Me and God at the Back of the Pack

 

I have a love/hate relationship with running.

Also, I hold a firm belief that “running” is a relative term.

You run when you’re being chased by a rabid dog. You run for election. You run to the bank to cash your paycheck. Sprinters run and basketball players run and marathoners run.

And I……run.  Sort of.

I first started this struggle/relationship with running when I was in high school.  My English teacher, also the track coach, encouraged me to go out for the team.  I’m really not sure why. He was later known to comment that I was built like “a sack of potatoes”.

Maybe it was a dare. Maybe he saw that I had some kind of mental toughness I hadn’t yet observed for myself.  Maybe he had a deal with the principal that required him to fill every uniform jersey he had, even the extra-large ones.

At the first track practice, we were instructed to run around the athletic campus.  Not just, like a football field.  Or a quarter-mile track.

From where we stood, we could see three separate football teams practicing, several tennis courts, two unused baseball diamonds, and the archery team was target practicing–in the middle of it all—with no danger of hitting anyone because there was SO MUCH SPACE.

Really.  Run around the whole thing.

Ok.

When we finished that loop,  gasping and holding our sides, I figured it would be time to go home.

Nope.

“Run it again.”

And so began my career, such as it is.

You would think, writing this almost 30(!) years later, a lovely story of grit and determination and success would ensue.  “From such meager beginnings an Olympian was born…”

Not so much.

I have never

• won a race.
• run a mile in under 6 minutes.  (And if we’re talking about the last 15 years, let’s call that 10 minutes.)
• looked good in running tights.
• worn a sports bra without a roomy t-shirt to cover the 12-pack of abs.
• published a “map my run” or “daily mile” result on Facebook.

Without a coach or other sadistically inclined motivator following me around post-high school, my running has been…sporadic….to say the least.   College found me periodically gasping around campus, often with the high-octane sweat of a recently party-infused coed who was vainly trying to stave off the freshman fifteen.  Post-college, I would usually try to retain an ability to run 3 or so miles, but never felt the need to do so with any sort of dedication or regularity.  I am a decidedly fair-weather runner.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered the emotional benefits of running, and so the most fit times in my middle years have often corresponded with the most stressful times.

Stepdaughter getting married?  Yep, the smallest I’d been since my pregnancy.  Starting a new job?  Needed a new wardrobe anyway; may as well buy a smaller size.

For this reason, I am a peculiar runner: one who dislikes running with a partner or the ubiquitous ear buds that most see as essential running equipment.

The pounding of my feet, my rhythmic breathing, the jiggling of my ample back side, combine to create a sort of meditative mindfulness that I have found impossible to achieve in any other environment.

And the only times God has spoken to me?  I have been running.

He goes my pace, whispers in my ear, and when I arrive back home, the problems that I took with me are either solved, or faded to an inferior position in my psyche.

My last running burst was ignited one summer day when I realized I was going to be 40….in four more years, and I hadn’t yet run a marathon. Three years after that, I crossed the finish line, having completed the required 26.2 miles.

See?  There’s that “relative” thing again.  I didn’t say I “ran” a marathon; I said I completed” one.

I know it’s impressive to finish a marathon in 2 1/2 hours, but you really ought to give some credit to those of us who finish in 5.  We may be slower, but we run a helluva lot longer.

It’s been eight years since my marathon, and I think I’m just about rested enough to take running up again.  Also, the cold weather seems to be (finally) past us here in the Midwest, so there’ll be no weirdly dedicated sub-zero jaunts.

I recently happened upon a running blog that I liked because the writer seemed to respect the fact that not everyone runs with the Boston Marathon in mind.

It’s been a while since I’ve toned up these thighs; my summer clothes haven’t hung as loosely as I’d like in several seasons.  I’ll enjoy those benefits.

I think I will start taking up my old routes, striking out silently– but for the gasps, pants and slapping of my poor aging feet.

And somewhere out there, I think God might have a little more to say.

I’ll be listening.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Country Mice Visit the City

My husband had never seen Washington, D.C.

I used to live there, 1 marriage and 25 years ago, but it’s been a long time.

During a particularly slow and frustrating day at work last summer, I decided to look around on a website I’d recently heard of that was supposed to have really awesome vacation rentals. I exchanged some lovely e-mails with Kelly, the owner of a townhouse with a rentable garden apartment.

Experience City Living! Two Metro stops from the Capitol!

Kelly spoke of husband Jack, and their foster kids, and how we’d hear them and they’d hear us.  It must have been obvious from my address that we’re more likely to hear an errant “Moo” than we are to hear the pitter patter of non-residential feet.

Despite my current rural lifestyle, I reminded myself, I had logged 4 years in Chicago in addition to my Washington stint.  It’d been a while, but I was pretty confident we could traverse the city.

(As long as I didn’t have to drive.  There are limits.)

We began planning our trip.

Things had changed since I’d been to Washington last. (Well, that was pre 9/11.)  We needed to contact our congressman (I don’t think I voted for him) for a Capitol Tour and White House tickets. We had to get advance reservations for most of the things we wanted to see.

