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.

Onamatopoeia

Onomatopoeia.  That’s a word I haven’t thought about for quite a while.  You know it, right?  You probably learned it in language arts in 4^th or 5^th grade.  It’s the creation of a word that imitates natural sounds (Merriam Webster), such as buzz, hiss or chirp.  Such a long, complicated word for a simple concept.  And hard to pronounce.

Every Wednesday afternoon, I sit in a waiting room while one of my children receives speech therapy.  It’s an interesting mix of people in that waiting room from week –to-week.  Over the last several weeks I’ve shared the waiting room with a girl (who, based on her homework, must be in 4^th or 5^th grade) and her father.   She is an exceptional student.  I will spare you all of the reasons I know this to be true.  Week after week, her father gives her a pretty hard time about her academic success.  It is, honestly, pretty painful for me to observe.  In pushing her to excel, I see her confidence stripped away, one mistake at a time.  I try to distract myself by reading or checking e-mails.  We’ve all got different parenting styles.  He seems to be a stressed out dad.  I don’t know his back story.  So, while it’s not how I would choose to encourage academic success, I’ve tried not to judge.  He clearly loves her.  And she lights up talking to him when they are talking about things other than school.  It’s just that those conversations don’t happen very often in that tiny waiting room.  “Just keep your head in your book and ignore it,” I tell myself.

Then, it happened.  They were arguing about the pronunciation of the word onomatopoeia.  The girl was right, the father, well, he was not.  He was making her feel stupid.  You could see her posture change.  Her head hung.  I just couldn’t be silent this time.  I smiled and whispered to her, “You are right.”  She was shocked.  Her father glared.  Uh-oh, what did I just do?! The soundtrack of “Wicked” started playing in my head.  The big song at the end of the 1^st act.  “Defying Gravity.”  When Glynda admonishes Elphaba for not keeping quiet : “I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re happy now…I hope you think you’re clever!”  Did I just make things worse?!  Why didn’t I just keep quiet?  I’m naturally a quiet person, so that should have been an easy choice.  I’m an observer.  I feel intensely about lots of things I observe.  I am just more likely to go about acting on those observations quietly.  It works for me.  Although the whisper of ‘you’re right’ felt really loud to me, I said it anyway.  After a few moments, the tension in the waiting room changed subtly.  The dad got out his phone and looked up the pronunciation of onomatopoeia and discovered his daughter truly was right.  She smiled. He called her Miss Smarty Pants (which I didn’t love, but it’s a shift).  She smiled at me.  I made eye contact with another mom in the room, she smiled and nodded.  Did I change this girl’s life?  Probably not, but I hope, in that moment, I showed her that it’s worth speaking up, sometimes.  Even if it’s a whisper.  And I shifted her father’s attention from academics to having a loving conversation with his daughter.  They laughed a bit.   That makes my heart sing, in an onomatopoetic way. 

Too Many Intersections to Focus

I’m going to warn you, this post is going to be all over the place.  And I think that is OK.  It is where I am, right now, right before the beginning of Lent.  Social media and access to the digital world 24/7 have killed my attention span.  I’ve become so accustomed to reading short snippets and connecting with friends in short snippets, I can’t seem to focus on anything long-term.  I was thinking about this last night at a Session meeting while we were discussing the pros and cons of the practice of lectio divina in a large worship setting.  While I have appreciated lectio divina in a much smaller, more intimate space, I have struggled (like others, I gratefully learned) with it in our larger sanctuary.  What I DO appreciate about it in the large space, though, is the silence.  The time to focus my attention only on the scripture that was just read. The time to focus my mind on the Word.  Time to listen for the “’still, small voice’ of a word or phrase that somehow speaks to us.” And I absolutely love how we end that time: “Holy wisdom, holy word.  Thanks be to God.”  Thanks be to God, indeed.

