Lord, Make Me an Instrument

"later that night

i held an atlas in my lap

ran my fingers across the whole world

and whispered

where does it hurt?

it answered

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere."

~ Warsan Shire

Sometimes, it is all too much. There is too much pain and death and hurt. Too many places torn apart by violence. Too many families fleeing for their lives. Too many who are threatened because of the color of their skin, who they are, who they love. There is too much for one person to handle, too much to take on.

Right now, all I can do is silently cry and pray for the world as I listen to a friend play Faure's Pie Jesu on his trumpet, while stroking the soft ears of my dog, who really doesn't know what is going on but knows that I am sad.

At times like this, I turn to music. I love to sing but at times like this, I can't always sing out loud. The pain and emotion becomes too much and I choke on the grief and the tears. I have to settle to listening to others express my feelings and singing the words in my heart.

That is not to say that I am silenced. No, it is merely a pause before I come in, stronger than before. It is singing into the rest. It is an energized rest. And while I rest, others are singing, praying, doing, waiting for me to join them.

So, what is my next note, my next phrase? Well, as Anne Lamott wrote today, I'll do the next right thing. I'll clean my home, I'll finish my gift for the newest baby in our family. I'll listen to Lauridsen's Lux Aeterna, I'll pickup litter in my neighborhood and help clear a storm drain. I'll send what support I can to those helping refugees, I'll pray for friends going through difficult times and pray for Paris and Lebanon and Syria and those affected by earthquakes in Japan. I'll pray for peace, for the whole world. I'll walk my dog, I'll breathe into the rest and I'll come back in, singing.

Don't Try So Hard and Maybe You'll Do Your Best

Last Sunday, I finished my fourth marathon. I had very few hopes for completing it within the timeframe I wanted. Earlier in the summer, right about when I was to start ramping up my training for the marathon, I fell.

See the gash on my knee? Yeah, that hurt.

Actually, I tripped.

Walking.

Up stairs.

Along with a bruised ego, I scraped a healthy amount of skin off my left knee and managed to twist my right foot. I spent that evening in urgent care and got to ride in a wheel chair (not as fun as the nine-year-old in side me thinks it should be). Nothing was broken but I couldn't run for a while. It was difficult to even walk for a while. This delayed everything.

Running a marathon is a commitment. Running a marathon slowly is even more of a commitment. When you are a slow runner, it takes a long time to rack up the necessary mileage and more than one Saturday run was hijacked by oversleeping and hot midday weather (Portland had one of their hottest summers on record). I don't mind doing a couple of miles in 80 or 90 degree weather but when it takes you 3+ hours to run 15 miles, you avoid the heat. Which means you need to start running by 5 am. And, as a result, I never got my really long runs done.

I did manage to complete two 10+ mile runs a few weeks before the marathon; one was very disappointing and the other not so disappointing but I still didn't have high hopes for my time. My main goal was to finish in less than 6 hours, which seemed doable but still hard. If I could, I was going to try for a 12 minute mile pace for as long as I could. Again, doable but hard, given my lack of training. The main thing was to finish and not start too fast.

So, when I looked at my watch at mile 5 and my time was about 55 minutes, I thought I had started my watch at the wrong time (except that I remembered very clearly starting it as I ran across the first mat). Then I thought, "It's race day nerves and adrenaline, it will even out, I'll slow down eventually. Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2." But I also felt good. Really good, like I could keep that pace forever.

Between miles 7 and 10, I was running an out-and-back portion of the course and I was keeping my eyes peeled for a friend that I knew was running the half. This friend is faster than me and had started before me but I was hoping to see her while I was on the out portion and she was on the back portion. And I did see her, fairly close to the turnaround and it was unexpected but I didn't think too much about it until I passed the 10 mile mark and checked my watch again. I was under 2 hours and still feeling good. And I thought, "Good pace, doing great. But now we'll start climbing into Northwest and then comes Highway 30 and the St. Johns Bridge. You'll slow down; just don't push too hard."

"Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2."

Mile 15, under 3 hours, just. What is going on?! How am I keeping this pace? It still feels good. Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2." St. Johns Bridge, the great equalizer (I've only managed to run up it once; this time, I made it half-way before I had to walk. Almost everyone walks part of it). Mile 20, just over 4 hours.

"Breathe-1-2-3, exhale -1-2."

 My walk breaks started to get longer but I was still blowing past all of my previous records. My legs still felt good although my feet hurt and I was pretty confident I was developing a blister on my left big toe (oh, boy did I develop a blister!). I jogged down Greeley and walked up Interstate. Up and over Broadway Bridge. Mile 25, I had finally slowed down but I was still 15-20 minutes ahead of what I had planned with my parents (they saw me pass at about 5.2 miles and went to church and then were planning on seeing me at just after Mile 25). I had to text them to tell them to just meet me at the finish. Put the phone away and started jogging towards the finish. Mile 26, almost there, could walk the rest of the way and still PR but I gotta finish strong.

