Love and Sacrifice

I went for my first “run” post surgery this morning. It was more of a run/walk and it lasted 1.6 miles. The weather has mercifully cooled down for a few days—highs in the low 80s instead of the muggy mid-nineties of summer in Dayton, OH. It seemed like a good morning to see if I could run just a little bit.

Bittersweet is an overused word, but the feeling is hard to describe another way. In one moment the rhythm of running felt as if my body always knew how to do this—that I could pick up and go for miles getting lost in the music and my own thoughts. Just another moment later, I was gasping for breath, my lungs on fire from 5 weeks off of aerobic exercise and a major operation. My knees hurt during my run for the first time in years, likely due to my quad muscles being weaker and not as able to support them. I took frequent breaks and ran for short stretches of that measly distance. It took me half an hour. Twice the time a mile and half took me 6 weeks ago.

I tried to enjoy the rare comfortable, and beautiful day in Dayton. I started to cry. The weather seemed to be mocking me—reminding me of what I most wanted to do but couldn’t: run for miles until I was good and tired, sweating through all of my clothes and leaving behind that anxious energy and worry that gathers when we fail to release it somehow. Running was my release.

This really is a sacrifice, isn’t it? I thought. While it was an automatic decision to give my dad my kidney—something I wouldn’t trade and opportunity I am grateful for, it wasn’t without cost. I had to give up something I love. Not for forever, but for a time. Years of training and hard work and gone, only to start over at square one. I felt like a beginning runner for the first time in 7 years. Slowly, I have to scrape and claw my way back—redoing everything I have already done, to get back to the place I was 6 weeks ago. My how life changes in an instant.

As I was walking back to my house a red-tailed hawk soared right in front of me. They always seem to show up when I need to be reminded of something. If we are going to love people enough to give them life then it is going to cost us. Sacrifice isn’t about giving up excess; it’s about giving when it hurts. If we really want to talk about having faith and courage, then we need to also talk about fear and sacrifice. Faith and courage really don’t amount to much without the other two.

And the beautiful, strange and wonderful thing about sacrifice is this: even in the throws of pain and grief, even in the middle of suffering, love somehow shows up (or flies in front of us) gently reminding us what we have known all along, suffering will pass in time but love transforms forever. I only hope I am strong enough to leave a little room around the edges of my suffering for love to shine its light in too and brave enough to keep believing in that light. 

Holy Feet and Holy Ground

I am sensitive about my feet.

I keep them covered in shoes most of the time. It might sound funny for a runner to be concerned what her feet look like, but runners’ feet are seldom pretty. Mangled toenails and blisters, and callouses just don’t look good. For as great as running is for the rest of your body, it can be really hard on feet. As runners feet go, mine aren’t bad, but as normal people’s feet go… let’s just say I prefer closed toed shoes.

Which is why I always feel a sense of discomfort when Holy Thursday rolls around. The ritual of foot washing is simultaneously the most challenging and rewarding part of that service for me. I am always hesitant to walk my bare runners feet up to a foot washing station and place them in the hands of someone else. This part of me I usually keep covered up is now exposed blisters and all.

This year, as a friend of mine poured warm water over my feet and dabbed them dry with a white, terry cloth towel, I thought about why this ritual is so powerful, if only we can muster up the courage to go through with it.

This part of us is usually thought of as stinky and dirty. Our feet work every day to carry us around. And then we sit, with awkward, funny looking feet exposed and let someone wash them for us. Talk about vulnerable. It’s really hard to invite someone else to love the parts of us we can’t quite bring ourselves to love. The parts we perceive as weak or ugly or not as good as others, somehow. We are content to cover those parts up and forget they exist.

Then Jesus had to go and say,  “Let me wash your feet.” He had to say, “Let me love that part of you, too.”

It is so uncomfortable to bring those perceived weaknesses to light, and humbling to let someone else see them--let alone wash them clean.

Running the next day, I was so grateful for my feet. They have carried me thousands of miles over my life. They have been beat up, bruised, and missing toenails and healed to carry me more miles. I thought about other areas of my life I usually try to cover up, the other weaknesses or parts of my life that just don’t seem quite good enough or pretty enough. What if I acknowledged those things for being an important part of me too? The way they have been a part of my journey as much as the things I am proud of?

