Marking Your Progress

One of the things we do at Girls on the Run is run laps -- lots of them! As a physical activity based positive youth development program, we use running as a tool to boost the girls in the ways they need it most as they enter their adolescent years, working on competence, confidence, connection, character, caring, and contribution as well as encouraging physical activity and discouraging sedentary behavior. Running is incorporated into many of the games and activities that are used to reinforce the lesson objectives.

When we get to the laps part of the lesson, a few of the girls who genuinely love running get really excited. I love hearing the cheers from these girls: "Yay! I was hoping we'd start running soon!" But for most of the girls, running laps is a chore. Training is hard work, requiring discipline and dedication, and it's difficult for the girls to understand how this tiresome activity will help them to reach their end-of-season goal of completing a 5K run.

Isn't life like this? In the day-to-day, it's easy to lose sight of the way that intentional action and perseverance today lead to growth and achievement tomorrow.

In Girls on the Run, we try different tactics to make the lap-running more fun for the girls. Favorites this season included zombie and freeze tag, chasing or being chased by the coaches, and STICKERS. When we started using stickers as lap-counters, I thought the girls would put them on their clothes, or maybe their backpacks. But instead, their favorite sticker spots were their faces. The girls raced around the school, aiming for that next sticker, the stickers serving as a visual reminder of their hard work and intentional action. Girls were moving forward, progressing toward their 5K goal, and having fun while doing it.

We all have things we do each day that may seem laborious and even pointless: folding the laundry, writing that report, running laps. What can you do today to liven up that which feels tiresome? How can you mark your progress? Sometimes these seemingly mundane activities are truly the pathway to the extraordinary.

Please consider a donation to my SoleMates fundraising campaign. The money that I am able to raise goes to our GOTR NJ East scholarship fund and is used to expand the GOTR program into areas of our council territory where scholarship needs tend to be highest, an initiative that we call Every Girl can Run. All donations are tax deductible. Thank you for your support!

Don't Mess With Me. I'm Always Taking a Step.

Yesterday we celebrated my daughter's birthday.  The day was filled with precious moments, laughter, and new memories.  After all, Natalie is a gift to all of us -- her creativity, problem-solving skills, initiative, love for family and friends, and even her thumb-sucking and her little girl voice endear her to us.

Among the birthday gifts she received was a Fitbit that my husband and I purchased for her.  The fitbit is like a high-tech pedometer, counting steps and allowing the user to upload and share with friends online.  We purchased one for our son at Christmas, and his favorite fitbit function is the ability to "taunt" his fitbit friends with an automated message.  Over the last several weeks, I've picked up my phone to discover Andrew's most recent taunt or, if I've done something really nice, a "cheer".

Immediately after opening this gift, the fitbit was clipped to the waistband of Natalie's pants, and the race was on to see which of the kids would amass the highest number of steps for the day, the latest match-up in their friendly sibling rivalry.  Back and forth and up and down the kids darted through the house.  When my husband called to Natalie to check the number of steps taken, Natalie came close to Dave and continued to move, running in place.  When Andrew saw that she was unwilling to stop even for a quick read of the fitbit screen and realized that she was serious in her motivation to get the highest number of steps for the day, he pleaded with her to slow down, even resorting to something close to verbal taunting at one point.  Natalie, determination in her eyes, responded:

"Don't mess with me.  I'm always taking a step."

Focused words of my wisdom from my 6-year-old.

Her words stayed with me, my new mantra as I attempted a long run later that morning.  It's been a rough winter in Pennsylvania, the roads and sidewalks frequently blanketed in snow or ice, making training for races of any distance, or even spending time outside, a challenge.  As I made my way from my house down to a local park, I felt slow and frustrated, the blocks of neglected, still snow-covered sidewalk and frequent icy sections taunting me, inviting me to stop.  I did have to walk at some points, moving to the street to avoid the ice, or walking in the steps of others who already braved the snow and made their mark.  But I vowed to keep moving, one foot in front of the other.

What motivates you to keep moving in life?  Is it working toward a cause or goal, receiving encouragement from friends, or even some friendly competition?  Is there a special person in your life who compels you to take the next step?  What role does faith play in your movement and growth (Hebrews 12)?  When circumstances or people taunt you, hold on to hope, and keep moving forward.  Don't mess with me.  I'm always taking a step...

An "I Can Do It" Attitude

One thing that I love about running is that it provides the right atmosphere for meaningful conversation with running friends or space for deep thought when running alone.  Most of my revelations about life or clarity during times of decision occur when I'm out for a run.

The chill in this morning's air, overcome by the hope of good conversation with my running friend Val, failed to keep me in bed this morning.  We were out early (thank goodness for the increasingly earlier morning light!) and were engaged in our typical morning run talk: describing how our training has been going, hearing a recap of Val's half-marathon last weekend, giving injury updates.  We replayed some disappointment about recent race performances and then shifted to talking about the power of our brains when it comes to training and racing.  Together we decided (again, for we've had conversations like this before) that mental training is almost as important as physical training.  Having my mind set on the positive "I can do it" invites my body into agreement.  The outcome of this thinking is confidence and power.  Conversely, fearing that I can't do it and focusing on weakness seems to sap strength and diminish my efforts.

