Pacing

This past weekend I ran the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati, Ohio.  I've run marathon's before, so the question of whether or not I would finish never really crossed my mind.  I knew I'd finish, but I felt insecure about my 'readiness' for this race.  My training had been great, up until about 4 weeks ago and then everything hit at once.

First, it was Holy Week, then it was Easter, then I was sick, then there were all these other obligations - too numerous to mention, but probably not so unlike your own life, so you know what I'm talking about.  Every time I turned around there was another 'then...'.  It was, as I told many of my friends, the 'perfect storm'.  No way I could keep up or catch up.

And...this doesn't take into account my family.

I thought I knew one thing though: the way to make it to the end (which ironically, the marathon was the culmination of all these events), was FULL speed ahead.  Press on through.

The morning of the marathon, as I found my corral, [the starting position each runner is assigned based on previous times and anticipated finish times] I was not only acutely aware of my lack of 'readiness', but also my 'aloneness'.  Almost every other race I've run I've been with someone.  This race, I did have a friend with me, but she was in a different corral.

I knew that I was going to have to run a different race than I'd done in the past.  So, I positioned myself in the corral in proximity to the 3:30 pacer;* standing just far enough away that I knew where he was and waited for the gun.

I don't run with a pacer.  Ever.  Or at least, I should say, until that day - I'd never run with a pacer.  I run my own race....

I go out fast and hard for as long as possible.  That's my usual strategy.  I run my own race, my own way.

But this morning was different.  My uncertainty left me longing for support and so, as I stood there, I decided to run with the 'pacer guy,' which is what I was calling him in my head.  But I didn't tell him that.  I didn't tell the pacing group that.  I kept it to myself, figuring I would run on the fringe.

As we took off, I looked out over the river, and tears crept into my eyes.  It struck me that the 'marathon of life' had finally caught up with me.

I hung out there on the edges, holding myself back with the pacing group, maintaining a steady pace.  Not rushing ahead.  Not dashing around the guy in front of me.

It was hard.  I race.  I compete.  I don't hang back.

But I had made a decision that morning to try a new way.

At about mile 9, when my legs were itching to just GO and I was about to leave the pace group behind, Doug, the 'pacer guy,' asked the group where they were from.  Well, everyone was from Ohio, except me.  I had my headphones in, because as I said, I really didn't plan on committing to the group.  But, I piped up, "Maryland".

Doug glanced over at me and said, "Hey.  How long did it take you to get here?"
"Oh, not a long flight.  An hour and a half.  About nine hours if you were going to drive it," I responded.

He sort-of did a head bob and said, "Well, tuck yourself in here, because we're coming into some tight turns and we don't want to loose you."

So, I did.
It was.... odd.  Didn't want to loose me?

As much as I believe in team and community and supporting one another, I often get scared of relying on someone else.  So, I end up running my own race, in my own way.... Full out all the time.

Until I crash and burn.

Which is typically how I end a marathon.  Towards the end, my miles get slower and slower, which by the time you've logged 20 miles, let alone 26 miles, makes sense.

But this time, I found myself inching closer to him as we ticked off the miles.  We chatted.  We ran.

And, as I pressed the lap button on my watch at each marker, I noticed that every single mile was consistent - within seconds of one another.  And I wasn't tired.  I could maintain this for a very long time.

I was keeping pace.  Not rushing ahead.  Not falling back.  Just in the moment.

Keeping pace...

And while it's true that I could 'feel' the wear of the miles, around mile 20, Doug asked me, "How are you feeling?"
And I said, "Well, I'm starting to 'feel' it..."

His response, while most likely not profound to him, resonated deep within me.  "If you weren't starting to feel it by now then you should've been in another pace group.  You are exactly where you are supposed to be, Christine."

Keeping pace...Exactly where I was supposed to be.  That felt nice.
And the pace helped me arrive exactly where I was supposed to be in so many ways.