What would happen if I gave others a chance to see and love those parts, the way I did with my feet on Holy Thursday?

It’s certainly a risk. But then you never know. Our vulnerability might be met with warm water, a soft towel, a gentle touch and the care we fail to give ourselves. Letting our weakness show as much as our strength is not only a way to receive love, it provides others the opportunity to love us.

Mandatum means commandment. Jesus says, “Love one another as I have loved you.” That’s the commandment, the mandatum, we celebrate on Holy Thursday. Love one another—may we be able to appreciate and love each other’s weakness, and remember that part of that is sharing our own. As I have loved you. May we also remember that those parts we might be ashamed of are loved and sacred, too.

This is holy ground. Let us honor it by taking off our shoes once in awhile. 

Hope in "the Grind"

I am in what I call “the grind” of training. My hardest, longest runs are in these weeks. “The grind” is when I most question my sanity, and most hate running, In these weeks my body aches to the point that I often avoid stairs and circle parking lots hoping for a better space, just to save myself some walking.

But the grind is also the place I see magnificent hope. Moments that might pass by unnoticed if I wasn’t so desperately looking for a sign I can get through it. 

J enjoying the sunrise on the lake

Last week, I did one of my 10-mile runs with a friend, J. She got up at 6 a.m. after going to bed around 3 a.m. to join me. We enjoyed the sunrise over the lake, laughed a lot, and looked for the meaning of life in our stories. Through sleepy eyes and tired bodies we ran. Near the end, J. exclaimed  “Allison, this is no longer fun anymore.” It was mile 9.8 and she was right. What she may not realize is that conversation and company was my sign of light that morning.

One week later, I hobbled in the door after a 17.5 mile run. Drenched in sweat, I gingerly moved towards the water glass on the table. Guzzling my drink, I walked into the living room where my dad, sister and our friend, L., were sitting., L ran the first 6 miles with me but was showered and dressed by now. They all looked up from the television when I said hi. My sister’s mouth dropped open and her eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Oh my God! Are you okay? Did you chafe? You must have chafed.”

I looked down at my white shirt. There was a giant streak of blood mixed with sweat running from just above my heart to the bottom of my shirt. I felt the burning pain of the skin rubbed away on my chest around mile nine, but I soon forgot about it and focused on finding water instead. I never noticed the blood.  I wondered how many of the people I ran by noticed it?

It was fitting that the blood on my shirt started near my heart. I have been pushing so hard, just trying to move forward that I forget that others can see my pain. I forget there are a few people left who will notice, who care, and who will help me heal. They’re still out there.

J. and L. and my family understood a little bit of what I was going through. They were there for a piece of this journey—running with me for parts of it, or just being there when I finished to see the mix of joy, fatigue, and literal blood and sweat poured out. For the first time in months, I felt acknowledged in a complete way—as a strong human being who happens to be in the middle of one of life’s grinds.

We might run by a lot of people in life who never notice our heart is bleeding, or who chose to ignore it if they do see. Some of those people may even be people we used to count on. It is one of my greatest challenges to let them go on by. 

The grind can be a lonely time---mile after mile of choosing which pain of the many to deal with. Which wound to tend to first. Then once in awhile, we find someone who understands. Who will get up early, run a little bit of the race with us, or just pay attention to the wounds we’ve ignored. Once in awhile, if we just keep running, we run right into witnesses and companions. Symbols of hope in the grind. 

Why Am I Doing This?

The last week has been full of “Why am I doing this?” moments.

I am sure we’ve all had them. Times when the endeavor we’ve chosen seems too much to handle. Too hard. Not worth it. Those moments when we think seriously about throwing in the towel.

The moments of regular life—new job, school, transplant details and all of the why I am I doing this questions that go with each of those culminated in on Sunday, when my training plan called for my first 15 mile run. I was sitting on my couch in my running clothes, eating my sandwich and trying not to dread the run ahead. I tried to psych myself up but I kept thinking “I don’t have to do this. This is optional. Why am I doing this?”

For me, these moments always lead to some looking back over how I wound up here. What on earth possessed me to make this choice? Why did it ever seem like a good idea?

