06 June 2015

Crossing a Threshold

I did something today I never thought I would do.
Never in my wildest dreams could I fathom a day where I would consider myself "a runner."

But today ....
today I crossed a threshold - I have run over 100 miles since I first stepped on a treadmill a few months ago.

It has not always been easy; many days I have wanted to just skip the workout.  Many days I have thought, "Well, I could just walk today."  But instead, I press on.

And along the way I have found so much more than I ever went seeking.
I found a new way to treat my anxiety.
I found muscles I had forgotten I had.
I found endurance.
I found a love of music and sweat and hard work.
I found a new me.

I just feel better.
I feel like a new person.
I feel like a work in progress when I run.

And isn't that what we all are?

In this world of mistakes and trip-ups, aren't we all just a work in progress?
Running reminds me every time of how hard it is to make it in this world.
With every step there is risk - I could fall or I could get injured or I could overexert myself.
But I keep going.
I keep putting one foot in front of the other.
And when I break that first sweat (usually around 7 or 8 minutes in), I remember why I do this.

Because (to quote the shoe commercial) running releases so much more than sweat.
It's the only place I have ever found that my mind can be truly silent.
The grind of the run and the pace of the music are the only voices I hear for those minutes.

It's not a pretty sight when I run.
I sweat a LOT!
I'm sure my form is terrible!
My face gets red.

But you know what?
I'm ok with that because the run isn't about anyone else.
The run is about me.
It's about finding out who I can be tomorrow that I wasn't yesterday.
It's about discovering how deep my grit runs.
It's about little steps that turn into miles.

I don't know where this journey is taking me.
I don't know if I'll ever love to race or if I'll want to set a mileage goal.
I don't know if I'll be able to stay injury free for another 100 miles (so far so good!).

But I know that as long as running continues to feed my soul, I'll be lacing up the shoes.

25 November 2014

Living the Privileged Life

I live a privileged life.

I have a job that is flexible, pays me well, and that I love.
I have a supportive husband, a great daughter.
I have an extended network of family and friends who would be there in a minute if I needed them.
I have a reliable car.
I have an education.
I own a home.

And I have white skin.

It is more than likely that my white skin is one of the biggest reasons I have all of those other things - even the extended network of family and friends.  Because my family had all of those other things too, which enabled them to be present for me.  If I was sick and had to stay home from school, my mom didn't lose a day's pay for that - a day's pay that would have been the difference in the rent being met.  When I wrecked the family car at 16, my parents had the resources to get it fixed (I had to pay them back out of my part-time job salary); they didn't have to get a payday loan to fix it so they could go to work.

I was on sports teams because we could afford the uniforms.
I was well-nourished because we could buy fresh vegetables.
I was privileged then and that has made me privileged now.

I am raising a privileged daughter.

I never - ever - lose sight of my privilege.
Because to do so, is to dishonor my friends and colleagues who did not have the same story as me.
The story where their skin color gave them things instead of took it away.

Some days I am less respectful of my privilege than other days, but it is NEVER far from my mind.

A few weeks ago I got pulled over for speeding.
The white officer who stopped me started telling me even before he got all the way to the car that this was just a warning.  He continued to reassure me - even offered to assist me with getting my license out of my purse (rather than presuming I was digging out some pepper spray or a weapon).  He never asked me any questions about where I was going or why I was on a rural road in the middle of Indiana.  He never said anything but kind, sweet things to me.

And as I pulled away with my warning in the seat beside me, I started to cry.
Because I knew that my experience with that police officer was not at all the experience of a black man my age in an urban area.  I have friends raising black children.  Their boys will one day know that they cannot be their authentic selves in the presence of law enforcement.  It won't matter that they're pastors or attorneys or neurosurgeons.

Because before they are any of that, they are black men.

This is privilege.
And I don't want it any more.
I want justice instead.
I want society to stop judging people based on how they look.
I want us to stop being more afraid in the "run down" part of town than we are in the suburbs.
I want us to stop pretending like it doesn't exist.

Nothing makes me angrier than a white man who says they are not privileged.
Seriously, it makes my blood boil!

Because you are!  No amount of denying it will change it - in fact, denying it perpetuates the problem.