Not too tired to enjoy the ride, but tired enough to feel the burn of satisfaction.

As we rounded out the last few miles, we were both quiet - just putting one foot in front of the other - drawing energy from the other.  Committing ourselves to that pace for that race, committed us to each other.  We were in it together.

This, this, was new to me.
I most certainly let people push me forward...but not often do I let people hold me back.
I most certainly give of myself to others...but I'm not very good at receiving.

So, at mile 25 when he looked at me and said, "Just GO.  You got this....".

I went.
I went strong.  And certain.  And with energy.  And gratefulness.  And I experienced the end....
because I never hit the 'wall'.  Mile 26 was even just a touch faster than my overall average.  I enjoyed the culmination without crashing and burning.

When I crossed the finish line I turned around to see Doug cross the line and I smiled.  My whole sweaty, exhausted, weak body smiled.  I walked over to him, shook his hand, and said, "Thanks."

And he leaned over, put his hands on his knees, and looked up at me and smiled.  A 'whole body' smile and said, "You kept me going there at the end.  Thanks...".

And that, I didn't expect.
I actually probably expected nothing...at least not from 'pacer guy'.
The race and he.... and well, God, through those miles gave me so much.
A huge metaphor for my life.

Going into this marathon I was so very tired.  The 'marathon of life' was racing along, making me feel as if I wasn't running my race, but that the race was running me.  I wasn't pacing.  I wasn't slowing down.  I wasn't letting others do (at least not without feeling guilty)... and, well, it wasn't working in terms of being able to enjoy the 'ride'.

So, as I gingerly walked to meet the friend I came with, she ran up to me and said, "Wow!  Best time ever!"

And I said, "I ran it differently then I've ever done.  I ran with a pacer the whole time.  I totally recommend it.  I'll do that again."

I'll do it again for sure.  And not just while pounding the pavement.
See, what I really heard out there through the sweat and the cheers was a small still voice running alongside me pointing out a different way to do life.

Pace.
Give and Receive.
Pace.
Swift and steady.
Pace.
Go out in joy and finish in joy.
Pace.


*A pacer is a runner which agrees to help other runners maintain a given pace to help them achieve their desired finish time.  A pacer typically paces a group which is slower than his or her own marathon pace, so that they won't get too tired to help others.

To give way to Easter sunrise

Darkness

When we aren’t looking 

it slips quickly from our eyes...

The sun can be up before we even know it...

when we aren’t looking.

But, when we are waiting...

waiting for the darkness to dissipate 

to give way to oranges and yellows

to purples and pinks.

It can seem like an eternity.

The darkness of those three days was longer...

longer than three days should ever take.

days, which have at times,

been years....

For darkness can seem like eternity

when we’re waiting for it to lift.

When all seems to have been stripped away.

When even Jesus has been taken from us... 

Our tears of sorrow

for the longness of our own three days,

our hearts which have ached

for the pain of our own tombs,

join Mary’s tears now...

As they drip down her face

and settle in the corners of her mouth

tasting of salt...

so do our tears.

But this morning...

this morning there is something else;

something else laced

in the breath of the rising darkness;

something else mingled

in the dampness of weeping;

something else echoing in 

the silence of empty...

Can you not hear Him in the whisper of the wind? 

can you not feel Him in the chamber of your soul?

can you not taste Him on your lips?

We could not have dreamt 

that something so empty

as a tomb

could fill us overflowing...

We could not have imagined that

darkness could become so

brilliant...

And yet it has - 

with our own eyes

at the break of day we know that it has.

For that, that is the resurrection.

That empty is not the last word.

but rather - full.

that despair is not the last word.

but - hope.

That death is not the last word.

but - life.

that darkness is not the last word

but - light.

For then we can do none other than

join Mary again

and sing in glorious song,

“I have truly seen the LORD.”

*Sunrise meditation 2012 - Epiphany Lutheran Church

The Holy Grail

I have three boys - aged 14 (almost 15, I think he would tell you), 12, and 9.  They ingest a lot.

