Lapsed Convert

Just a month a half ago, I wrote that I wanted and intended to commit to stretching regularly. I’ve since been reminded that while stretching and training must go together, so do stretching and – uh – living. Somehow, I managed to twist the necessary association between stretching and training to – “well, if I’m not working out today, I don’t need to stretch! Do I not feel like stretching? I won’t train today!”

The TRUTH.

It’s absolutely amazing how many ways we can, as humans, find a way to rationalize our behavior. I found myself unbelievably tight after a cross country flight yesterday and spent a solid 30 minutes stretching before attempting a walk/run today and I am so much better for it, yet I am confident that I will somehow find some other excuse not to stretch. In the same ways our souls are meant to move toward God in order to maximally function, our bodies were created to move, and the specific movement of stretching assists in getting the most from the rest of our movements, from running a marathon to typing a blog post.

At 36, I’ve already experienced the type of pain that I can’t explain – you know the type, where you think “what did I do? Why does that hurt? Oh, because I’m alive.” While I am positive that a consistently followed regimen can help to prevent this, a long life means that there will inevitably be pain for which there is only ultimate healing – death. My man Paul wrote in his letter to the church in Philippi (presumably between stretches) that to live is Christ and to die is gain. I believe Christ suffered a *bit* in His earthly ministry, no? As unholy as my quadriceps and hip flexors were feeling this morning, on a scale from painless to crucifixion I can’t say it was too bad. It was enough to put me on a path today to take care of my body, and for that, I am thankful.

Every day that I am alive, I can seek Christ, I can seek physical wholeness, but again, Paul reminds us that as long as we are living, our perception will be incomplete. Are there any converts that are thriving 100% of the time? To live is to lapse. There really is no cure for my humanity – for now. That is not to say that there is no hope, because keeping focused on Christ is the only treatment I know that helps to alleviate anything that ails me. Lord, have mercy on my body and soul.

The Little Piano Girl

“That’s me!” says the 31 year old woman.

When I feel miserable, it’s typically a result of one thing – my chronic feeling of inadequacy. It is frustrating to feel as though no matter what I do, no matter how much education or experience I attain, the target of success moves continually. Life is a seemingly endless race and death is the finish line.

How is that for an inspirational message for the Christmas season?

⁶ All of us have become like one who is unclean,
    and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags;
we all shrivel up like a leaf,
    and like the wind our sins sweep us away.
⁷ No one calls on your name
    or strives to lay hold of you;
for you have hidden your face from us
    and have given us over to^[b] our sins.

Isaiah 64:6-7 (NIV)

I suppose what needs changing is not so much that I am feeling like the filthy rags the prophet Isaiah describes, but rather why I do. Feeling badly because I feel inadequate can only be the result of a misplaced idea of what adequacy truly is. I am more than adequate, not because of the reality of what I may or may not accomplish, but because of Christ’s birth, death, and resurrection. As I played piano once more this Christmas season, I realized that the song that resonated most with me was “The Little Drummer Boy.” There truly is nothing I can do that measures up to what God has done for me, this year, in past years, and in all the years to come. I play my little piano in the hopes of serving Him. May the Prince of Peace grant me the peace of finally coming to grips with the Source of my adequacy, and may I do so before my finish line.

God, Garmin, and Good Judgment. Race Report

Perfume. 

Lipstick. 

Earrings. 

Go to the bathroom as much as possible. 

Thank God for all He has provided me, also think of sins for which I need forgiveness so earthly payment doesn’t come due during the race. 

The last one in that checklist (perhaps the last two, tee hee) especially should indicate my level of anxiety. I try, imperfectly of course, to be thankful regularly, and I don’t think of God as my “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” kind of partner, but if there’s any day that I need a solid from the Lord, it’s today. The fabulous 3M had just texted me an excerpt from Hebrews 12, something I had reminded myself before my 70.3 and was trying to keep in mind –

12 Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, 2 fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. 3 Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.

Hebrews 12:1-3 (NIV)

Yes, Joan. While there is joy at the finish line set before me, the marathon is not the cross. Remember this today. Any pain I experience, while important to God, likely won’t approach crucifixion levels. 

I found the 5:45 pacer and asked him what his plan was. Murray said he was going to run for 2 minutes at about 12 min mile pace and do a brisk walk for 1 minute. He said that while he’s not an official Galloway pacer, running steadily at a 13:10 pace seemed too slow. Fair enough! I figured I wouldn’t get in trouble and go out too fast if I chilled with Murray, so I lined up with him in the corral after hugging my amazing family and saying a prayer with them. 

The horn for which I’ve trained for months finally sounded. I wiped away tears of excitement and awe that this day is really here and walked toward the timing mat. The French horn opening of the first movement of Brahms 1st piano concerto set the mood in my ears for this part of my journey – grand, expansive, RUBATO! Not. Too. Fast. I stayed close to Murray* at the very beginning, but something didn’t feel right about it. I let him go and just paid attention to my Garmin. Mile 1 passes and I look down at my watch. 12:43. And Mr. 5:45 is AHEAD of me. Nope. 