You want less riots after verdicts?  Vote in people who will change the broken system.
You want poor people of color to get a job?  Stop voting to slash Federal employment - a source of jobs for many!
You want people off of food stamps?  Raise the minimum wage.

Some days I am so very grateful for the life of privilege I was fortunate enough to be born into.
When I can walk the streets at night with my husband and big black dog without anyone fearing us, I am grateful.
When we pay our bills with money left for fun, I am grateful.
When I choose whether or not to talk to my daughter about yet-another shooting, I am grateful.

Because if my skin were brown, my story would be different.
My heart is broken over Ferguson.
But it's not over the decision not to indict.
My heart is broken because our laws allow an officer to kill a teenage boy in the middle of a daylit street.
My heart is broken because we have to use the word "another" when speaking of police violence.
My heart is broken at the despair my brothers and sisters feel.

Surviving and thriving are two very different things.
I have the choice of whether to survive or thrive.
Not everyone does.
Privilege gives that to me.

Lord, come quickly!

05 March 2014

Letting My Heart Break: A Lenten Journey

I've been thinking for days about my own Lenten journey this year.
I decided not to "give up" something - a food or sweet drinks or gum or anything.
Because in years past that discipline has just served to remind me of my own weaknesses.
I realize that is part of the point of Lent, but it has never taught me anything I didn't already know about myself.

I know I am weak.
I know I lack discipline.
I know I often cave to the desire of the moment.

I thought about writing daily, but I lack discipline and I know it will likely fall to the wayside when I start traveling and get busy.

I thought about committing to do something new for 40 days - an experiment I wouldn't normally undertake.

But none of those things got to the heart of what I most need right now.

It's been a rough year for me and an even harder winter.
The anxiety and stress of my life have raged in my body with an intensity I've never known before now.
Some days I have struggled to get out of my bed.
Many days I have appeared to be just fine but inside my heart was rolling in anxiety and turmoil, my mind littered with fear.

And then this.

To receive this blessing,
all you have to do
is let your heart break.
Let it crack open.
Let it fall apart
so that you can see
its secret chambers,
the hidden spaces
where you have hesitated to go.


My beloved husband posted the entirety of the blessing on his facebook page today.
But it was at line 5 that the tears began.

This is what I need:
To let my heart fall apart.

To stop "being strong."
To stop "managing the disease."
To stop trying to hold it all together with the finest thread.

I need to let it all fall to pieces around me.
I need to find God in that brokenness and begin again.

Inside the walls of my heart - the walls I have fortified so tightly around myself to protect me from my deepest fears - inside those walls is the life I want.  But without the broken open places I'll never find it again.

The blessing continues:
Your entire life
is here, inscribed whole
upon your heart’s walls:
every path taken
or left behind,
every face you turned toward
or turned away,
every word spoken in love
or in rage,
every line of your life
you would prefer to leave
in shadow,
every story that shimmers
with treasures known
and those you have yet
to find.

It could take you days
to wander these rooms.
Forty, at least.

And so let this be
a season for wandering
for trusting the breaking
for tracing the tear
that will return you

to the One who waits
who watches
who works within the rending
to make your heart

 ~ Jan L. Richardson

This will be my season.
This will be my 40 days of wandering.
Wandering through the darkest, scariest places of my heart.
Wandering in the wilderness I've let grow up.
I will trust the brokenness can be healed.
I will allow the tears to fall because I know the One who gathers them.

And at the end 
- at the end of the wandering 
and the breaking and the rending and the tears -  
will be a glorious Resurrection!


02 January 2014

A white woman raising a little white girl

Watch this before you go any further.

How do I help my little white girl find an end to this problem?

Because I'm a white woman.
I have a little white girl.

And I don't know how to make this stop.

I desperately want little black boys not to have to live like this.  It's not fair.  I don't want parents of any color to have to tell their children of any color to be careful around police.  Police are helpers.  Unless you're a black teenage boy in the wrong neighborhood.

That makes me sad.
And angry.

I long for justice.
I long for a country where kids grow up feeling safe.
I long for a day when parents don't have to have "the talk" with their kids about being more respectful than "other" kids.

We can do better.
I want to help.