Lately, I've heard several of these "I can do it" stories.  Last week, I was at a workshop crafted by my daughter's teachers to help parents understand the power of language in a child's development.  We had an opportunity to share and celebrate a moment in our lives when a friend, teacher, parent, or mentor told us something that gave us strength.  One parent, a successful business owner, told us that his parents and other mentors never told him that things were off-limits for him.  They used their teachable moments to influence him to believe that there were no boundaries on what he would be able to accomplish.  He shared about how powerful the cultivation of this attitude has been in his life and how it's allowed him to really enjoy his life and to attempt things that he may not have tried if he was taught to believe that certain things were unattainable.

And last Friday, through my involvement with Girls On The Run, I had the opportunity to watch a movie called Miss Representation.  (Interestingly, a theme through this movie is that young girls -- and boys too -- are taught to believe that they can or can't do things based on the messages they receive from the media, which often reinforces negative gender stereotypes.)  A local newscaster provided the movie's introduction.  An anchor for 30 years, she shared about mentors in her life who helped her break into a male-dominated field and who supported her along the way.  She also told us about one of her favorite news stories, about a grocery store employee named Dennis.  Dennis may seem to be an ordinary man by most people's standards.  But he is also a loyal Oprah fan, writing to Oprah daily for years, lending his encouragement and input about her show, her clothes -- really anything and everything.  He was so devoted that he got Oprah's attention and was invited to sit in the front row for her show's final episode, a not-so-ordinary opportunity.  When the newscaster interviewed Dennis, he revealed his core belief that God's view of him, his life, and what is possible for him is so much greater than he could ever imagine.  This is how it became reality for him to do something like become Oprah's honored guest.    

Lately, I've been feeling discouraged about the marathon that I'll be running in 6 weeks (yikes!).  I'm tired, and my training hasn't gone as planned.  But these are just the more surface-level symptoms of what's really going on inside.  I'm afraid -- afraid that I'll be disappointed in my marathon performance, afraid that I won't be able to complete the race.  But the message in these "I can do it" stories sticks with me, challenging me, filling me with hope, causing me to wonder what could be in store for my marathon -- and for my life.      

Where do you need to have an "I can do it" attitude?  

Portrait of a Neighbor

It's a gloomy morning here in central Pennsylvania.  When I heard the rain hard and steady on our roof window first thing this morning, I decided to delay my run and opted instead to go downstairs to reflect or attempt to do something productive.  A short time after turning on our living room light, the doorbell rang.  Knowing the reason for our early morning visitor, I opened the door to find Marisol and to hear the news about my neighbor Charlie.  He passed away at 3:45 this morning.  Marisol appeared tired and sad, but perhaps a bit relieved.  Charlie was ninety-two, and he'd been bedridden for the last several years.  We all thought he'd seen his last days this summer, but somehow he summoned strength and made it to his birthday and then some.  He was a fighter, continually showing us more of his his strong will and determination.

Bev, one of Charlie's caregivers and closest friends, stopped by last night to let me know that Charlie took a turn for the worse.  When I asked to come and visit later in the evening, she warned me that he no longer looked himself.  She was right.  His already-thin body now even more slight after days without food, his breathing was shallow and erratic.  He wasn't conscious.  But Bev and the hospice nurse there reminded me that hearing is typically the last thing to go and encouraged me to come and to talk.  My words to Charlie were few.  I asked him to be at peace, and I told him that I love him, something that I've vocalized to only a few people.  During episodes when he struggled to keep breathing, I prayed silently and held his arm.  (I think that the holding did more to comfort me than to comfort Charlie.)

While we sat with Charlie, Bev and I shared Charlie stories.  We talked about his being born in Philadelphia and living most of his life in and around the house that he shared with his wife Dolly on Church Street.  We remembered how he called my kids Natalie Mae and Andrew Jackson (even though Andrew's true middle name is David), and how he helped to build the deck and backyard fencing at our house many years ago.  We recalled how he lovingly cared for Dolly when she had dementia and was bedridden.  We listed his favorite market items: the small bags of Utz potato chips, the sugar cookies with raisin in the center, avocados personally chosen by a favorite standholder, pickles, chicken pot pie, local and in-season tomatoes.  We laughed about his lack of modesty and attitude -- Charlie went through a stage where he'd answer the door wearing only a shirt and an adult pull-up.  Charlie was particular about what he wanted and when he wanted it.  If you did what he asked, you were on his good side.  Show him any disrespect, and you'd quickly make an enemy.  We wondered about his experiences as a soldier in World War II and what kind of impact they had on his thinking and actions.  We talked about how he made us angry and how he made Bev cry.  Actually, he made a lot of people cry, but he was also deeply caring.  If you gave Charlie a chance, if you found the time and patience to try to understand him, you'd find a brave and loyal friend.