A lady sidled up to me and asked what my plan was. “2/1, stay alive, finish under 6!” I replied. “Me too!” she answered. 

I need you to understand this. I had imagined that I might make a friend or two on the way to the finish line. It had been immensely helpful to me during my 70.3 to do the run with someone, and I will never forget her. So when I say that I was open to running the race with someone else despite preferring to train alone, you must know that I really meant it. 

This was not that someone. 

Roz* from New Jersey was running this marathon on her journey to join the 50 states marathon club. This marked marathon number 15 for this running coach who would NOT. STOP. TALKING. She asked me about my training, and I judged her as I answered her stupid questions politely. I say her questions were stupid because they were questions for which I could presumably have wrong answers. If I did something wrong in my training, what the hell am I supposed to do about it now in mile 2 of the marathon? Turn around? Heffa, please. Performance day is just that. Make it work now, ask questions later. 

Still, I thought the Christian thing to do was to deal with her neediness. Some people need people to boss around to feel useful. I turned up my music and nodded and smiled as she went on about herself. I asked cogent questions. Everyone runs differently and if I can help someone run the best race she can, I can handle a bit of annoyance. 

Jim* rolled up on us around the 5k point. He was talking with Roz and it turned out he was already in the 50 states club. I was thankful for Jim because he took some of the pressure off of me. He wasn’t with us for very long, to which Roz said, “some people just need to show off and talk about themselves to new people!” I burst out laughing at the irony of her observation. “Don’t laugh too hard, Joan. 23.1 to go – save your breath!” I thought. 

At mile 5, I decided to use the toilet. JUST in case. I wasn’t feeling a pressing need to go, but my colleague at work who just completed her first marathon said that it’s better to go in the beginning rather than later. What could it hurt? Plus, I was hoping Roz would go ahead of me. Well, she did, but not for long. A mile or so later, she stopped to refill her water and said she would be behind me. “Okay!” It took a LOT of willpower to stay at my current pace and not purposely speed up to put distance between us. I suppose I have more faith in my patience than I do my legs. 

The marathon and half-marathon courses were concurrent for about the first 7 miles. Then it got REAL lonely out there, man. It looked like I was going into the wilderness. I was actually thankful for Roz’s yelling behind me because I didn’t see a single soul ahead of me. Disconcerting, y’all. It wasn’t too long before I saw some more cones, cops, and the winner headed in the opposite direction toward the finish line. Confirmation of the correct path was comforting, indeed. 

As the race continued, I felt pains that worried me. My left hamstring in mile 8. My right calf in mile 13. I prayed for them and pressed forward. I stayed focused on my 2/1 intervals and the miles just came to me, one by one. I smiled as I enjoyed the music of the clearly brilliant person who created this playlist. I shrugged and sighed as I caught up to and passed Murray, who told me he didn’t think he was going to make it in 5:45. 

Speaking of the aforementioned brilliance, I had tried to time the gospel music around mile 19 – when I projected I might be questioning my life choices most. “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” “My Tribute.” “How Great Thou Art.” Naturally, I chose really powerful arrangements that evoked great emotion. Too much emotion. I started to think about how amazing God is and tears came to my eyes. I felt tingles all over. I glanced down to look at my heart rate. 

TWO.

O.

BLOODY.

FIVE. 

OKAY GOD PLEASE HELP MY HEART RATE COME DOWN BECAUSE I HAVE NEARLY TWO HOURS OF RACE LEFT IN JESUS’ NAME AMEN

Not the most artful prayer, admittedly. I slowed my walking and that helped. I drank more water from my trusty CamelBak. Every sip tasted heavenly, so I can assume by this point I was likely dehydrated. I didn’t want to have my stomach sloshing around with water and honey stingers, but I suppose my trying not to drink too much didn’t help my tingly euphoria. 

By mile 22, my heart rate was still sky high on my run intervals. I didn’t like it. I am confident God brought me Roz for this one piece of advice – “if you get tired, switch your run time to your walk time. That way you don’t lose hope or momentum.” I went from 2/1 to 1:30/1:30. I checked the clock. I had an hour to meet my time goal. I could do that with a speedy walk if I needed to. I stayed in the shade as much as possible. 

I saw some volunteers by the stadium where the race had begun. “This way to glory?” I asked. “Yes ma’am!” 

Then the most beautiful thing happened. 

As I caught sight of the finish line, the recap of the Brahms concerto with which I had begun the race was starting. I don’t know that I can properly describe how fitting this was – to hear that moment in the music at just that time, but it brought the biggest smile to my face. To be back where I started but in a completely different way – just like the music! was nothing short of perfection. I turned on to the track and saw my awesome Mommy. “Hi Mom!” “Hey Jo!” as she whipped out her camera. “You’re almost there!” The clock read 5:55:26 as I crossed the timing mat. I. Win. 

I serve a God that allows for so much more than finishing the race. I finished the marathon with BOTH arms in the air, a bright smile, and Brahms in my ears. He is a cherry on top kind of God. My prayer is that I can keep this moment close to me forever as I continue running with Him and toward Him. 