I'm not sure how many gallons of orange juice and milk we go through a week, but it's a lot.  And then there are the numerous cups of yogurt consumed, packages of roast beef and cheese, and vats of ketchup.  And, I would be remiss in not mentioning the vital role our fridge plays in keeping my Diet Mountain Dew at the perfect temperature.

It's the Holy Grail of of delicacies, an ark of Goodness.  A sacred object.

Many of you who know me, may now be thinking that I've started worshipping Mountain Dew or something.  Not the case.  The reason our fridge is 'sacred' has nothing to do with what is contained on the inside.

The things which actually nourish me are on the outside.

I know this about my fridge... that I post things all over it.  But the other morning, as a friend stood in my kitchen looking at all the things pasted all over my fridge, I couldn't help but think, "That's my life... right there on the fridge."

Everything that I hold sacred is there - displayed for my family to look at each day.  Laid out for everyone who enters into my life to observe, take in.  My fridge says much about who I am.

If you send me a Christmas card with a photo on it... I'll trim the photo out of the card and long after the holidays have past, you'll be on my fridge someplace, as a reminder of the endurance of friendships.   Friends I've known for 20 years are up there.
Friends I've known for 5 months are up there.

My niece and nephews are there... with their silly forced smiles, reminding me of the capacity to love.

There are magnets from family vacations....vacations that I loved.  And even times that I desperately miss - times I wish I still had.  But there they are - reminding me of places I've been.

Of course there are the practical pieces:
The cork screw to aid in sharing a nice glass of wine with a friend.
The orthodontist appointment reminders and health insurance information.
The church phone directory.
The landscaper's phone number.

There's my youngest son's 'contract' to help him reach behavior goals.  Every night we put a sticker up (or not...) as a tactile reminder of the day's accomplishments.

On my fridge is something from every church I've belonged to in the last 14 years.

And then there's the art work.
The stick figures throwing bombs and guns (UGH - but yes, they are boys).
The hand-made magnet that says:
Butterfly go hover; near my mother; and tell her that; I dearly love her.
Sometimes, all I need to do is glance at that... and know that at the end of the day, at least, I am loved by a child.

And then there are the cards and notes...
There's a "Parking Violation" from a friend - telling me that I work too much (which I need to be reminded of often) and that she's in my corner.
There's the card from another friend - telling me that together, we can make it through anything (and God knows, we sure have).
There's a card I got with flowers from my ex-husband on the anniversary of my first ordination (it's been up there for a few years now...) - reminding me of grace.
There's an invitation to a birthday party for a dear family friend's daughter from when she turned one (she's 2 1/2 now, but I love the photo so much...) - reminding me how vast my family really is.
There's even a card up there which says, "YOU DON'T SUCK," and heck, sometimes... that's all I really need to know.

The point is...
This large, seemingly mundane, white, rectangular prism stands in the midst of my kitchen being the Holy Grail of my life.
It speaks of everything that God has ever placed into my life.
It's not neat and proper.
It's not Holy Water or Consecrated Wine and Bread.
But it is indeed sacred.

Bespeaking of God to all who enter my home of the goodness which dwells in life.

And so I wonder today, for you, where's your Holy Grail?

Freight Train

*Disclaimer: I am a pastor... but I also have my moments of doubt and question... and this is one of them.  Please know that going into this... and that despite my wavering trust, God's faithfulness never wavers.


Running is my normal respite, even at 5am when it's 20 degrees out....I'll go.  And mostly what drives me to get out of bed is knowing that in the wee hours of the morning, I reconnect with God.

However, the other morning the only thing which got me out of bed to run was the fact that I was meeting someone to run.  On that morning God couldn't have drug me out of bed.

I was angry with God...madder than I'd been in awhile.  Truthfully, I'd been hurling curse words up towards God.  Yes.  I swear at God occasionally.  The last thing I wanted to do was 'connect' with God.

