Wow. It feels good to be back at the blog. I've been keeping a list of blog ideas for the last four months. Wherever did you go? Well, May through October was immersed in marathon training. Why in the world would you feel compelled to train for and run a marathon? Funny you should ask...
I admit to a love-hate relationship with running. This is the first year that I have consistently trained and run all year. Not daily, but consistently. It has been relentless and painful and rewarding and agonizing and thrilling all at once. I had a number of expectations: improved fitness, faster pace, smaller waist, and enormous appetite. These things did happen. But I learned other, unexpected lessons through running this year.
I experienced brokenness.
I am not a honed athlete, and my chosen training programs, admittedly, wore me out. 2010 was the year of perpetual soreness. (I'm sure the concurrent P90X training contributed.) Running is not the most forgiving sport, mind you, since little imbalances and biomechanical weaknesses get magnified over the miles. My running form still has its many weaknesses, and hence, my left glute has had a rough year.
As I added mileage, I would often find myself at the halfway point of an out-and-back route, far from home, tired and alone. In a word, I 'suffered'. My pace suffered, as did my hamstrings, my low back, my drive, my ambition, my spirit. Even my iPod occasionally ran out of battery life, or my Garmin mysteriously went blank. One by one, they all betrayed me and left me with nothing. As I pounded away, I pondered the notion of torture. I wondered what it was like for our Savior to carry His cross, and endure pain and death. I was never alone. It was just me and God, on a long lonely road, miles from anywhere, with miles left to go. God honed my ears more finely to His voice in those moments. I discovered that my body oddly does not need to 'be still' to connect with Him; just my spirit, with its tough layers stripped away, and soft vulnerability displayed: an intimate brokenness.
I took a serous look at self-sacrifice and self-denial.
This relationship I have with running is both love and hate. I admittedly love greeting my hidden introvert when my feet hit the pavement. However, I also love the soft warmth of my bed on a Saturday morning, as the sun rises and my family lazily awakens. Countless Saturday mornings, however, my weekly Bluffs Bakery indulgence was instead overtaken by 6-20 miles of hard-earned progress. I recall cold, snowy January mornings in the dark, my breath the only warmth keeping my nose defrosted. (It was refreshing when the days finally lengthened enough that I could easily retrace my steps in the snow along my early-morning route.) The Monday morning alarm clock might have summoned me at 5:00 am, but often I somehow rose just minutes before and was out the door, around the track at speeds that make slumber laugh, and back in the shower before the family was even aware I was gone. I sacrificed sleep. Don't we all? The side effect of this is the 'evening fade'. I had enough time to eat supper, clean the kitchen, get the kids in bed, and I soon followed. Time didn't permit much TV watching, blogging, etc. Winding down was replaced by crashing.
I kissed bodily comfort goodbye. Pain was a near-constant companion, but one I've grown to accept and even appreciate. Funny how one has to handle pain with strategy. The body wants to stop. It begs to stop, and it is only mental tenacity that wills it to continue, despite pain, discomfort, fatigue.
I enjoyed triumph.
Finnish runner Juha Vaatainen once said, "You'll find that, the more difficulties you have along the way, the more you'll enjoy your success." In my training program, each run had a purpose: track runs were for speed and interval training, tempo runs were mid-distance at an intentionally-uncomfortable pace, and long runs were just plain long. Sometimes just accomplishing the individual goal of that one run was enough to carry me, hard session after hard session.
The track produced dry heaves, and long runs, sheer exhaustion, and sometimes abdominal pain and nausea. Tempo runs routinely produced bloody ankles due to a running-form anomaly causing my opposing heel to whip into my inner ankle bone. They all brought discomfort and blisters. Chase the run with an agonizing cold water bath to control inflammation, then repeat the cycle next week: eighteen weeks for the half-marathon training program, and another sixteen weeks for the marathon program.
But there was nothing like the triumph of crossing the finish lines, having accomplished what I once thought was unattainable. A personal record (PR). A medal. I may not be thrilled with all my finish times, but I've run five races in the last 12 months, and achieved a PR in the 5K, 10K, Half, and Marathon, then bettered my prior 10K PR!
I have been sharpened, and painfully so. But I've also been carried.
On one particular long run, a strange but friendly dog followed me for more than 8 miles, despite my persistent attempts to make him "go home" (which I yelled repeatedly). Once I realized he was at my side to stay, I accepted him as my gentle sidekick, and actually enjoyed the company. I must've needed a furry companion that day, and God sent him to saunter at my side and help carry the burden of that day.
