Between Dusk and Darkness

I scrambled to get out the door. Tying back my hair with both hands and holding gloves in my teeth I zipped around my house looking for my jacket. I darted out the door with one arm in the coat and the other shoving my house key in my pocket. I looked up at the setting sun and hoped to get my 6-mile run in before dark. I couldn’t find my headlamp and ran out of time.

It took a few minutes for my panicked, still rushing pace to settle into normal. I tried breathing and relaxing and just letting my feet do the work. It had been a day of rushing around. By the time I reached my second mile, I found my rhythym and started to believe I might have just enough light to make it home.

At about the halfway point, I hit the last uphill and my favorite place on this route, the bridge. All the uphills to get there payoff when I can see the sky stretching out on either side, and a busy road of cars passing under my feet traveling right into the sunset. After winding through the woods it is refreshing to stand in a place with a clear view for miles. 

Despite my rush to beat the darkness I stopped on the bridge. I looked to my left and saw an almost full moon glowing in the dusty blue sky. I looked to my right and saw nothing but streaks of pink and orange that seemed to be burning, as if the sun was flashing a rainbow of warmth, begging to be seen and appreciated before sinking into darkness for the day. I snapped a picture of the view from either side. 

This place between light and dark is so breathtakingly beautiful. The blaze orange sun and moon rising seem to promise hope when we cannot define exactly where we are. Maybe we don’t need to. Maybe we only need to stand still for a minute and just appreciate that every moment cannot be confined to a category, word, or place. Sometimes we are in the middle of something beyond definition—between dusk and darkness. We are not quite where we used to be and not quite where we want to be yet.

But there is beauty in that space. There is movement and energy and something just necessary about appreciating the bridge as its own location. I spent the rest of the run trying to take in the subtle shifts in  light and color that happen at dusk. 

A lot of times we are in such a rush to get from one place to another that by the time we arrive we can’t remember how we got there. We miss all of those subtle changes in our environment and in ourselves. In my experience, growth, change, life—they don’t happen in dramatic shifts. They happen as gradually as the sun sets and seasons change. It’s one foot in front of the other until we arrive. Many of those steps are mundane or even painful. But let’s not be in such a rush that we miss those glorious places—the places where we have a clear and beautiful view of where we have come from, and where we are going. No matter what deadline we have placed on ourselves to be somewhere or become something, there is enough time to pause for a second and realize wherever we are rushing to is no more beautiful than the place we are right now.  

It Only Takes a Second

I find a new semester, with the calendar is already filled, and the to-do list already long, intimidating. My first instinct is to put my head down, get to work, crossing the off days one at a time. Then I remind myself I want to do more than just get through it. I’ve been thinking about how I want to focus this semester.

Over my vacation I heard several times from different places “it only takes a second of courage.” I realized that maybe courage works that way. In short bursts that allow us to do what we are most afraid of. Maybe none of us really has courage all of the time, but we can find it, for just a few seconds, when we need it. There are moments and chances to grab on to it for just long enough to do the thing we fear.

It only takes a second. I want to be open to those opportunities to seize courage. When do I only need a second of courage? Or a minute? In what ways do you need to be brave for only a few seconds?

As I think about this semester, about running a marathon and donating my kidney at the end of it, and a full work and school schedule I am totally overwhelmed. If I want to do more than get through it, then I where I might need some courage becomes pretty clear.

I am afraid to face all of this alone.

Courage means admitting that fear. It means being vulnerable. It means allowing people to help me and throwing those needs into the universe and hoping, praying that acknowledging them out loud might be the way to meet them. Sometimes it takes a few seconds of courage to voice the things that matter most and depending on others to help us find our way.

I was talking about all of this, about asking for help and accepting it and memories of my first marathon came flooding back. I remember asking a bunch of people for prayers and short notes for me to read during the race. A request that only took a few seconds of courage—a few seconds where I revealed how scared I was of doing this and that I needed support. I found love there in places I never expected. Beyond notes, of which there were many, were care packages and cookies and phone calls. I felt like dozens of people were in Oklahoma, running with me in their own ways. Thinking about those people throughout the race, about how many people cared that I was doing this, gave me the strength to keep going in so many places. Thinking about sharing the stories with friends and family, helped those miles pass along and helped me take it all in.

Love and support is out there. But sometimes you have to ask for it. Ironically, courage sometimes is admitting we need help and letting go of independence. Not because we are weak, but because the big journeys demand collective strength. We could put our heads down and get through it, never letting others in, but then we’d miss the joy that comes from sharing it. We’d miss the strength we can draw on when our own has run out.

It only takes a second of courage to put yourself out there, whether it’s asking for help, or letting someone know how you really feel, or speaking some challenging truth. It only takes a second. Will you be ready when it comes?

You Have No Idea...

“You have no idea what you are in for.” I was in a dormitory rec room the first time I heard those words. It was the end of two weeks of intense Resident Assistant training. I was feeling prepared and excited to begin this new role. In a meeting with all of the new RAs, the Associate Director of Res Life looked around at all of us and said this. Not only did those words prove true then, I think of them at the beginning of every new journey: new jobs, grad school, a year of service, or marathon training plans. I realize when I say, “yes,” no matter how much training or preparation I have gone through to get to that yes, I have no idea what I am in for.

These words occurred to me again as I finished filling out the on-line registration form for the Flying Pig Marathon coming up on May 6^th. It will be my 3^rd marathon and last major race before another major event. I am donating a kidney to my father shortly after that marathon concludes.

Two big physical yeses and I have no idea what I am in for.

But when do we ever really know? When we make any kind of decision can we ever know what will come of it? We always have to say “yes” or “no” without all of the information.

All we have to know is “why.” Nietzsche once said “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” Why do I want to run another marathon and why do I want to give my dad my kidney? And why, friends, do you want to do the things you want to do this year? What are your reasons for saying yes or no to the things that you do?

My answer? I believe in saying yes to things that scare me. When I stare at a distant goal, and tremble at the sacrifice needed to achieve it, and simultaneously cannot imagine anything I want more? Those are the opportunities I don’t want to pass up. Those are the journeys that make me feel most alive. Those are the yeses that come out of deep hope and love. And that’s where I want to live. Out of that place. Not out of the fear of not knowing what to expect. If my why is love then the how will take care of itself.

Running a marathon and donating a kidney are yeses that come from the same place. When I look back on my life, as I am wont to do at the end of one year and beginning of another, I want to know I said yes to the things that matter most to me. I want to know that I was open to transformation, to risk, to opportunities to put love into action in ways that only I can. I want to know I pushed myself — that I believed enough in my reasons to say yes without knowing entirely what to expect along the way.

That’s the why. Because I believe love, hope, and faith will beat fear, doubt, and apathy every time. The “how” remains to be seen. Five months of training runs, followed by running 26.2 miles in a row and a major surgery for my dad and me aren’t the most predictable of scenarios. It’s a new year. I know I have no idea what I am in for.  But I can’t wait to find out.