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.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
God's Grandeur
Sadly, for this entry, I completely cop out and instead of blogging, will share with you one of my favorite poems. I love to read this one aloud.
God’s Grandeur
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89)
THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
My favorite line is the depiction of the working man as relentless toil: have trod, have trod, have trod. Even the words roll awkwardly off the tongue. The first stanza depicts life on this ecclesiastical earth, and hope answers in the second stanza. The last line of the poems merits reading aloud the crucial "ah!" SAVOR!
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Praise
My relationship with God runs deep. He is truly the source of everything I love: His attributes frame the character of my beloved husband. His innocence and gentleness are reflected in my children. His love is manifest through the fellowship of genuine friends. His Word contains timeless wisdom, the intellectual challenge I crave. I resonate with the summits and peaks that He fashioned into existence. There is rich euphony in the songs of God. (When I keep this in mind, then an eternity with Him is nothing but precious, even if it means parting with all of the aforementioned.)
God has equipped me (and you) with means for connecting with Him, a bond that moves something deep inside of us. This kinship is nothing less than rich, yearning, desperate, gasping, and savory. You've all heard me refer to it as "resonance," as if all light and sound and time come together into a reverberant harmony for just a moment. The world can even seem to slow and blur, and we take a step back in awe and reverence of God. It can unexpectedly move me to tears. Of the many ways this sense can be evoked in me, corporate worship is not one of them.
I was recently planted into a corporate worship experience while at Catalyst, a leadership conference in California. I guess we've all had these 'corporate' worship experiences: a large body of people, all singing or directing their attention to our Creator, in praise. The music is stirring, the words are written to prick the heart for God. Every eye is closed and head is raised Heavenward. Hands are open, and raised in ready offering to God. Then why exactly am I irritated?
Honestly, I feel manipulated; as if I am a hungry dog and the worship leader is bribing me with the kibble of sentimentality. It feels cheap, hollow, and unsatisfying. The more repetitive and 'sappy' the lyrics, the more disconnected I become. (I recently reasoned with myself that God Himself is holy holy holy, and any more than three repeats is just showboating.) Jesus spoke and taught truth in new ways without resorting to mindless repetition.
I do recognize and value the commonality of our praise in corporate worship. Thousands of raised voices in unity mirror the Biblical descriptions of Heaven: the 144,000, nay, the countless believers in eternal praise to God. In that day there will be resonance beyond description!
Part of my bias may be cultural. I was blessed to serve three months in Bangkok, Thailand, where there is a hierarchy to the body parts. The feet are considered unclean, and are therefore not to be pointed toward anyone; stepping over another person is an insult since it places the foot above them. The head, on the other hand, is more sacred, and is not to be touched. The head of a respected elder should be above the heads of the lowly. (It was somewhat difficult as a tall woman in a country of short Asians-- I constantly had to stoop when passing others!)
Praise is so much more than a song or an action. It is not a constraint placed upon us when we enter into gatherings. Psalms depicts the raising of hands to God as a sort of offering; the sacrifice of praise replaces the sacrifices of the law. Praise can be offered through the conduit of the hands, the voice, instruments, the words of our mouths, shouting, dancing, and even our feet. As my favorite artist Rich Mullins once put it, we are "a people who've learned to walk in faith, with mercy in our hearts, and glory on our faces." That is as good a depiction of praise as I can think of. I offer the daily works of my hands as praise to Him, but I continue to feel awkward, out of place, and disconnected when raising my hands in song in the assembly.
So as I stood in the congregation at Catalyst, the music swelled, and I was surrounded by countless hands raised in praise toward God. My heart responded and I chose instead to remove my shoes. In that moment, I was truly standing on holy ground. I can only pray that my offering will be acceptable to my God, even with my hands at my sides.
God has equipped me (and you) with means for connecting with Him, a bond that moves something deep inside of us. This kinship is nothing less than rich, yearning, desperate, gasping, and savory. You've all heard me refer to it as "resonance," as if all light and sound and time come together into a reverberant harmony for just a moment. The world can even seem to slow and blur, and we take a step back in awe and reverence of God. It can unexpectedly move me to tears. Of the many ways this sense can be evoked in me, corporate worship is not one of them.
I was recently planted into a corporate worship experience while at Catalyst, a leadership conference in California. I guess we've all had these 'corporate' worship experiences: a large body of people, all singing or directing their attention to our Creator, in praise. The music is stirring, the words are written to prick the heart for God. Every eye is closed and head is raised Heavenward. Hands are open, and raised in ready offering to God. Then why exactly am I irritated?