There were security entrances to everything…National Archives, Library of Congress–and the White House even had dogs sniffing for…. drugs? Explosives?  We weren’t sure.  I had to elbow my husband a couple times; he kept asking rhetorical questions about how far I thought he could make it by storming the gate.  (He was kidding.)

No matter.  With Siri in hand and the internet to help guide us, we had lots more information than I used to have when I would hit a new country in my backpacking days.  And we didn’t have to exchange currency. (We just needed a lot of it.)

Monuments, museums, oh, my!

We walked and walked and walked and walked.

And I felt……..very Midwestern.

There are no fat people in Washington, D.C.  The paths and sidewalks are filled with all kinds—tourists, officials in suits, serious-minded interns, runners–but Mrs. O. seems to have done her job in her adopted city.  Obesity? Not so much.

In our town, we have the occasional 300-pound person.  Not so, there.  I doubt The Biggest Loser ever looks for candidates in our nation’s capitol.

We put coins in the hats of jazz musicians serenading us from their street corners. We sprinted for the Metro a couple times, but only once we were positive we were taking it in the right direction.  That was new for my daughter, whose experience in public transportation was previously limited to catching a ride to school in the big yellow bus that turns around in our driveway.

And we met our landlord.

We had arrived in Washington after our 12-hour drive on a Friday evening.  Using the code provided, we let ourselves into our apartment, dropped our suitcases, and left in search of somewhere to eat.  We were glad that there was no need to check in.

Throughout the weekend, as promised, we’d heard the family above us, and I’m sure they’d heard us.

It wasn’t until Sunday morning, however, that we made contact.

We let ourselves into the gate following an early-morning venture, and were heralded by an elegantly dressed man and three small children.

“Are you Brenda?” the man asked, his hand extended in introduction.  “I’m Kelly.”

Kelly was not she of the blond pony tail that I had envisioned.

Right, his husband Jack wasn’t able to join them for Church that morning, but it was nice to meet me.

We chatted a bit, and then he and his family rushed off so as not to be late for their Service.

I realized then that coming to the city was a really good thing.  I love where we live, just West of the small city where I work, and 10 miles East of the 800-person town where my daughter attends school.

It is clean, safe, and neighborly, and we made an informed choice to live like this.

But here, we all look the same; we mostly think similar thoughts and have like beliefs.  There are about 12 last names listed in the town census.

I love that my teenage daughter got to see the White House, the VietNam Memorial and too many other important sites to name.

But what’s best about travel is that it opens our eyes to the great big world–where we don’t all look alike and think alike and live alike.

It’s great to raise a family in our lovely clean-cut corner of the world.  But if I want my daughter to have the ability to choose her lifestyle instead of settling for the only one she knows, she has to grow confidence in her ability to succeed in corners that look different than ours.  As much as I’d like to, I can’t hand her my 45 years of “wisdom” and expect her to think the way I do because I say so, or avoid the mistakes I made because I learned from them.  She’s going to have to suffer from bad choices, form her own opinions about what she sees and who she is, and ultimately decide how and where to live.

My job is to be a great example, consistent and reliable, and with the hubs, give her the foundation from which she will some day go forth.

As great as our part of the world is, this trip taught me, there is no way teach Lex  about the larger world,  without showing some of it to her.

 

 

What’s Harvard Teaching Anyway?

Until about an hour before it was scheduled to take place, the Harvard Extension School’s Cultural Studies Club planned to hold a “black mass”, a ritual originally performed to parody and denigrate sacred teachings of the Catholic Church. It was finally moved from the campus location and then canceled because of a reported “break-down in communication” between personnel at the alternate venue location and the organizers.  The event, co-sponsored by a New York-based Satanic Temple, planned to hold the mass in an undisclosed location to “reaffirm their respect for the Satanic faith”.

The organizers claimed that the purpose of the exercise was to educate participants about the historical ritual.

Harvard president Drew Faust published a statement that referred to the club’s decision to hold the ritual as “abhorrent”, but maintained that doing so was “consistent with the University’s commitment to free expression”.

Catholic leaders in the Boston area called for a prayerful response, and a “Holy Hour”, consisting of the Catholic practice of Adoration of the Holy Eucharist, was to take place simultaneously to the satanic event.  President Faust, according to his statement, planned to attend.

I have been hearing about the Harvard goings-ons for several weeks, not on mainstream news channels, but on sources more focused on policies and events that affect Christianity as a whole, and Catholics in particular.  I have been surprised that this news hasn’t made it to the Yahoo or MSN pages, at least not that I’ve seen, and I can’t say that I’ve noted that opinions about the “black mass” taking place have “trended” anywhere in particular.

So I have had opportunity to quietly ponder my reaction–an anomaly in today’s news blitzing society, where each of 17 separate points of view on any given subject bombards me the moment I turn on the television, look at my phone, or open my computer.