I discovered I was an athlete when I discovered rowing and one of the things I learned in rowing is you leave it all on the water. You pass that 250 meter mark (or if you have an inexperienced coxswain, 750 meter mark) and you sprint until you think your arms are going to fall off and your heart is going to jump out of your chest. And that is how I finish races. I dig deep, I lift my knees, I pump my arms, I make funny faces and my breathing changes and I sprint.

"Breathe-1-2, exhale -1-2."

I passed 5 people, right at the end. I wobbled my way through the finish area. I was in some pain (mostly that darn blister), and my equilibrium was off, which made walking a straight line kind of hard. I looked at my watch. 5:24.23. Wait, what?!

5 hours, 24 minutes and 23 seconds!

I beat my previous best time by 11 minutes! The marathon that was supposed to be my slowest ended up being my fastest.

Freshly showered and already planning my next one!

Sometimes, we try too hard, we over compensate and we pressure ourselves to be perfect. To run our fastest, be our smartest, our prettiest, our thinnest, our bestest and we fail because we've put too much pressure on ourselves. Too much emphasis on what others think or what we think others think. And I don't know about you but I don't do well under too much pressure. Hard work is needed to get us to the starting point and it's hard work getting to the finish line but, in between, relax, brush it off, don't try so hard and maybe, with the pressure off, you'll do your very best.

After all, the real goal is to finish well for you. Everything else is gravy (yummy delicious gravy on top of fries and cheese curds. Okay, I just made myself hungry for poutine. Sorry about that). Don't let other people dictate what your finish is because you're stronger and faster than you think.

Just don't forget to breathe.

With Strength and Dignity

Growing up, my elementary school had an annual field day. The entire school was split into color-coded teams, mixing all grades (I was always on the Orange Bad News Bears). I hated it, field day was my least favorite day of the year and it may also account for my mild dislike of orange. I wasn't good at any of the events. I couldn't run fast enough, I couldn't jump-rope long enough, I couldn't throw a ball far enough. I did win the softball throw one year... because I was the only girl in my class who entered the event; it never really felt like a victory. Usually, I just got the "participation" points. But this post isn't about Field Day.

My senior year of high school, my class went to the Philippines for our class trip. Before going, someone who had worked and lived in Manila came and talked to us about what to expect and how to stay safe. We were warned to keep close track of our wallets and not wander off at night and not to give money to any people on the streets. We were warned that street children might pick our pockets or were fronts for gangs or Faganesque groups. And we saw people everywhere and there were children, so young and obviously in need, lurking by every mega-mall entrance, with jasmine wreaths to sell, for so little. But this post isn't about that trip.

Soon after returning from the Philippines, we were encouraged to submit writings about our experiences to the school newspaper. I wrote a poem and submitted it. It wasn't the best poem but it wasn't the worst. I tried to capture some of my conflicted feelings from the trip. The editor thought it needed explaining which, truth be told, annoyed me quite a bit. I thought part of the beauty of poetry was in discovering the meaning on your own. It also fed worries and insecurities that no one else would understand what I was trying to say, that my writing wasn't any good (insecurities that persist to this day).

Shortly after the newspaper was printed, Field Day came around. Traditionally, the seniors helped out with Field Day but earlier in the year, they had decided they wouldn't need our help. I was overjoyed that I wouldn't have to help out and relive unhappy childhood memories. Unfortunately, a few days before Field Day was to happen, they decided they needed our help after all. Our PE coach let us know that we would be needed but, knowing how much I disliked it, he had arranged for me to help at the score table, rather than any of the events.

While working the score table, one of the mothers approached me. She and her husband were new to our community. She introduced herself, explaining that she had sought me out because she and her husband were from the Philippines and she wanted to thank me for the poem that I had written. She understood exactly what I had been trying to say and she wanted to make sure I knew that it had touched someone, that someone understood. I don't think I ever talked to her again after that but it's one of those things that I've held in my heart all these years.

And that's what this post, this long, rambling post is about. Because the woman who introduced herself to me, who encouraged me so long ago is named Bola Taylor and Bola Taylor is dying of cancer. She is dying with grace and humor and courage. I've seen bits and pieces, here and there on Facebook through friends' walls, pictures and posts and it is beautiful and sad to see. And I can't imagine what her family and friends are going through. And I wanted to say thank you, Bola, from one stranger to another, before it was too late. Thank you for your encouragement so long ago, thank you for your grace and hope and belief and witness over the past few months. I know that whatever happens, you made a difference, you will continue to make a difference. You remind me of one of my favorite Bible verses, "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at days to come."

All I can really say is thank you.

Update: Bola Taylor died early in the morning of October 19 in Tokyo. Rest in peace, Bola.