I thought about the freedom of choice. I didn’t have to run this afternoon and I didn’t have to run a marathon. While I was at it I didn’t have to do my homework or donate my kidney. But I knew I couldn’t back out. I knew I would be out the door in a half hour running mile after endless mile and following through with all of those other things. To do otherwise would be to deny my essential nature—to deny who I am and the faith I have in those decisions.

I knew this was going to be hard. Nothing about running 15 miles is easy. A quote from A League of Their Own popped into my head. “Hard? Of course it’s hard. It’s supposed to be hard. If it weren’t everyone would do it. It’s the hard that makes it great.”  It’s supposed to be hard. I wasn’t sure about that. I don’t think these long hard runs, whatever they are for us, are meant to always teach us some lesson. I don’t think this is ‘for a reason.”

But I had to do it. I had to do it because it’s what I love and who I am. Not being out there with hurting feet at mile twelve, and three more to go, but being an endurance runner. Being someone who commits to something I want to do and following through.  

Why am I doing this? Because I can’t imagine not.

Deep inside all of us is some sort of compass that tells us where we’re supposed to go and who we are supposed to be. We, being the creatures of free will that we are, can follow that or deny it. We can say yes or no to love and to ourselves. To say yes to love, to the direction our compass points, means sometimes following it right into darkness and difficult times. Hard is just part of the journey. There’s no way to being authentic without facing some daunting and lonely roads.

We can seek out the easy way, or turn back, or we can follow the direction we know we need to go, even when it’s difficult. I stepped out the door and looked down my street. I thought about the marathon, and what it meant to say yes right now. I thought about being the middle of the next hard choice, the next hard journey and the preparation that this run is for that moment. I took a deep breath and took off. Suddenly 15 miles didn’t seem so long after all.

  

The Hard Days

“When a person trains once, nothing happens. When a person forces himself to do a thing a hundred or a thousand times, then he certainly has developed in more ways than physical.” Emil Zapotek

I felt cold air blowing past my raw cheeks and trudged up the hill as fast as I could. My stomach hurt, and my entire body was damp with sweat, which was chilling in the 25-degree wind. I moved my arms in circles and tried pick up my pace. This just felt terrible.

I was at mile 4 of what was supposed to be a 10-mile run. The morning was gorgeous; the sun was beginning to rise and shine brightly through the trees. But I felt tired, and weak. I struggled to catch my breath, and settle my stomach. I thought about where I could turn to get home early, trying not to wallow in my misery. I told myself how strong I was and that I was through the hard part. I tried listening to the words of the music in my headphones, and looking at the beauty around me. Nothing worked. I was feeling residual sadness and unrest that I couldn’t shake, and my body was not cooperating today.

I finally decided to call the run…at mile 9. I wasn’t making the extra loop to make it 10. I was going home for a total of 9.5 miles instead. I clicked off the Nike+ I use to measure my runs. The stats were recited. Through this entire horrible run, I managed to clock a pace that would still put me under 5 hours for the marathon—my ultimate goal. I was beating up on myself for quitting early and running slowly. Though I had been averaging much faster paces than this lately, this was still in the right range for a long run.

In the shower, trying to warm up my frigid body, I realized how ridiculous I was being. I felt awful and I and I still ran a great pace and for ninety-five percent of the time I was supposed to run. I had 4 great runs in a row before this and I know every run can’t be awesome. I was dwelling on one run that didn’t feel good.

I thought about training. This lasts 5 months. It’s not about any one run. In some ways, this was better preparation than those great, fast runs. I know I can still hit my pace even if I feel like garbage. I know I can keep going. I still got out there and did it.

In running, and in life, the things we do each day don’t always feel great. Some days are work and we don’t see the results we crave. We don’t feel a reward or sense of accomplishment. We expend an excess of energy trying to meet a minimum standard. And that’s the best we can do—all we can do at that time.

Some days are just hard days. The question is: what do we do with those days? Phone it in? Or give it our best anyway, even knowing it won’t yield the outcome we seek? Do we go out and do what we have to do, what we love to do, because it makes a difference over time, or because it’s only rewarding that day?

There’s a reason our best isn’t quantifiable. It changes every day. Some days our best is our best ever and some days it only seems mediocre. But it’s still our best. We aren’t all held up against some uniform standard, we are called to give what we can, each day. Every day. Our best. That’s all. And in the long run, that makes all the difference.