I am, quite literally, sick to my stomach. I believe that the Eucharist is the living and breathing body of Christ.  Anyone who also holds that view would feel the same way about a ritual that denigrates and mocks the Catholic practice of partaking in this Sacrament.

But I am American.  And though I’ve grown, I’m an American with liberal roots. So I must force myself to consider this through the eyes of free speech.  And so I have.

My humble opinion is that that the act of having a black mass is not illegal.

But the reality that young people at a University known to be a source of future world leaders would willingly organize and attend such an event is deeply troubling.  So I turn to this question.  How have they made this feel acceptable to themselves?

Some of my like-minded Catholic friends have pshawed the notion that the mass was being held for educational purposes.  “Do we need to hold a 60’s style lynching so that we can all see what that felt like to witness?” they ask. While an arguably just comparison from the point of view of a staunch Catholic, it is likely too provocative to promote useful debate with non-Catholics.

Perhaps there is a better, more apt comparison.

The Holocaust Museum  in Washington D.C., is anything but disrespectful of the Jewish experience of genocide and ritualistic mockery of Jewish thought and tradition, yet one is able to give “witness” and be “educated” in the history of the era. The Cultural Studies Club at Harvard, if truly wishing to learn from their enactments, would do well to emulate the museum’s brilliant example. If I were in the mood to be provocative myself, I might also point out that I don’t think the museum’s creators consulted any existing Nazi organization with requests for them to reenact any of the abuse or denigration that went on during the period being studied.  The Harvard Club, you will note, aligned themselves with a satanic temple in New York–akin here to the Nazis, in case you weren’t making the connection.

I also wonder about the comparative absence of media attention. Terry Jones, the Gainseville, FL pastor who made a habit of burning Korans, garnered attention from military leaders and President Obama himself.  He wound up in jail a bunch of times, usually on misuse-of-fire related charges.

Isn’t the burning of the Koran, a sacred document in the Muslim faith, and the denigrating of a Sacrament and the Body of Christ for the Catholic faith, comparable actions?

Another issue, one not discussed to my knowledge except in the Christian and Catholic-focused media, was the initial claim that the black mass organizers planned to use an actual consecrated host. In order to obtain one for the event, someone would have had to attend a real Catholic Mass, pretend to accept the Sacrament of the Eucharist, and then steal the host for his own evil purpose.  Yes, evil. It’s not my purpose to debate the theology, but please understand that a consecrated host is not just a representation of Christ’s body.  It is Christ’s body.

I know.  It’s a complicated concept for Catholics too.  But there is no debate among Catholics that this is the teaching.

I wasn’t able to find any kind of definitive result to the claim that a consecrated host was stolen or not stolen, but if it was, that crosses the legal boundary.  Theft, obviously. And if we don’t have a law protecting sacred items, be they Torahs, or Korans, or consecrated hosts, then shame on us.

Many have asked me how a social worker with liberal leanings has made it over to the “dark side” of right-handed leanings.

This kind of thing makes it a lot easier to explain.

Our nation was not founded on the principle that we should have freedom from religion, but rather freedom to practice religion.  The original settlers were Puritans whose concept of proper living was more rigid than they were able to uphold in England. They came over here so they could do what they wanted, and allow others to do so as well.

Immediately after President George Washington gave his inaugural address, the entire congressional body walked to a nearby Church to have a prayer service.

It’s not just blow-hard right-wingers that maintain our nation was built on the teachings and tenets of Christianity, it is documented fact that this is so.

We have suffered in this country from narrow minds.  There have been times, even recently, when alternate lifestyles and viewpoints were met with ridicule or violence. I think that has changed for the most part, and I am glad of it. I have no need for others to believe what I believe or practice what I practice, even as my beliefs are as true to me as the fact that apples come in red, yellow or green, and not in blue, purple or black.  (If someone asked you for a purple apple, you would question her, right?  If she doesn’t define “apple” or “purple” the same  as you do, and you’ve known since you could speak that apples are apples and colors are colors, you would either instruct her correctly or allow her to live in ignorance, right?)

What has become the minority viewpoint seems to engender similar ridicule and non-acceptance as the formerly non-traditional one did.  My daughter, an anomaly in her living-with-two-opposite-gendered-married-parents, has few television or other examples of her home life, just as folks with two moms or two dads lacked several years ago.

Admitting that I am married and raising a daughter with my husband, who is also her father, dismisses almost anything else I have to say.  I am not worldly, not accepting, too rigid.

And I guess that’s what bothers me most about our best and brightest participating in this black mass.

The Cultural Studies Club at Harvard reportedly were trying to “educate” people about how one group— the Satanic Temple — has a religious ceremony — the “black mass” — whose stated purpose was to mock and vilify another religion and its core belief — the Catholic Church and its belief that Jesus Christ is present in his body, blood, soul, and divinity under the appearances of consecrated bread.

Did they balance their participation in named evil by being present for a Catholic Holy Hour?

Or were these future world leaders only interested in being “educated” about the beliefs that counter that which they personally resist?

Doesn’t make me rest easy about who will be running the country for my grandkids.