Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Traditions, Celebrations, and 82 days

Last year, when I was campaigning for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, something crazy happened.  I qualified for the Boston Marathon.  Finally.

In the midst of what can only be described as a complete and utter whirlwind, where 3-4 hours of sleep per night became the norm and a 17-day stint of pneumonia threatened to put the kibosh on anything other than dry toast, I packed my bags on a Friday afternoon after work and drove 9 hours to Birmingham, Alabama.  By myself.

The LLS campaign was one of the proudest and most worthwhile moments in my life.  Raising money to tell cancer to go screw itself, all in the name of an amazing 4-year old little dude named Greyson, was indescribable.  The camaraderie, the support, the solid friendships, and the all out effort is something I will never, ever forget.

Now, prior to being asked to run for the campaign, I had already signed up for a February 17th marathon.  In Alabama.  Why, you ask?  Good question.  Originally, I had trained all summer and was signed up for a "normal" marathon in Indianapolis on November 5th.  Yep...right here in good 'ol Indiana, less than 2 hours from home.  Roughly 2 weeks before that marathon, something similar to this dialog happened:

<Liv:>  Mom, where are we taking Mariam for her 16th Birthday?
<Me:>  When?
<Liv:>  November 5th.  I told her we'd take her to Chicago, so say Chicago.

Ok, so what's a Mom to do other than ask her only daughter if she had maybe noticed the training which had been occurring ALL SUMMER?  With a look of complete angelic ignorance, she indicated she had not taken the slightest notice and mumbled something about how it wasn't her fault because I always run.  

It's never her fault, I should not have been surprised, and Chicago was a ton of fun.  (I love Mariam to pieces, second "daughter" that she has become over the years).  Liv and I have been through a lot together in her (almost) 17 years and my (always, henceforth) 29 years.  Alone girl-only vacations are a staple and a tradition with us; never will a race take precedence.

Upon completion of our celebratory birthday weekend in the windy city, I came home and looked for Boston qualifier races.  Training was done, and there was no way I had the patience or wherewithal to continue running 40+ miles a week through May which is when most Spring marathons take place.  So...Alabama it was.

That trip was also one I will never forget.  Left Saturday morning, straight down I-65 through Nashville (where, mind you, I would love to be right.this.very.second), went to packet pickup, back to the hotel, room service, work, movie, bed.  Up on Sunday morning, toed the line, needed a 3:45 to qualify, ran a 3:41, hit the shower, and back on the road an hour later for the 9 hour trek home.

The whole way back to the Fort, I felt much like Sally Field must have sitting next to Burt Reynolds.  Well, other than she's kind of annoying and whiny and I was by myself.  But, you get the point.  Bad ass central.  After going through a divorce less than 2 years before that, whereby I was told I had to "stop running and submit to everything I was told" if I wanted it to work, there's really no other way to describe how I was feeling in that moment.  Very free.  Very healed.  Very ME. 

Much like the marathon, sometimes life is nothing more than an endurance test.  And, I cannot wait to write more about that whole topic in future posts.  Because much like I did during the campaign, I have decided to blog about my training leading up to April 21, 2014.  When I will be in Boston - the one place that I am finally good enough, strong enough, and doggone it...wait.  Was that Sally Field or Stuart Smalley?

Whatever.  I'm going.  In 82 days.

First 20-miler coming up this Saturday.  (Snow, you can take a number and go screw yourself right behind cancer.)

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Ah, Artists.

The Grammys.  Yep, watched 'em.  Well, I mostly watched them and of course, as a non-musician, really what I did was rip on some of the outfits while I continued to be enamored with people who ARE actual musicians.  You know, the ones who can make a beat out of anything...even sans the Bop It! which is still snuggled nicely into the game closet, silently waiting for someone to turn it on after years of neglect. 

I am also kind of enamored with John Legend and his hottie of a wife. She's a blogger (and ok fine...a SI model but I tolerate it only because she loves to write, loves her newlywed life, and loves her hottie musician husband) who is unapologetic towards her haters.  And man does she have a lot of them for some reason.  Jealous?  Sure.  Unwarranted?  Maybe.  Irrelevant?  Definitely. 

If you read her blog, you will note that she could give a rat's ass about other people's assumptions regarding her character or how she lives her life. You will also note that her clearly in-love-with-her husband cooks her breakfast and writes little excerpts about the things he finds endearing ("She likes McDonald's Sausage McMuffin with Eggs when she's hungover.  Or crabby.  Or NOW.").

Here's what I noted:  me noting things while watching those two.  Now, noting the noting is annoying and doesn't do a thing to help my obvious afflictions or whatever diagnosis you would like to render.  But alas, just like Mrs. Legend, I don't care.

The parallels were easy for me to draw, even though I draw worse than I sing.  All of her loves all of him.  And all of him loves all of her.  Through flaws and imperfections, bad cooking, haters, stressful situations, the unknown, they are rocking it...together. 

As I watched her watch him sing, I smiled.  As I watched them shut out the rest of the people around them, albeit politely, I smiled.  As I watched them all dolled up, but knowing full well (well, as "full well" as her blog allows) that they normally chill at home in sweats and undone hair, I smiled. 

And when they laughed the way in which only two people who are truly in love and have the exact same sense of humor can laugh, jiggetty-jiggetty-boo! was I glad the TV was turned off.












Sunday, January 19, 2014

Swallowing Camels

I've been attending the same church now since 2005.  After 31 year of Catholicism, something deep within me continued to nag and give me this uneasy, unsettled itch.  Not to totally renounce my roots  (I'm incapable of that anyway) - I had a burning desire to learn more, because I wanted to feel more.