That discussion led to me thinking about Lenten discipline on my run this morning.  See, I told you my brain is all over the place.  What can I do to deepen my Lenten experience this year?  I’m certain it needs to involve lengthening and focusing my attention. I am finally reading Anne Lamott’s “Bird by Bird.”  Have you read it?  In it she talks about how her brother had been procrastinating writing a report on birds for school that was due the next day.  He had just started working on it and was overwhelmed.  He didn’t know he was going to get it done, and her father said, “Bird by bird, buddy.  Just take it bird by bird.”  That kind of describes my attention span these days…so much to do, to focus on. I am immobilized and can’t really get started on any of it.  Lent will be bird by bird for me this year.  Moment by moment of silence.  Reflection by reflection.  Blog by blog.  I am seeking to deepen my focus and my relationships, but it occurs to me it can’t happen all at once. And it can’t happen on Facebook.  Or can it?

In the last couple of weeks, Facebook has allowed me to reconnect with a friend I met in third grade.  She was the first friend I made when we moved from the Pacific Northwest to Southern California during the school year.  When we both began playing an instrument in 4^th grade, our moms took turns transporting us from our elementary school to the junior high school in the middle of the school day.  As we progressed, we joined the local youth symphony, and our parents transported to and from practices on dark evenings and Saturday mornings.  I treasured those times.  I still do.  One year, we performed with other Los Angeles area youth symphonies at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion…it was TELEVISED.  Pre-VCR.  A big deal then…not so much now in the You Tube age.   My parents used an audio recorder held up to the TV to document the experience.  I remember listening to it when I came home and hearing my mom’s voice exclaim, “Is that Kimberly?!  It IS Kimberly!”    So what does this have to do with anything?  Well, as much as social media frustrates me and kills my attention span, it also, in the right situations reaches out and allows for connection.  It allowed me to crawl into my brain and remember with gratitude a childhood friendship.  That is focus. 

The other thing about Facebook is that it makes me want to do all the things and support all the causes…there are so many good causes.  But how do I focus on any of them?  So I end up feeling inadequate.  While wanting to support all the things, I end up supporting none of the things.  I think the answer lies in listening to that still, small voice inside me and FOCUS.  Focus on my passion.  I’ve got a few HUGE things to plan and organize this spring, but they don’t overwhelm me.  I am enthusiastic about them.  And that’s how I know I’m on the right track.  Because that still small voice?  It’s God’s loud voice telling me I’m on the right track.  It’s God saying, “Is that Kimberly feeding sheep?!  It IS Kimberly!”  Thanks be to God.

Blocked Intersections

I’m not a resolution-y kind of girl.  I just continually find myself working on aspects of my life that promote kindness and peace.  I have found some peace in my writing…that’s new to me, so I’ve resolved (and I’m even uncomfortable using that word) to write more this year.  Yet, I haven’t been inspired to write since my last post about the Richmond marathon.  I thought my block was related to the busyness of the time that followed and the unexpected death of a beloved aunt.  Sort of, but…I made a connection about that block while running this week:  I also haven’t been running regularly since that marathon.  Turns out, running truly does clear out my mind and heart and allows the creative thoughts to flow. I’ve said that before, but I guess I wasn’t really listening.  So, I am back on a training schedule, and I expect that, soon, I will start noticing intersections again.

The Intersection of Brook Road and Brookland Parkway: Mile 23

Why did I run Richmond?

After the Marine Corps Marathon (MCM), I was asked by quite a few people whether I was going to run Richmond 3 weeks later.  I honestly didn’t know.  After I crossed the finish line at MCM, my 1^st thought after “thank goodness that is over” was “no way am I doing this again in 3 weeks.”  I’ve said that before. “No way am I ever doing more than this 10K; no way am I ever, I mean EVER, doing a marathon.”  I let the days following the MCM be about rest and recovery.  I had developed some IT band (ITB) pain around mile 18 of MCM and was concentrating on healing that.  I’d rather take a few weeks off and still be able to run well into the future than be a warrior and risk further damage.  I stretched, I foam rolled, walked and, ever so slowly, added running back into my routine.  But, I still wasn’t sure about Richmond.  Whenever I was asked, I joked, “ask me the day before the race.”