*- I don’t change names to protect anyone who annoys me. 

The Temptation of Festivus

This girl has been a diehard Seinfeld fanatic for 2/3 of her life. When the episode about Festivus premiered, I was in 8th grade. Jerry Stiller’s Frank Costanza describes his epiphany/creation as such: 

  
I remember hysterically laughing when I first saw this 18 years ago. Part of the brilliance of Seinfeld is that it grows with you; while I still get thigh-slapping laughs from watching this, I now watch this and find myself sympathetic with Frank. Though I’ve not reached the point of raining blows upon someone, I am in total agreement with him – there HAS to be another way to celebrate Christmas. 

As a child, I used to love this time of year. The gifts! The music! The Jesus! I remember caring for them all, and as I’ve grown, my priorities have simply shifted. Sadly, so has my attitude. It is not because I learned Santa isn’t real (although I did just finish watching Miracle on 34th Street), or that I have to buy presents for other people. My Lord, do I wish that was all that Christmas called for – shelling out some cash and calling it a day. Why did Frank rain blows upon the man? He wanted to do right for his family. Who can be mad at those intentions? 

Thus we find ourselves wanting to get into the ‘little c’ christmas spirit, saying things like “It’s not about the presents!” or “Spend time with your loved ones!” These are, indeed, good things all year long. Suddenly, it gets to be after Thanksgiving and everyone remembers how they should have been acting the previous 11 months? Can’t we space out the cheer? Whether it’s preparing a program for work, attending a stupid ass party, or preparing our home for all the family that’s going to converge upon it today, I find myself thinking that this is now my least favorite holiday. 

Don’t get it twisted. I am a Christ-follower. I believe in observing this time of year with special reverence. However, like Frank, I find myself without the peace and reflection that anticipated his coming. I, too, seek another way, but sadly, I have found my heart becoming too much like the Festivus pole…

  
Cold and impenetrable. I, here and now in this post, am airing my grievances! I am sick of all of the things that get in the way of truly observing the miracle of Christmas. It’s not the commercialism; it’s all y’all. Sorry. Running around like a crazy person for four weeks is costly as well. 

As I was putting ornaments on our Christmas tree a few hours ago (just in time!), I noticed that the leaves were starting to shed. I paused and smiled to myself. I hope my heart is always more like a live Christmas tree than a Festivus pole, with evidence of His presents? Presence. Heh. There should be light. The ornaments are like all of the people who make my life better. Yes, sometimes their presence makes some of my leaves shed. I may even feel weighed down at times. Like the tree, I am more beautiful for having them. 

Thank you for being on my tree! Enough with the parties though, okay? Merry Christmas!

  

Do Triathletes Hate Jesus?

“Good to see you here, guest!”

These words from the person sitting behind me in church today stung my guilty conscience. I smiled and shook her hand as I thought to myself, “Lady, I’ve been a member of this church longer than you’ve – anyway, ma’am, it’s been a long time.” Indeed, I’ve been a member of my church since I was baptized there 15 years ago and attending before that. I have great respect for my pastor and am always fed spiritually whenever I choose to go. Unlike that stupid “I really regret that workout, said no one ever,” meme, my currently injured, always battling perfectionism butt never regrets going to church.

However, as my sister-in-Christ inadvertently pointed out today, church attendance has not been a priority of mine lately.

When I started racing, participating in running races and training rarely came up against my church attendance. Race on Saturday, thank God for making me so awesome on Sunday. No problem. Then came triathlon. As I started looking for races to do, I noticed quickly that while most running races fall on Saturdays, most triathlons fall on Sundays. What’s up with that? Okay, let’s say I race 5 out of 52 Sundays in a year – 47/52 ain’t bad, right?

Then comes the training.

Open water swims. Sunday morning. Long rides. Sunday morning. Long runs. Sunday morning. I can only do so much physically on Saturday. Everyone seems to love training on Sunday and because I am new I am uncomfortable swimming and biking by myself. This time, it is really my desire to regularly attend church and not my distrust of others that makes me wish I were further along on my TriBaby journey. No one that shares my hobby seems to have this conflict. I’ve even secretly wished that I practiced faith in a denomination that had more service times. How twisted is that?

Not quite as twisted as having a new reason to miss church.

Some of the things I struggle with as a triathlete I struggled with first as a Christian. Those who know me closely know that I really value my relationships. Once you’re in, you’re in. If you’re not in – the word apathy comes to mind. Notice how I spoke of my respect for my pastor and not of my relationships with anyone in church. 17 years in and He is still working on my desire to fellowship with other believers. In fact, I would say that I feel much closer to God while racing and training than in church. I have no choice but to turn to Him as “I discipline my body like an athlete, training it to do what it should.” (1 Cor 9:27a) I’m no (complete) dummy.

I pray that I find resolution to this scheduling conflict, but more importantly, I pray that my heart is softened toward others. My soul needs way more work than my body. Real talk.