Honestly, I feel manipulated; as if I am a hungry dog and the worship leader is bribing me with the kibble of sentimentality. It feels cheap, hollow, and unsatisfying. The more repetitive and 'sappy' the lyrics, the more disconnected I become. (I recently reasoned with myself that God Himself is holy holy holy, and any more than three repeats is just showboating.) Jesus spoke and taught truth in new ways without resorting to mindless repetition.
I do recognize and value the commonality of our praise in corporate worship. Thousands of raised voices in unity mirror the Biblical descriptions of Heaven: the 144,000, nay, the countless believers in eternal praise to God. In that day there will be resonance beyond description!
Part of my bias may be cultural. I was blessed to serve three months in Bangkok, Thailand, where there is a hierarchy to the body parts. The feet are considered unclean, and are therefore not to be pointed toward anyone; stepping over another person is an insult since it places the foot above them. The head, on the other hand, is more sacred, and is not to be touched. The head of a respected elder should be above the heads of the lowly. (It was somewhat difficult as a tall woman in a country of short Asians-- I constantly had to stoop when passing others!)
Praise is so much more than a song or an action. It is not a constraint placed upon us when we enter into gatherings. Psalms depicts the raising of hands to God as a sort of offering; the sacrifice of praise replaces the sacrifices of the law. Praise can be offered through the conduit of the hands, the voice, instruments, the words of our mouths, shouting, dancing, and even our feet. As my favorite artist Rich Mullins once put it, we are "a people who've learned to walk in faith, with mercy in our hearts, and glory on our faces." That is as good a depiction of praise as I can think of. I offer the daily works of my hands as praise to Him, but I continue to feel awkward, out of place, and disconnected when raising my hands in song in the assembly.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Hope
My last post, 'Introspection,' spawned a chain-reaction array of concerned responses. People began to wonder, unspoken concerns, mind you, about whether I could be depressed. Down in the dumps. In a funk. Blue. An acquaintance even sent an unsolicited Facebook link about hope. I really didn't pay it much thought until this weekend.
Our small-group meeting ran a little long this week, and I withheld an earnest prayer request, later sharing it with only a select few: "I've been rather fatalistic recently. I think it scares people. I'm not sure what exactly to ask for in the way of prayers about this."
My friend reminded me of Paul's perspective on this very topic in Philippians 1:23-24: I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far; but it is more necessary for you that I remain in the body.
While I tucked that thought away, I wondered if I was truly fulfilling my earthly purpose in the meantime. Was I really taking advantage of opportunity? Sure, I'd become bold about my faith in the workplace, and I'd seen more than one close friend/coworker come to Christ. But honestly, I must have work yet to do, or I'd have already departed.
It became clearer to me this morning, as I eagerly arose to join a corral of unknown fellow runners for a group run in the cold dawn hours. I had reluctantly RSVP-ed 'yes', dreading the thought of running with others (trying to talk and run simultaneously), and giving up my personal solace. I made small talk with several members of the group, but after the 3-mile mark, somehow synced into a rhythm with another young mom. We quickly dissected down through superficial layers of conversation and landed on a meaty discussion about the children we'd lost. She was a mother of three, but her middle child lived only a few hours due to a fatal heart condition. Having suffered a stillbirth four years ago, I could relate. We connected instantly in a way I still cannot with many of my closest friends. It is reminiscent of a scene in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix: the quirky Luna Lovegood to Harry, speaking of the Thestrals (mythical creatures who can only be seen by those who've seen death), "You're not going mad. I can see them, too. You are just as sane as I am." (Luna remains one of the more complex, and one of my favorite, characters in the HP series. Harry and Luna share a certain pain, and it ties them together in a strange and sorrowful, yet wonderful way.)
My runner-friend and I each shared some momentary sorrow, recounting memories that we likely palpate in our minds on a daily basis. Interestingly, the conversation turned to Heaven, and the longing to be there. I don't know many people who honestly long to depart this world. In fact, the template for most prayer requests is steeped in preservation of this life as we know it: "help me be comfortable, heal me, keep me here, grant me..." Even intercessory prayer follows this blueprint: "help so-and-so be comfortable, prosperous, healthy, etc, etc." One such request was lifted at our small group last week, asking for healing and thanking God for His divine superintendence: saving a life from a seemingly inescapable accident. Perhaps I sound callous, but this victim is a known Christian who has served well. I should think that maybe it would have been better to go. I guess I should not speak for the saved one.