I still haven't answered the question. Why do I run?
I think Dagny Scott says it well in the Runner's World Complete Book of Women's Running: "I ran to be free; I ran to avoid pain; I ran to feel pain; I ran out of love and hate and anger and joy." Maybe part of the lure is the challenge: a seemingly out-of-my-league accomplishment. Running has given me an escape, a connection with God and others, and ultimately, lessons that I could not learn any other way. (Well, unless a famine hits. Or a war or Armageddon forces me, like Pheidippides, to run across Nebraska to deliver some important tidbit of news to someone important.) Perhaps God is preparing me for something (reference Armageddon, above). Then again, maybe He is just meeting me, sharpening me, and carrying me.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Potluck
Potluck. Seemingly an innocent word.
Today I abandoned my church family and friends after the service, having elected to skip the '20s and 30s potluck'. I really had to stop and question my gut. I am an extrovert, I love people, I like to eat. Why do I feel so uneasy about a dumb old church potluck? After much thinking, I was able to come up with three reasons why I tend to avoid the dreaded church potluck.
Reason #1: Confinement
I am a former atheist, previously a hater of God and the church, and I was graciously sought out and redeemed by our Savior. However, the old unchurched me withdraws and retreats at the name of potluck. Not because of the people or the fellowship. It simply makes me feel boxed into the old definition of church. It conjures up images of a school-aged me, having been strangled into a dress and pantyhose and tight click-clacky shoes, and strapped defeatedly into a pew twice a year to hear a preacher drone on about something not applicable to my world or my life.
To me, potluck is synonymous with confinement. At a potluck, I am trapped, just like in those pantyhose; trapped into someone else's food choices. It is somehow like the comment from my mother that one day I would grow up and drink coffee. I'm 37 and still don't. (OK, Maybe I'm admittedly just hard-headed and stubborn; I do not deny that.) It is not just about the food choices, though. My husband, as a preacher's kid, endured decades of potluck food, and really has little interest in such fare. He is also a man who was more than willing to sacrifice comfort and taste at the table of a host family in Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Seoul, Phuket, Manila, Baguio City, Cebu City, Hong Kong, or Kuala Lumpur.
A safe, comfy potluck, is seemingly a far cry from my Christian walk. "Play it safe" is not a quote on my wall at work. "Fitting in" is not one of my life goals. I have a tendency to get out of my own little world, push boundaries, and challenge the status quo. If potlucks were a speed limit, they would be 25. I'm going 85.
Reason #2: Obligation.
Somehow, I am viewed as 'less of a Christian' if I choose to bow out of a potluck. Let me turn the tables a bit: I'd like to arrange a fellowship run. We can all get together and go for a nice, refreshing run in the sun. We could even organize an event, and donate the proceeds to a needy cause. Some might jump at the opportunity for not just fellowship, but service and worship, as we bask in the glory of God's creation during our jaunt. Seriously? Seriously. Most would consider the idea pure torture. Yet, somehow that does not fit the 'church definition' of fellowship, service, or worship. The potluck idea is endorsed by the churched as an acceptable fellowship activity, along with mother-daughter teas, and soup kitchens. A fitness activity, or even a charity construction event can be viewed as (at least partly) secular. Come to think of it, the church could serve not only the needy, but also the 'ethical lost' by partnering in many of these secular service initiatives. The Christian working alongside the philanthropic agnostic creates a common ground for service, and has won more than just a few unbelieving volunteers (myself included).
Don't get me wrong: I do thoroughly enjoy a meal with close friends, regardless of the food choice. I love deep soulful conversation about life, love, marriage, parenting, faith, dreams, confession, and fears. Some of the very defining moments in my life have been in such company. I've never had an epiphany at a church potluck. It was not a church potluck that brought me to the family of God. The church met me where I was, which, when I was unchurched, was anywhere but the church building.
Reason #3: Kids, kids, kids.
Children honestly just make me crazy, my own included. At a potluck (or any church event, for that matter) there are a lot of kids, especially a '20s and 30s' potluck. Typically, said children are doing things that we would not allow, but it is overlooked, nay, even permitted in the name of fellowship and potluck. My choice as a parent at a potluck is this: either I look like the bad parent by disallowing my children to engage in such behavior, or I allow my kids to join in, thereby undermining my parenting.
