Tell Me Your Story

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

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

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

Social Media and Going Overboard...Almost

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lilies

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

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

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

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

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

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.