to need something to focus on to get up that 3- mile hill known as Westham at beginning at mile 9 and the Boulevard hill at mile 18. I heard Coach E in my head say, “relax.”  I dropped my shoulders and started thinking about what writer Glennon Doyle said this week about courage…there is rage in the word courage. That became my mantra for the rest of the run.  I worked through some of the rage of the week. I decided that, ‘yes,’ it’s going to take courage to carry on—and part of that courage will involve some rage.   I’m still wrestling with that.  Until I figure that out, I’m moving forward, one step at a time, one act of kindness at a time, one vote at time, one finish line at a time.  I’m not going to worry about my pace.  And I’m going to remind myself to find joy or inspiration along the way.  I will get there. We will get there. And I will cross the finish line, one more time.

Already August

It’s August, already.  It’s the August of my oldest child’s 18^th year.  Already. I’ve been thinking about this August, in particular, since the day he was born. On that first night in the hospital, when everyone had gone home, I looked into those big blue eyes and thought, “You are going to leave in 18 years.”  I burst into tears.  Morphine and hormones create dramatic moments, but it was true.  My gut told me this experience was going to go fast, already.

In the weeks leading up to his early (over a month) birth, I had a lot of doubts.  I even had a conversation with my husband about how worried I was that I wasn’t going to be a good mom. I had no clue as to what I was doing, no maternal instincts, whatsoever. The day he was born, I went to work, as usual, and quickly realized I wasn’t going to be there long.  Already?!  I am not ready!

Do you know what happened?  Of course, you do.  A switch turned on. Call it maternal instinct, gut, faith, etc. I learned to trust it. Our pediatrician advised me to always trust it—because in his experience, it was always right.  During one visit, when that sweet infant cried loudly the entire time we were there, the pediatrician asked me how long he had been crying.  All day.  Every day.  We had worn a path in the grass around the perimeter of our house because that’s the only time he stopped crying—while we walked him in circles around the outside of the house. Our wise pediatrician reminded me to trust my gut, to just put him in his crib and let him cry.  “After all,” he said, “no one ever failed Algebra because he was left in his crib to cry it out.” Before I knew it, we were back in that office telling him he was right, I’d trusted my gut, let him cry it out, and he had just sailed through algebra.  Already.

I have not spent the last 18 years obsessed with this August coming, already, but I have always been aware of it.  I think that awareness has made me remain more present in the moment that we are in…to not get too bogged down by what is coming.  There were tough days and easy days…they pass, eventually and already.  He can do his own laundry, clean a bathroom, make a mean risotto and fill out a HIPAA form at the doctor’s office.  He’s learned the value of working hard toward goals and that kindness is the most important rule in our house.  “What did you do for someone today that was kind?” is the question he was asked over and over at dinner each night.  We’ve given him most of the skills he needs to function as an independent adult. Those he doesn’t have, yet, he will learn on the fly like the rest of us who have come before him did.  That’s how it works.  We’ve raised him in a loving faith community surrounded by saints.  ”For All the Saints”…it’s going to be running through your head all day now—you are welcome. If he leaves that community for a while, he knows it will be here waiting for him when he is ready to come back…already.

I am prepared for him to go (there is a difference between being prepared and being ready, though). It won’t be easy. I expect it will actually be pretty hard, but my gut tells me it will be an amazing adventure for him.  My gut tells me it will be a privilege to watch his adult life unfold, already.  My gut is never wrong.

Dancing While Persisting

 One of my favorite pictures of my mom is one of her dancing in our living room.  She is wearing a shirt that my dad gave her.  It said, “A woman’s place is in in the house.  And in the Senate.”  I’ve seen that shirt resurface recently, but she had the original one from the 70s, when it was a more radical statement.  I don’t remember what music was playing while she was dancing.  Maybe it was Fats Domino or Debby Boone (you light up my life) on 8 track.  Maybe it was the Free to Be You and Me album.  These were the soundtracks of my childhood.  I just remember thinking how cool it was, watching my mom dance and thinking about the  possibility that I could be anything I wanted to be (my dad played a huge role in that as well…but that deserves its own blog post).  I was thinking about that picture on the eve of the 2016 election.  I even shared that with one of you.  And then the shock settled in.  My last post to this blog was right after that.  It's just been too overwhelming.