To make a long story short, this young mother-runner I providentially met this morning shares my perspective of Heaven and Earth. We've loosened our grip on this world. To depart tomorrow would be acceptable to either of us. But for now, we will run and give what we have to offer.
A sweet song has spoken to me over the past many months. It says:
Heaven is the face of a little girl with dark brown eyes that disappear when she smiles.
Heaven is the place where she calls my name.
God, I know, it’s all of this and so much more,
But God, You know, that this is what I’m aching for.
God, you know, I just can’t see beyond the door.
Herein lies my fatalism.
I hope for something better; something perfect, something eternal.
This hope is so very well-described in lyrics to yet another song, quickly becoming a favorite:
What a beautiful sight for the worn and weary eye
The glimmering light in the corner of a broken sky
Hope, sweet hope, like a star burning bright
When the sun goes down and the fears begin to fly
Hold on tight this city’s about to break;
In the middle of the night lying there wide awake.
Hope sweet hope how much more can she take?
Being our strength when our hearts are out of faith--
Hope's not giving up.
What is my hope? Six little words. My soul longs for, nay, craves the words of my Savior: "Well done good and faithful servant." More than just a divine pat on the behind following a great play, it is the ultimate endorsement and sign of approval from the source of everything that is good and right and just and beautiful. Even better than the thumbs up your Dad shoots at you from the stands as you cross the stage and receive your diploma. Even more than a best friend acknowledging that you were right and your adversary was wrong. Pearly gates? Pain relief? Reunion with lost loved ones? They all pale in comparison with the hope of those six simple words from the Master to his servant. Now that's something to hope for.
But I am realizing that, while I await my departure, I shall take opportunity to share that hope. Meanwhile, I will continue to pray that Thy kingdom come.
Our small-group meeting ran a little long this week, and I withheld an earnest prayer request, later sharing it with only a select few: "I've been rather fatalistic recently. I think it scares people. I'm not sure what exactly to ask for in the way of prayers about this."
My friend reminded me of Paul's perspective on this very topic in Philippians 1:23-24: I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far; but it is more necessary for you that I remain in the body.
While I tucked that thought away, I wondered if I was truly fulfilling my earthly purpose in the meantime. Was I really taking advantage of opportunity? Sure, I'd become bold about my faith in the workplace, and I'd seen more than one close friend/coworker come to Christ. But honestly, I must have work yet to do, or I'd have already departed.
It became clearer to me this morning, as I eagerly arose to join a corral of unknown fellow runners for a group run in the cold dawn hours. I had reluctantly RSVP-ed 'yes', dreading the thought of running with others (trying to talk and run simultaneously), and giving up my personal solace. I made small talk with several members of the group, but after the 3-mile mark, somehow synced into a rhythm with another young mom. We quickly dissected down through superficial layers of conversation and landed on a meaty discussion about the children we'd lost. She was a mother of three, but her middle child lived only a few hours due to a fatal heart condition. Having suffered a stillbirth four years ago, I could relate. We connected instantly in a way I still cannot with many of my closest friends. It is reminiscent of a scene in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix: the quirky Luna Lovegood to Harry, speaking of the Thestrals (mythical creatures who can only be seen by those who've seen death), "You're not going mad. I can see them, too. You are just as sane as I am." (Luna remains one of the more complex, and one of my favorite, characters in the HP series. Harry and Luna share a certain pain, and it ties them together in a strange and sorrowful, yet wonderful way.)
My runner-friend and I each shared some momentary sorrow, recounting memories that we likely palpate in our minds on a daily basis. Interestingly, the conversation turned to Heaven, and the longing to be there. I don't know many people who honestly long to depart this world. In fact, the template for most prayer requests is steeped in preservation of this life as we know it: "help me be comfortable, heal me, keep me here, grant me..." Even intercessory prayer follows this blueprint: "help so-and-so be comfortable, prosperous, healthy, etc, etc." One such request was lifted at our small group last week, asking for healing and thanking God for His divine superintendence: saving a life from a seemingly inescapable accident. Perhaps I sound callous, but this victim is a known Christian who has served well. I should think that maybe it would have been better to go. I guess I should not speak for the saved one.
To make a long story short, this young mother-runner I providentially met this morning shares my perspective of Heaven and Earth. We've loosened our grip on this world. To depart tomorrow would be acceptable to either of us. But for now, we will run and give what we have to offer.