But since I was running with someone I was pretty safe.  I knew I'd be able to squirrel God away to the farthest regions of my mind and heart and just blabber to my running partner.

And - lo and behold - I was safe....for most of the run.  She wasn't running as far as I was, so I ended up doing the last bit by myself.  After dropping her off I instinctively began to pray.  It's almost a reflex for me to pray as I run.

My prayers were more like a one sided shouting match with God.  I had all these things and people that I was worried about, all these painful and difficult situations, all this confusion.... and I was furious that God wasn't doing anything (or at least that's how I felt).  I could see all their faces flash in front of my eyes and through my mind as my feet landed one after the other on the pavement.

My pace quickened as small tears began to slip out of my eyes.  The air was so cold that they froze a bit on my cheeks.

I'm a creature of habit so my runs are fairly mapped out, so I can go on autopilot.  The route I was running that morning necessitates my crossing over a railroad track.  I must cross this track 3 times a week....always at about the same time and there's never been a train barreling down the tracks until this particular morning.

Still yelling at God in my head I came upon ringing bells and flashing lights, letting me know that a train was coming.

"You've got to be kidding me," I thought.  For a split second I contemplated dashing across to beat the train, but as I looked down the tracks I could see the headlights rushing towards me.  So, I stood on the platform....waiting.

Waiting.  And mad.

And as that train began to rumble past me - the ground shook and the wind wiped across my face and I was reminded of how so very often in the Bible when the mountains shook and the wind roared it was because God was doing something.

And the people couldn't withstand God's power.

The freight train rushed past so quickly that I dared God to knock me over.  I wanted to feel God's power.  I wanted God to prove to me that he really was powerful.... which sounds arrogant and unfaithful and yet I stood there daring Him.

"Do something...anything."

I was swallowing so hard to keep my breath, and I had to close my eyes to shut out the dust particles, and I swayed a bit from the force....but I stayed standing.

"Is this ALL you have God?!  Really?"

Oh, I was so mad.  So very, very mad that God wasn't  more impressive than that.

The train finally passed and I was still standing.  So, I squared up my shoulders, wiped my eyes and started off...determined to just get home without thinking about God.

And I did.  It wasn't far from that freight train to my house.

As I got into the shower I fell.  Not really - not like I kept begging God to do while I was standing on the platform, but I fell.  The water seemingly was more powerful than the train.  It softened me.

I felt like a fraud.  I no longer felt stronger than God...I felt small.  And I wished I trusted God implicitly.  Shouldn't I?  As a pastor, shouldn't I always trust God?

Now in the shower, as I thought about that freight train barreling past me I realized that maybe God was allowing me to be stronger than He...for a time.  Maybe God knew I needed to have some sort of power... I don't know.

All I now knew was that it was me that didn't want to trust God.  But in my core I knew that I always could trust God.

I'm hoping God understands this about me... That I love Him deeply and  it's unnerving sometimes.  That when I can get out of  my own way I trust Him with my life.

And that sometimes it does take a freight train to get through to me.

Christmas Blessing

From the darkest depths of the cosmos

the eyes of God twinkled

like stars.

As they spun forth hope.

Quickly God exhaled 

into a space

much smaller than his usual home.

A womb of a woman.

In that moment the universe did sing

enjoined to the songs of ten-thousand angels. 

Nine months passed...
    and then a lullaby.

Shepherds heard the haunting songs

and wise men too.

Moved by strength beyond their own

they trudged and traipsed to find ‘Wonder.’  

May the God who filled Mary

with all of himself

infuse and impregnate you.

Coming whole into your life.

May you receive this

most holy gift

of 'Wonder'.

And in the darkness

when despair threatens ‘Wonder’

may you have the courage

of a young, unwed mother.

May you hear angelic songs

on paths untrodden

and on roads well-known.

And may those songs confuse your heart.  