Tuesday of race week I went on a pain-free 4 mile run.  Thursday, I decided to go pick up my bib and shirt at the expo.  I mean, I HAD paid for them as part of the Sportsbackers training team.  Friday, I constructed a race plan.  I’d run at a comfortable pace as long as I was pain-free.  I’d walk all downhills, since that is where my ITB pain usually shows up.  I would not push it.  Having a good time and finishing with a medal and fleece blanket were my only goals.

Saturday, race day.  I woke up in the middle of the night to hear it absolutely pouring.  No worries, it was supposed to end by 6.  Then by 7.  Then, maybe by 8.  I tried to keep my feet dry as long as possible before the race and got into my corral right before the start.  And I just kept moving forward for the next 4 hours and 37 minutes.

But the running itself isn't why I ran Richmond.  I ran Richmond because of the wonderful MTT coaches.  The ones who spent countless hours with us when they could have spent time doing other things.  The ones who got us to the starting line in the first place.  I ran for the coach who ran with me on Main Street.  I don’t know why, but I have never enjoyed that stretch of the race.  Maybe it’s because it is right after mile 16 and the Lee Bridge and the legs are starting to feel fatigued, I don’t know.  Whatever the reason, Coach Karen, she distracted me just enough to keep going.

I ran for the elite runner on the side of the road with an injured ankle.  He had slid on the downhill right before the Huguenot Bridge.  His race was over.  I ran for the random enthusiastic runner on the Huguenot Bridge from Philadelphia who told me I was crazy to run two marathons in 3 weeks.  I gave him a smile and said, “I know, but aren't we all crazy?”  He couldn't argue with me.  I ran for the random Marathon Maniac  (it’s a real thing, look it up) on Boulevard who tried to convince me that I only needed to do one more marathon by January to be a member of the club.  No thanks, I’m crazy, but I am not a maniac.  Come on, I have to draw the line somewhere. 

I ran for one of my children’s teachers whose son lost his life on the Lee Bridge just over 18 months ago.  She was running, as well, and I knew that no matter how hard that bridge was for the other 6000+ runners, it wasn't going to be as hard for us as it was for her.

I ran Richmond for the spectators.  At the end of the Lee Bridge, I saw a 2012 MTT teammate whose cheer gave me an energy boost.  I ran to see a coach from the first half marathon I ever did.  Every year, he is camped out at the same spot on the marathon course.  It’s the only time I ever see him, but I look for him.  I saw him, and he gave me a “way to go, Kimberly.”  He knew me when I swore I’d never do a distance further than the half marathon and said, “We’ll see.”  He knew I would finish a marathon before I did.  I ran for the two unexpected hugs from church family I received somewhere between miles 20 and 21.  There were very few spectators there, and I was feeling pretty tired. 

I ran for the mile 23 water stop.  That stop has been our church’s water stop for years.  Even before running was on my radar screen, I handed out water there to runners while my babies were in strollers or baby bjorns.  That water stop is my oasis.  People I admire and love are there.  They are my cheerleaders.  And not just when I run.  They are excited to see me, and, I , them.  It is always what carries me through to mile 25.  Because let’s face it, miles 23 through 25, they are hard, hard miles.  Close to the finish, but not that close.  Almost done, but not quite.  Within reach, but just out of reach.

I ran for mile 26.2.  Even though I had walked a lot of the last 6 miles, my legs found energy, and I sprinted.  Strangers were screaming my name.  It’s pretty cool, I’m not gonna lie.  It never gets old: the awkward, shy girl is suddenly a popular, cool athlete.  It’s pretty amazing.  OK, so maybe the last .2 mile WERE about the running.  But the first 26 miles weren’t.

Mile Dedications

It's that time again--marathon mile dedications.  