A sweet song has spoken to me over the past many months. It says:
Heaven is the face of a little girl with dark brown eyes that disappear when she smiles.
Heaven is the place where she calls my name.
God, I know, it’s all of this and so much more,
But God, You know, that this is what I’m aching for.
God, you know, I just can’t see beyond the door.
Herein lies my fatalism.
I hope for something better; something perfect, something eternal.
This hope is so very well-described in lyrics to yet another song, quickly becoming a favorite:
What a beautiful sight for the worn and weary eye
The glimmering light in the corner of a broken sky
Hope, sweet hope, like a star burning bright
When the sun goes down and the fears begin to fly
Hold on tight this city’s about to break;
In the middle of the night lying there wide awake.
Hope sweet hope how much more can she take?
Being our strength when our hearts are out of faith--
Hope's not giving up.
What is my hope? Six little words. My soul longs for, nay, craves the words of my Savior: "Well done good and faithful servant." More than just a divine pat on the behind following a great play, it is the ultimate endorsement and sign of approval from the source of everything that is good and right and just and beautiful. Even better than the thumbs up your Dad shoots at you from the stands as you cross the stage and receive your diploma. Even more than a best friend acknowledging that you were right and your adversary was wrong. Pearly gates? Pain relief? Reunion with lost loved ones? They all pale in comparison with the hope of those six simple words from the Master to his servant. Now that's something to hope for.
But I am realizing that, while I await my departure, I shall take opportunity to share that hope. Meanwhile, I will continue to pray that Thy kingdom come.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Introspection
With everything that has happened in Haiti lately, I've been rather introspective.
I am realizing that my profession as a Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation physician is pretty much useful only in an industrialized nation. I recall pursuing Rehabilitation Medicine because I have a heart for the disabled. My role, however, involves diagnosing incurable conditions, prescribing therapy (which I do not do), medications (which few can afford), doing nerve testing (with equipment available/useful only in buildings with electricity), and prescribing adaptive equipment, devices, orthotics and prosthetics (that are also not available in third world countries). So I'm little use outside an industrialized nation.
I may soon be of little use in a government health care system. The Medicare policies each year bring more and more cuts, which are becoming steep enough to jeopardize hospital margins nationwide, and the red tape, paperwork, middle men, and policies are burdensome, and ultimately ration care while failing to contain costs. I'm wondering what job I will do once Medicine tanks (which is probably in my near-future).
I'm wondering if I should stay in Scottsbluff or head to Colorado, where my heart lies. This, thankfully, is not a question that keeps me awake at night. I could be happy just about anywhere.
Probably the crux of the matter is that I'm wondering if the Second Coming will come, already. The more I think about it, I am turning into one of those crazy Jesus-freaks that talks too much about Heaven and sounds like I have a death wish. I am not suicidal or fatalistic--I'm just listening to the earth groaning (and me along with it), thinking it would be good to just get this earthly labor over with. Gracefully depart. Fly away, oh glory. Something tells me I have a long way to go... Bummer.
I am realizing that my profession as a Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation physician is pretty much useful only in an industrialized nation. I recall pursuing Rehabilitation Medicine because I have a heart for the disabled. My role, however, involves diagnosing incurable conditions, prescribing therapy (which I do not do), medications (which few can afford), doing nerve testing (with equipment available/useful only in buildings with electricity), and prescribing adaptive equipment, devices, orthotics and prosthetics (that are also not available in third world countries). So I'm little use outside an industrialized nation.
I may soon be of little use in a government health care system. The Medicare policies each year bring more and more cuts, which are becoming steep enough to jeopardize hospital margins nationwide, and the red tape, paperwork, middle men, and policies are burdensome, and ultimately ration care while failing to contain costs. I'm wondering what job I will do once Medicine tanks (which is probably in my near-future).
I'm wondering if I should stay in Scottsbluff or head to Colorado, where my heart lies. This, thankfully, is not a question that keeps me awake at night. I could be happy just about anywhere.
Probably the crux of the matter is that I'm wondering if the Second Coming will come, already. The more I think about it, I am turning into one of those crazy Jesus-freaks that talks too much about Heaven and sounds like I have a death wish. I am not suicidal or fatalistic--I'm just listening to the earth groaning (and me along with it), thinking it would be good to just get this earthly labor over with. Gracefully depart. Fly away, oh glory. Something tells me I have a long way to go... Bummer.
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