Fast forward to January 2017. The woman who danced in her living room in the 70s, marched in Washington, DC with hundreds of thousands of other women.  The stories she told of the women she met were nothing less than inspiring.  She’s always been my hero.  I’ve been thinking about this post for over a year now. How to express that gratitude…how to tell her how grateful I am that she did that.

So here we are, a year later.  What a year.  Women marched once again.  I feel as though I’ve been marching, figuratively, every day this year.  I’m tired.  And, yet, I’m inspired.  This year no less than last year.  But….but,  I got up this morning to see the same name calling and shaming of the women who marched yesterday that I saw last year.  I was disappointed.  I was hurt. And, thanks to one of the women I will mention below, I realized it made me angry.  My mom and I, we aren’t any of those names people were using.  Neither are the dozens of women I know who marched.  Before you say, I didn’t mean that about YOU or your mom, just the OTHERS, let me say this:  those others…I stand in solidarity with them, as well…I march for them, as well.  Instead of debating this here or in the comments, I’d rather invite you to come sit with me on my porch and have a real conversation.  I’ll make tea. Or we can eat some really good cheese.  Proximity to one another makes the name calling harder. When you see my face, and I see yours, the divide becomes a little smaller. 

I pushed aside what I thought was disappointment and headed to church.  Sunday School for the next few weeks is being taught by a woman whose teaching and preaching skills I admire.  The title of the class is “’Nevertheless, she persisted.’ Brave women who shaped the American church.” At the beginning of class she asked us to turn to our neighbor and talk about people who had helped us in our faith formation.  I found myself telling a story about how we came to be Presbyterian in the first place.  A story I had told many times before, but, in that moment, for some reason struck me as different this time. I realized it was a turning point (later in the morning when our pastor talked about turning points in her sermon, I thought, wow, now I HAVE to write about this).  For most of my childhood we had been members of the Lutheran church (ELCA).  When we made a cross country move during the middle of my 6^th grade year, my parents began looking for a new church home.  The only Lutheran church near our new home was part of the Missouri Synod. My mom had experienced that synod growing up.  Women were not allowed to hold positions of leadership in the church.  She did not want that for her children.  So, we found our way to the newly merged PCUSA and have been here ever since.  Today, when I told that story, I realized that most of the women whose leadership I have admired and faith I have valued, I know because of that single decision.  I hesitate to make a list because I’m going to unintentionally leave someone out (and you all know how I feel about exclusion), but I’m going to attempt to make that list (in no particular order) so that you can get a feel for the enormity of that decision:

 Jackie, Beth, Kathleen, Bonnie,  Ann, Anne (there are several Anns and Annes, and I admire a Virginia because I know one of those Anns), Betsy, Ruth, Betsy, Martha Ann, Izzy, Megan, Michelle, Sandy, Mary Frances, Carol, Jeanne, Donna, Robin, Sterling, Eleanor, Beverly, Dawn, Carla, April, Elizabeth, Ellen, Diane, Claire, Loretta, Sarah, Erin, Laura, Noell. Kate, Catherine, Marcia, Sherry, Sally, Amy…if I stop here, I’m already to over 40 when I count multiple people with the same names.  I’d have been lucky to have known just one of them, but over 40, probably closer to 50, that is because my mom persisted. All of these women have shaped the church. Not all of these women marched or would have marched, but I march because of them.  I persist because of them.  They would do the same for me.  Not one of them would call me a name, nor I them.  We don’t have to agree about everything for you to come hang out on my porch. Come on over.  I’ve downloaded the Free to Be You and Me album to my phone.  Come on over, come listen to the soundtrack of my childhood and let me tell you about my mom and how she danced and persisted (and still persists).  You’d love her.