Sure, I felt my knees crack every time we genuflected or knelt throughout Mass, but I also felt like a poser, like someone who was there simply walking through the motions.  I knew when to sit, when to stand, when to shake hands and say "Peace Be With You."  I knew when the notoriously late family of eight would walk in and make a beeline to the front pew, all dressed to the nines holding hands like drunk teenagers do as they stumble through overcrowded Haunted Houses in the Fall.  But did I feel anything towards God?  Did I feel "religious?"  What was I supposed to be feeling anyway? 'Cuz whatever it was, I was pretty sure the crappy thoughts running through my head weren't it...

So what do we do when we don't feel like we want, like we have unnecessarily expected, or like we have convinced ourselves we are entitled to feeling?  We leave.  We bolt to another church faster than you can say 'Coffee and Donuts.  Free with fake fellowship after the service.'

Now, am I being hypocritical and saying that my switch to another church was a bad decision?  Not at all.  Here's why:  it is a teaching church.  And for someone who is only "all in" after incessant question-asking, testing, and embarrassing amounts of over-analysis, that was important.  Furthermore, I need to know what I am supposed to do.  How in the world can I decide if I've succeeded unless I know what the rules are, what the goals are, and whether or not I have achieved the aforementioned benchmarks?

(Side note:  A lot of exorbitant fees, a lot of wine, and a lot of true-always-there-for-me-friends-and-family have patiently and kindly reminded me of this personality flaw.  To those lifesavers I say not only THANK YOU, but I have my list of things to do in order to rectify this, and I'm working on it.)

We went to church last night.  It was the second sermon in a series on literally, my favorite verse in the entire Bible.  The series is entitled  'Swallowing Camels' based on Matt. 23:24: You blind guides!  You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel.

No, that verse in Matthew is not my favorite; however, it is intrinsically linked.  Swallowing a camel and straining out a gnat simply means that sometimes, it is all too easy for us to "major on the minors."  We humanly tend to focus a HUGE amount of time, effort, energy, and worry over the small things, at the expense of focusing on the things which are important to God. 

(And yes, you true-always-there-for-me-friends-and-family, I AM in fact thinly veiling this message right now...hang with me.)

What are the important things to God?  My favorite verse explains:

And what does the LORD require of you?  To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.  --Micah 6:8

When I first read the Bible - really read it and FINALLY understood that it is this beautiful story...an active story which we are all a part of, right now, right this very minute, as the story continues to unfold...this verse stopped me in my tracks.  I had no idea why.  I just underlined it and kept reading.

Today I am a little closer to understanding why.  I'm sure it has a great deal to do with the fact that it says we are required to do something.  Super.  I got this.  I can make a list and check stuff off as its accomplished.

Wrong.  The Hebrew translation and those pesky verb tenses, I swear.  "Require" is actually interpreted as "requiring" as in now, every day, all the time.  Ok, fine.  Maybe.  Maybe I'm still in.  First though, maybe I should understand what it is that He is requiring and then I'll decide because it would be silly of me to decide without knowing.  Psh, please.  Who does that?

Last night's sermon dissected the second requirement, the love mercy part.  It's easy to gloss over and think it means "hate when people get treated unfairly."  Which it does and which we should.  But alas, absolutely, and amen brother!, it means SO much more than that.  Hebrew, you're killin' me.

In Micah 6:8, the word for love is "ahavah" and the word for mercy is "che'sed."  Interestingly (or, what I like to refer to as of course it does, how ironic), we are not told to do or show mercy, but to love it. 

Yikes, that's a tall order for a short girl who is all about doing and scared shitless of loving.  (Go ahead, find the verse where it says not to swear.  Christians get a bad rap of being hypocrites; we're actually just normal, sinful people who know unequivocally that Jesus is our Savior.)

So what kind of mercy are we required to love if we can't "do or show" it?  This kind, as it's defined by the Hebrew that is going to make me less scared one day:  a loyal, steadfast love that comes from deep within the heart and just won't quit.

When that definition popped up on the screen last night I started - out of both habit and the 'ol inherent defense mechanism - to roll my eyes.

And then they started rocking Amazing Grace super loudly and the rolling was simultaneously interrupted by tears and asylum-like laughter over how long it has taken me to begin to understand this stuff.

It was at least 8 years ago when I first read Micah 6:8, blindly.  Today when I read it, I finally see.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Cliche THIS, 2013

I helped Liv write a few essays for her English class in 2013.  Mind you, this was after meeting her teacher during Parent-Teacher conferences back in October and coming to the immediate conclusion that he may or may not be aware of a guy named Shakespeare.  (All I could think of when I met him was butter:  Country Crock->Blue Bonnet-->Sonnet.  I have no idea how I got there either, but the dude made me crazy and has no business teaching English.) 

So, it was on.  And by "on" I mean that when Liv asked me to help her write an essay on MacBeth, I was all in.  Should-Be-Teaching-Gym-Class-Instead was going to give me 100% and some extra credit just because. 

Prior to that assignment, I also completed another whereby I was told asked nicely to compare and contrast two medieval novels. 

"I've only read one, Liv, so there's no way," I adamantly explained.

"That's ok, I haven't read either," she said with an Honors English smirk.

There are other moments in 2013 which also left me speechless.  In fact, some of these moments are far too personal to write about, not for the mere reason of oversharing, but rather for fear of unintentional injustice.  Sometimes, there are simply no words which convey the level of emotion, appreciation, and pause that life has a way of beautifully intertwining into the mundane and expected.

Sometimes, the exciting and unexpected hit you like a ton of bricks.  And take down that carefully constructed wall made of jade.

Thank you, 2013.  It happened when I least expected it.