Shadows

 

I saw her shadow today on my run. I haven’t seen it for nearly two years. The shadow looks stronger than the woman who creates it feels. The shadow whose ponytail confidently bounces up and down. The one with the wonky stride created by the wonky left leg. The shadow cheerfully waves at everyone who passes, even the ones who the woman knows oppose values she holds deep in her soul.  The shadow reminds the woman what Kate Bowler told her this week—that it is going to take hard work to rebuild community when this pandemic ends.  It is not going take cheap grace but expensive, extravagant love to do that.

By the end of the run, the sun had shifted, and the shadow was no longer beside her, me, but behind, as if to say, “I’m still here, but you’ve got this now.” For me, rebuilding community is starting with a shadow’s wave.

Observe, Part 1

 Observe was the star word I received in 2020.  After a year of Sparkle, I was pretty excited about this new word and what I THOUGHT it meant. Isn’t that always the way with this tradition? You think your word means one thing, and it actually ends up meaning something entirely different. I thought it meant that I was going to quietly observe the world around me and write about those observations on my blog.  I made a single post on my blog in 2020.

In early January, I began quietly observing the news out of China. I became increasingly alarmed, an anxious observation I kept to myself for at least a month. As February and March approached, I wasn’t particularly thrilled that my observations had been correct. I am still not.

Late February, something changed for me.  Data started being published.  Before there were dashboards in each state, I was downloading numbers myself, calculating rates and making predictions.  That’s what epidemiologists do: collect data, make observations and draw conclusions.  When the data changes, so do the observations and, sometimes the conclusions.

By mid-March, I was having nightly panic attacks. I observed that looking at data after 6 pm was not a good idea for me. Something happened along the way, though. I rediscovered my passion for epidemiology and public health. I started reviewing journal articles again.  I started posting my observations for friends (#wearamask).  I served on committees making decisions about in-person vs. online gatherings. And you started asking me for advice. Those individual encounters helping you make decisions about when to gather and when to not gather energized me.  While I would still prefer to not be experiencing a pandemic, those interactions have been a gift to me. You’ve been a gift to me.

The data is bleak now, just as predicted. But I offer you some hope. We have journeyed further through this pandemic than we have left to go.  Probably. I am an epidemiologist. I am never going to commit to anything with 100% certainty. I will commit to a 95% confidence interval.

When we first met to decide about whether to hold worship in the sanctuary, my quiet observation was that we were in this for a long haul, but we were only ready to commit to online worship that first week. Then we decided until summer, then through summer, and so on. Little chunks of time seem easier to manage.  Online worship has been a gift.  Time with my family has been a gift.  Scott and I still find somethings to laugh about…that has been a gift.  We are resurrection people. We know that before Easter comes Good Friday. We will, one day, gather together again. And it will be glorious.  That is one observation for which I am 100% certain.

 

 

Soul Fire

Confession: the job I get paid to do does not set my soul on fire.  Well, at least not in the way this sign that sits in my office intends. What sets my soul on fire is observing the world around me and writing about it.  That didn’t happen much in 2019.  It’s not that I didn’t have a good year or that I didn’t observe anything worth writing about.  I saw and did many amazing things. I observed things that made me sad and angry.  I had great ideas come to me while running (those of you who run will recognize that as runner’s high).  I returned from most those runs and told myself I would write it all down at lunch, after work, after dinner, tomorrow…tomorrow.


Lent begins this week.  My experience with Lent is always more meaningful when I have thought about how I will observe it in advance, before Mardi Gras, before from dust we came and to dust we shall return. I need a plan.  This year, I am going to be following Sarah Bessey’s 40 Simple Practices for Lent (if you don’t already follow Sarah, go do that right now): https://sarahbessey.substack.com/p/40-simple-practices-for-lent.    AND, I am committing to writing SOMETHING for 10 minutes every day.  I suspect most of it will be mediocre, at best, but I am looking forward to rediscovering that which sets my soul on fire (spoiler alert—it’s still not going to be my job).