But how?

What do I do?
If I'm not raising a little black boy and I'm not a police officer, how do I help?

Your thoughts?
Particularly if you ARE raising a boy of color, I want to hear from you about how my little corner of this world can be safer for your son.

04 December 2013

Why Black Friday Shopping Doesn't Make Me Less of a Christian

It's a tradition in my family.
Black Friday.

It's not something we do casually; we have a very serious plan about the whole thing.

Every year, before Thanksgiving lunch, we sit down with the ads.  We gather together and talk about what we see that we like, what we want to buy, where we need to go, and what our kids would like as gifts.  This year there were 6 of us gathered around that table.  We spent our time together laughing at the ridiculous, oooohing over the "must haves", and sharing stories of our lives together.  It's one of my favorite hours of the year.

When the time comes to shop, we do it together.  We stand in line together, we team up to help one another get the items we want, we eat together, laugh together, and tolerate one another's idiosyncrasies.  It doesn't get much more "family" than that.

I'm tired of people telling me that my family's traditions are bad.
I'm tired of Christians railing against Black Friday as if it's what's wrong with our world.
I'm tired of being told that I'm partially to blame for the commercialism that Christmas has become.

Black Friday is a special holiday for me, just like any other, and here's why.

I've already told you that it's family time for me.  There are very few things that a 17 year old girl, a 22 year old young man, and a 60-something woman can do together and enjoy.  But we do.  Even the young kids who don't go with us enjoy looking over the ads and telling us about their Christmas wishes.  In a family the size of mine - where we don't even fit at 2 tables, let alone 1 - nothing will be appealing to the whole group.  But this activity is as close as we come!

It's also about the crowds.
Yes, for me it's about the crowds in a good way.
One day a year I have a chance to talk to total strangers about their families and my own.
Every single year I come out of those stores with stories about people I met while standing in a line.
I share my life with these strangers for a few hours a year.
And I am always, always kind!
You know what else?
Most everyone else is too.
It's common for the news to feature the stories of people trampled or shot or otherwise injured in the chaos, and that does happen.  But the reality is that for most of the country, Black Friday is just a fun time.  I think I counted 3 or 4 incidents that appeared on the news this year; that quantity happens every day - we just don't hear about it if it's not in our town.

And here's the part that really gets me.
Please stop telling me that I'm making Christmas more chaotic and missing the point of the holiday by being out in "that mess."
Because by the first day of Advent, my holiday shopping was finished except for 1 gift card still to be purchased.
I choose to do my Christmas shopping early exactly because of the chaos.
I like the fact that we're not even to the 2nd Sunday of Advent and my gifts are purchased, wrapped, and ready to go.  I have weeks to enjoy the peace of the season when all of the shopping is finished.  I don't sit in worship distracted by thoughts of what I still need to do.  I sit in worship and wait - wait for the Christ child.  I have time to slow down and enjoy the mystery and miracle of the season because I put all of my "hustle and bustle" into one evening.

"But what about the people forced to work in that mess?!"
Chris worked retail on Black Friday a few years ago.  He was home alone for the holiday and had nothing else to do, anyway.  It was an exhausting night, but he didn't mind the hours of work.  For many families, the holiday pay is what makes Christmas affordable.  I do wish there were a way to make working that day optional, but I also recognize that these employees are getting other time off somewhere to "make up" for the hours (because we all know that the mega-chains aren't paying people overtime!).  40 hours is 40 hours.

It's fine with me if you don't want to shop on Black Friday or "Brown Thursday" as my family took to calling it.  It's fine with me if you choose to have no gifts or homemade gifts or only shop online this year.  It's your choice how you spend your time and your money.  But it's also mine. 

I choose to shop Black Friday because it's a family tradition that allows me to finish shopping early so I can enjoy the season.  I choose to shop because I love to spend that time with my family.  I choose to be among the crowds because I believe that people are inherently good.

Shopping on Black Friday does not make me a heartless consumer.  Black Friday shopping doesn't mean I'm missing the point of the Christmas season.  It makes me attentive.  Attentive to my own family, attentive to the world around me, attentive to our resources, and attentive to the bigger mystery of the season.

I love it.