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.