Sparkle

Our congregation has a tradition of handing out stars with a single word on them on Epiphany or the Sunday closest to Epiphany. A couple of weeks ago, I was one of a handful of people asked to reflect on the prior year’s star.  Following is what I shared:

"I look forward to receiving my Epiphany star every year.  I love the randomness of it.  I don’t feel I’m meant for any particular star.  I think any one of those stars in that basket is meant for any one of us.  Even years when I wasn’t initially excited about the word I had received, I found meaning in the word as the year progressed—meaning I hadn’t even considered. 

The word on my star last year was Contemplation. My initial reaction was more centering prayer, more writing.  How wonderful!  I put my star on the refrigerator and neither of those things happened—no centering prayer and very little writing. What DID happen was more listening, less immediate reaction to things. Sometimes it might have appeared I had NO reaction to things.  But that is never the case for me…I’m still contemplating.  I suppose it has been a good year to practice contemplation.  I found myself doing more listening to understand and less listening to respond.  When I’m listening to form a response, I actually stop listening.  I stop looking for Christ in you. I still have some work to do on contemplation, but I am excited to get a new star today. 

When you get your star today, put aside your initial reaction to the word, good or bad.  Put aside what you THINK that word means for you.  Go home, put it somewhere you will see it frequently and pay attention to what that word is revealing to you.  Contemplate it.  Share it with us next year.”

What I forgot to add is that I don’t make New Year’s resolutions…they don’t work for me.  I have found the single word to be more effective practice. No pressure, no obligation.  I even love the conversations that happen on Facebook about whether this is even worthwhile practice.  Especially, when the word you get feels more like a punch to the gut than something inspirational.  It’s purely random.  And I see it as an opportunity look for grace in my life, even if the word is perplexing to me. Some years it works, some years it doesn’t. I always put my star on the refrigerator. Some years it’s prominent, some years it disappears behind school announcements and calendars.

This year I got the word Sparkle.  Huh?! It made me smile for a minute. And then I thought about glitter. And the song from the musical Billy Elliot, Shine: "Give 'em the old razzle dazzle...And shine". I don’t love glitter or sparkle…I don’t love drawing attention to myself, really.  I wasn’t following the advice I had just dispensed a few minutes earlier: "put aside what you THINK the word means for you.”  I pinned the star on my shirt and got lots of smiles from people and was told I do sparkle. And the group creating this year’s stars had a conversation about whether sparkle was really a gift of the spirit and wondered who would get it. I went home, put the star on my fridge and went on with the day.  But I keep coming back to it…it has me perplexed.  It’s whimsical, yes, but what if sparkle is something deeper.  And why do so many people agree that sparkle is a good word for me?  What am I not seeing?

 My family thinks that sparkle is a reminder to be chipper when I get up in the morning.  I’m going to let you in on a secret—I’ve been on this planet for a few months shy of a half century, and I am not a chipper morning person.  As in please don’t try to have a conversation with me.  Chipper is NOT what sparkle is saying to me. 

The more I think about the word sparkle I think about how it’s light reflecting off of surfaces.  How the ocean seems to dance when the sunlight hits it.  How tiny shards of glass reflect light.  How light shines brightest in the dark. 

I received as a gift for Christmas a large sign that says, “Be the Light.”  I hung it in my office so I could see it as a constant reminder.  I have a job for which I earn a living, but the sign serves as a reminder that my REAL job is to reflect the light around me Sometimes the light is hard to see…sometimes it’s just a glimmer, a sparkle.  So, for me, this year, sparkle means I’m going to go looking for the light and tell you about it.  Sparkle means I’m going to spend the year making observations and writing about them, even if it’s only a few sentences.  Sparkle is my accountability this year.  I feel lighter when I’ve been listening and writing.     Finding light in the darkness is not a Pollyanna approach to life.  We live in dark times.  Some days I must look hard to find light, but it’s there.  You can help keep me accountable.  If I haven’t posted anything for a while, ask me “where have you seen light lately?”  That will be my gentle reminder. Where does life sparkle for you?  Who makes you sparkle?

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.

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.

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?