When life is ordinary and habitual

know that signs of God

are so often fabricated 

from the lowly and common.

And when you are seeking and traveling

up winding roads;

On long dusty paths

to where you belong

May you find shelter - 

in stable or inn

under a tree or an umbrella

May you find shelter in a friend - a sanctuary to take you in.  

And in that may you know ‘Wonder’.

And may you always ponder

And question

this mystery so dear.

May you never fully ‘know’ the story.

The cries of the Christ child

keeping you awake.

For today the angels sing unto house and nation,

unto rulers and peasants,

unto locusts and wild beasts....

Unto you and me

‘Wonder’ the child-gift has been born.  Amen.

Sidewalk Prophet

Things I know about prophets:
They make a big ruckus.
They are relentless.
They stand up for the oppressed.
They refuse to go unheard.

And - we mostly don't believe they exist anymore.

Well, I met a one the other day in the most unexpected of places.  He wasn't proclaiming in a church, nor was he leading people through the wilderness (at least not literally), nor was shouting, "Thus says the LORD,"on top a mountain.  And he most certainly wasn't clothed in camel's hair.

There he stood on the sidewalk to his grandparents house.  The Sidewalk Prophet I will call him.

He stood as tall as he could, shaking a ceramic bell and holding a tupperware container; he wore a T-shirt that said, "Raised by Elves".  Not the usual paraphernalia for a prophet, I guess.

Oh, and I forgot to mention he's five.
As in five years old.
A young age to have such a big voice.
But he sure knows how to use it and get what he wants.

Our congregation adopted area families for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  We promised to provide meals for them at Thanksgiving and gifts for children at Christmas.  We started with 12 families, which recently expanded to 17 families, which translated to about 50 children, which ended up being 52 bags of toys.

We are a small congregation and I'm not very good at saying, "No," when people need help.  And, actually, the congregation I serve isn't very good at saying, "No," either.

Well, I was worried about where the toys and money and food would come from.  I just didn't want to fail these families and I most certainly didn't want to fail God.  My faith faltered a bit as I tried to manage all the needs, and fathom where the money would come from.

I may possibly be telling this story to remind myself that what's needed for God to spin a miracle into being is very, very little.  A few loaves, a few fish can be turned into a feast.

Well, my worry and pragmatic side may have gotten the best of me for a few moments, but not so for the Sidewalk Prophet.

As money began pouring in, I talked with the congregation about the abundance of love that was pouring out.  My voice always seemed to crack as I held back tears of heartache mingled with joy.

The little Sidewalk Prophet must've heard God's call in those words, because what rose out of his little body was a voice that everyone would listen to, whether they wanted to or not.

Sometimes I think we believe a prophet is someone who predicts the future.  Maybe.  But I actually believe a prophet is someone who points to how what we do today will impact the future.  They point out that which we don't see.

Sidewalk Prophet sees more hope than many people I know.

On this particular Sunday there was something special going on at his grandparent's house (whose house is across the street from the church).  It's what they call, 'Cookie day!'  So, from what I understand, 'Cookie Day' is basically when the entire extended family gathers at grandma's house and  bakes Christmas cookies all day.  Dozens and dozens of cookies.  Relatives come from all over the town to bake cookies, eat cookies, and the men...they seem to watch football.

Well, the little Sidewalk Prophet had an idea and seized the moment.

He grabbed a glass bell from his grandma's shelf, stood on the stoop with a bucket and rang his bell as loud as possible.  He'd hijack people as they tired to knock on the door.  People would come over to bake cookies and....
he wouldn't let them in.

At least, not until they put some money in his bucket.  "A buck to bake cookies," he told them.

I'm sure he got some weird looks.  But everyone gave.

I actually had no idea that any of this was going on until he confidentally marched back into the church about an hour after worship, carrying his bucket and his bell, with his mother walking alongside him and his cousins all trailing behind, as if they were following in his footsteps.

His little body weaved through the adults to find me seated on a chair.  "Here you go," as he hands me a bucket of money.