So I left, feeling a bit antisocial, but somehow feeling rather free. I rolled the windows down, and soaked in the crisp, fall air, never the thought of leaves falling precariously into the vehicle. Don't get me wrong: I love my Christian brothers and sisters. I will make time and space for fellowship in another venue, even if that includes sweat, tears, grunts, or a little Tony Horton. We will create our own indigestion, minus the potluck fare.
As I've said before, church has left the building.
Today I abandoned my church family and friends after the service, having elected to skip the '20s and 30s potluck'. I really had to stop and question my gut. I am an extrovert, I love people, I like to eat. Why do I feel so uneasy about a dumb old church potluck? After much thinking, I was able to come up with three reasons why I tend to avoid the dreaded church potluck.
Reason #1: Confinement
I am a former atheist, previously a hater of God and the church, and I was graciously sought out and redeemed by our Savior. However, the old unchurched me withdraws and retreats at the name of potluck. Not because of the people or the fellowship. It simply makes me feel boxed into the old definition of church. It conjures up images of a school-aged me, having been strangled into a dress and pantyhose and tight click-clacky shoes, and strapped defeatedly into a pew twice a year to hear a preacher drone on about something not applicable to my world or my life.
To me, potluck is synonymous with confinement. At a potluck, I am trapped, just like in those pantyhose; trapped into someone else's food choices. It is somehow like the comment from my mother that one day I would grow up and drink coffee. I'm 37 and still don't. (OK, Maybe I'm admittedly just hard-headed and stubborn; I do not deny that.) It is not just about the food choices, though. My husband, as a preacher's kid, endured decades of potluck food, and really has little interest in such fare. He is also a man who was more than willing to sacrifice comfort and taste at the table of a host family in Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Seoul, Phuket, Manila, Baguio City, Cebu City, Hong Kong, or Kuala Lumpur.
A safe, comfy potluck, is seemingly a far cry from my Christian walk. "Play it safe" is not a quote on my wall at work. "Fitting in" is not one of my life goals. I have a tendency to get out of my own little world, push boundaries, and challenge the status quo. If potlucks were a speed limit, they would be 25. I'm going 85.
Reason #2: Obligation.
Somehow, I am viewed as 'less of a Christian' if I choose to bow out of a potluck. Let me turn the tables a bit: I'd like to arrange a fellowship run. We can all get together and go for a nice, refreshing run in the sun. We could even organize an event, and donate the proceeds to a needy cause. Some might jump at the opportunity for not just fellowship, but service and worship, as we bask in the glory of God's creation during our jaunt. Seriously? Seriously. Most would consider the idea pure torture. Yet, somehow that does not fit the 'church definition' of fellowship, service, or worship. The potluck idea is endorsed by the churched as an acceptable fellowship activity, along with mother-daughter teas, and soup kitchens. A fitness activity, or even a charity construction event can be viewed as (at least partly) secular. Come to think of it, the church could serve not only the needy, but also the 'ethical lost' by partnering in many of these secular service initiatives. The Christian working alongside the philanthropic agnostic creates a common ground for service, and has won more than just a few unbelieving volunteers (myself included).
Don't get me wrong: I do thoroughly enjoy a meal with close friends, regardless of the food choice. I love deep soulful conversation about life, love, marriage, parenting, faith, dreams, confession, and fears. Some of the very defining moments in my life have been in such company. I've never had an epiphany at a church potluck. It was not a church potluck that brought me to the family of God. The church met me where I was, which, when I was unchurched, was anywhere but the church building.
Reason #3: Kids, kids, kids.
Children honestly just make me crazy, my own included. At a potluck (or any church event, for that matter) there are a lot of kids, especially a '20s and 30s' potluck. Typically, said children are doing things that we would not allow, but it is overlooked, nay, even permitted in the name of fellowship and potluck. My choice as a parent at a potluck is this: either I look like the bad parent by disallowing my children to engage in such behavior, or I allow my kids to join in, thereby undermining my parenting.
So I left, feeling a bit antisocial, but somehow feeling rather free. I rolled the windows down, and soaked in the crisp, fall air, never the thought of leaves falling precariously into the vehicle. Don't get me wrong: I love my Christian brothers and sisters. I will make time and space for fellowship in another venue, even if that includes sweat, tears, grunts, or a little Tony Horton. We will create our own indigestion, minus the potluck fare.
As I've said before, church has left the building.
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