Dedicated To:

Mile 
1 The Glory of God, for the beauty of this day.
2 Scott, I wouldn’t be here without your support and willingness to handle the “mess” at home while I was away on long Saturday runs.
3 Mom & Dad, you have always supported me, no matter what my dream was/is.
4 Christina, my cheerleader, my sister.
5 The Marine Corps for its sacrifices and for making this race possible.
6 MTT Coaches
7 MTT teammates
8 Friends, family and neighbors who put up with my constant chatter about running
9 The people who will wear the layers of clothing I shed along the course.  
10 Tough Chiks and Mother Runners who inspire me.
11 Erica.  To long runs and TMI--we made it!
12 Meredeth, for helping make those long Wednesday runs fun and discovering friendship along the way.
13 Renee.  For Lupus.  For quiet hippie peace freaks. 
14 Matthew.  The next 3 miles are dedicated to my children to show them that even when it gets hard, we never give up.  
15 Nathan
16 Samuel
17 The Gauntlet 
18 Peace, for each one of us and for the world.
19 Adam.  I often hit the wall here.  This mile is a reminder that sometimes it is enough to put one foot in front of the other and just keep moving.
20 Megan and Michelle, you will always be my mile 20.
21 I beat the bridge!
22 Those who want to run but can’t.  Someday, I may not be able to run.  Until then, I’ll run for you.
23 GPPC, I will miss you at MCM’s mile 23 water stop, but you are in my heart.  I see Christ in each and every one of you.
24 Water.  A reminder that I have access to it whenever I need it along this course.  783 million people in the world do not.
25 Mothers around the world who run because they HAVE to in order to survive, not because they WANT to, like me.
26 Survivors and families of victims of the Boston Marathon bombing.
.2  Me!  Savor the finish.

Running Intersects with Education

Today has been a day of contrasts, where the haves and have-nots intersect.  I started my morning at my children’s elementary school.  I was meeting with the librarian and a group of other parents who will be coaches for this year’s Reading Olympics program. So many parents volunteered to coach, the librarian had to turn several away.  If our little school has a need, parents line up to meet that need.  Pretty lucky.  And easy to take for granted.

My next stop was at a local warehouse club.  I filled up the cart with fruit, granola bars and water, fulfilling a request from a PE teacher at a school just a few blocks from our church (for more about the neighborhood around our church: Neighborhood) He called our church, and the request was sent to me.  He is organizing his school’s participation in International Walk to School Day (you can read more about that here: http://www.walkbiketoschool.org/).  Funny, I had always assumed that the kids in this neighborhood lived in close enough proximity to the school to walk.  For various safety reasons, they ride the bus.

 

This particular school is one that several individuals in our congregation have made concerted efforts to spend time volunteering in the classroom.  It is one of the schools that did not receive full accreditation, missing benchmarks in both English and math.  Contrasts.  I started my drive about 6 miles north of this school on Chamberlayne Road at my children’s blue ribbon, parental presence everywhere, to another school off of Chamberlayne Avenue that is struggling in every way possible.  Low testing scores.  Very little parental involvement.  Kids in unpredictable living situations.  Kids who come to school hungry every day.  Certainly not a place where kids are ready to start the day learning.  Contrasts.

I’ve been giving this a lot of thought lately.  How my children’s school really doesn’t need ME, another can jump in and fill my spot.  My absence really wouldn’t be noticed.  If we are all truly investing in our children, ALL of our children, the haves and the have-nots, perhaps we should invest some of our energy into those schools who truly need us. I am still engaged in my own children’s lives, but my absence at their school is probably not going to impact their education.  But, what difference would my presence at a school in dire need make?  And, imagine the example that sets for my own children…

So, I arrived with my vanload of snacks, and there, at the edge of the parking lot, in a grassy area, no track, no soccer fields like the blue ribbon school I had just left was this PE teacher with several of his students.  They greeted me with such enthusiasm.  They were all eager to help me unload the car.  The teacher reminded them to use their manners, but this group remembered on their own.  They were excited about granola bars and apple slices.  I can’t remember the last time my own children were excited by those things. 

This PE teacher, he is so young and so energetic.  The kids respect and like him.  I thought to myself, "I hope he doesn’t burn himself out.”  One way to prevent burnout is for people to get involved and help.  He shared that he has recently begun a before-school running club and has 50 regulars.  50!  He needs help: adults to cheer the kids on, adults to run with the kids. Huh.  I run.  Didn’t I say something about hoping someone would trust me enough to run with me recently?  Bravery Huh.  That sounds like God speaking pretty loudly to me. Stay tuned…