His mom filled me in on the story as I looked at the $40.00 sitting in my lap.

"For the homeless people," he says, "so they can have toys too."  A big smile erupted on his lips.  Sidewalk Prophet.

And a smile erupted on my lips.

I think that often we hide behind the veil of wanting to help, but not knowing how, so we don't do anything.  I think I forget sometimes too - or maybe I get scared.  The Sidewalk Prophet reminds me to just go, do God's will.  It doesn't have to be fancy.  Heck, it doesn't always have to be well thought out.

There's one thing this little prophet can't begin to understand yet, but maybe you will.

He not only called a bit of justice into the world that day,  but he prophesied to me, reminding me that there's nothing too wonderful in this world for God.

Make some noise, cause a ruckus in the name of God.
Prophets exist today.  I met one just the other day.

The writing of a love story...

She stood there - hair covered by her knitted hat, her heavy black coat hung over her pink fleece sweatshirt as if it weighed a hundred pounds - staring into space.  I stood next to her, pressing the starred number one button on the elevator.

Down.  We were both going down from floor number six where we had spent hours together.  I glanced at her worriedly out of the corner of my eyes.  She took a long breath as we passed floor number three.

With a nod she says, "He'll be ok, doncha think?" as if to reassure herself.

"The doctors are doing everything they can.  He's in good hands," I responded as I brushed the hair off her cheek.

"I don't know what I'd do without him, ya know..." she says, still staring at the closed elevator doors.

"I know, I know..."

And I remember the love story that had just been told to me.  It's the kind of love story that seems so ordinary, while all the while remarkable in every way.  This is the kind of love that still holds hands at eighty; the kind of love I always dreamed of.  

My heart hurt in the good kind of longing way as I watched and listened to them finish one another's sentences, as only true lovers can.

As we sat next to his hospital bed, I had innocently asked, "How did you two meet?"  Maybe nobody had asked this eighty-something old couple that question in a long time, because the question was met with a sly grin from the man in the hospital bed.

"Now, that's a funny story," he says, as he looked over at his wife who was shaking her head at him.

He proceeded to tell me that some friends had given him her number as a dare.  She wouldn't date anyone; her standards were too high; she would only marry a teacher or doctor.  He proceeded to tell me that he told those boys, "Now, that's the kind of girl I would like to meet."

He took the number and set it on his desk for a few weeks before deciding one Sunday afternoon to give her a call. 

I made him back track in the story a bit...making sure I had it right...  Yes, he called her out of the blue, never having met her.

At this point the wife interjects into his storytelling: "My father walked through the kitchen and asked with whom I was on the phone.  I said, 'I don't know.  Some gentleman.'"

The husband laughed.  "Some gentleman.  Little did she know."  He continued to tell me he drove out to her house to take her for a ride, ended up helping her father finish building their house, and married her four months later.

"Four months?" I asked, shocked.

"Yes, four months," looking over at his wife who was smiling at him, "There's never been anyone for me, but her."

She shook her head again, "Now stop, dear."

"We're still together after all these years.  That's a long time, ya know?" he says looking at me.

Yes, I knew.  And as I sat there in the midst of all that love, I knew that there must have been hard times along the way.  Times when they wanted to walk away.

And I was so thankful neither of them had. 

I didn't know them when they were younger, when they courted, or when they had babies.  I didn't know them when they built their house, when they planted gardens, or hung drywall in the church basement.

I have only known them in these last years of their life.

I have only seen the end of their love story... 

So, as she stepped out of the elevator, I rubbed her back a bit, "You gonna be ok?"

"Yes.  Yes.  I'll be fine....

as soon as he comes home."

We walked together to the parking lot.  As I watched her shuffle to her car, I couldn't help but imagine her husband reaching out to grab her hand as he walked alongside her.

"Don't you take him," I pleaded with God.

I just couldn't bear for the story to end...not quite yet.