Charlie was a man of few biological relatives who somehow managed to gather a community of people around him, an eclectic group including a couple of long-term caregivers, a doctor, a banker, a boxer, some Lancaster City policemen, and a few neighbors.  How did Charlie, with his fierce temper and sometimes entitled attitude, manage to endear himself to us all?  Maybe it was that he was authentic.  He was human.  Often apologizing when his temper got the best of him, he'd be the first to admit he wasn't perfect.  He let people into his life.  He was brave enough to ask for help.  Though he could be exasperating, we all loved him.

Charlie brought me face-to-face with my own humanity.  I'll be the first to admit that I didn't welcome all of his phone calls and requests for help over the years.  When we moved to Church Street ten years ago, we did so with the hope (and at points, arrogant confidence), that we would be a caring presence for all of our neighbors, responding to every need and invitation.  The truth is that, despite my best efforts, I'm really selfish.  I'm not a perfect neighbor or perfect in any way for that matter.   The ways that I responded, or didn't respond, to Charlie demonstrates this.  I write this not to be self-deprecating, but to be real.  Sometimes I feel like I can't hold my own life together, that I need a lot of help myself.  Maybe we all feel at least a little bit this way, even those of us who appear to be superheroes.  Charlie's presence, his imperfection, his invitations were such a gift to me.  He showed me that it's OK to be needy and to ask others for help.  And he showed me that it's possible for others to love you even after letting your true self show, adult pull-up and all.

Charlie, I love you.  Thank you for the life lessons you've taught me.  I hope you're dancing with Dolly, laughing with the other loved ones you met during your life's journey, and eating to your heart's content.




Have you never heard?  Have you never understood?  The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of all the earth.  He never grows weak or weary.  No one can measure the depths of his understanding.  He gives power to the weak and strength to the powerless.  Even youths will become weak and tired, and young men will fall in exhaustion.  But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.  They will soar high on wings like eagles.  They will run and not grow weary.  They will walk and not faint.  Isaiah 40:28-31

An Invitation to the Deep

For our family, the local public pool is like an oasis, a welcome diversion and a life-giving place in the middle of an otherwise over scheduled summer.   The pool serves as a meeting location for impromptu gatherings with friends and provides a time for Andrew and Natalie to get more deliberate attention from Dave and me as they work on their swimming skills.  Both kids had their yearly 2-week swimming lesson sessions earlier this summer and have made notable progress, with 6-year-old Andrew now able to swim underwater and 4-year-old Natalie blowing bubbles underwater and kicking those legs.

Yesterday, in an attempt to beat the forecasted thunderstorms, we arrived at the pool early in the afternoon.  Considering that it was the weekend, it was a quiet day there.  Though unfortunate for pool business, I prefer days like this, when fewer swimmers means that I can easily spot my kids in the water and that we have the space to try new things.  Noticing an empty spot in the deeper water next to two lifeguards and a ladder, at the far corner of the pool, where the shallow waters quickly become deeper, I jumped at the chance to get the kids out there to work on their swimming skills and to increase their confidence in the deep water.

“Do you want to come to the deep with me?” I asked.

Andrew wasn’t interested, but Natalie came willingly, hugging my neck and riding on my back, her leg kicks acting as her contribution toward our forward movement.  With some effort, I was able to encourage her to jump into my arms from the poolside.  After several jumps, I saw the depth marking on the side of the pool.  Three feet, six inches.  Andrew is at least four feet tall now I thought.  I’m sure that Andrew can stand in this water.

I waved at Andrew, who was back at the other end of the pool, motioning for him to join us in the deep.  He waved back at me, indicating that he wanted me to come to him.  I waved with more force and enthusiasm.  This time, Andrew started moving in my direction.

“Andrew, the water’s only three feet, six inches here,” I shouted.  “I’m sure you can stand here.”

“No I can’t.”

Coming closer, I tried again.  “But Andrew, you’re at least four feet tall now.  I’m sure you can touch the bottom and keep your head above the water, even if it means standing on your toes.  It will open up a whole new world of possibilities to you.  Come on, let’s go and try.”

“I don’t believe you.  It will be above my head.”

“Trust me.  Come on, I will carry you.”

Reluctantly, he agreed that I could pick him up and carry him back to the deeper water, where I left Natalie hanging on the ladder.  Andrew allowed me to slowly lower him into the water, his rigid body revealing that he was still very afraid.  Chin down, he looked into the water and pointed his toes, hoping to touch the bottom.  When he first sensed the bottom of the pool, Andrew smiled, and he laughed.  His tension ceased, and joy emerged.  He started trying out his series of swimming skills, stroking down to try to touch the bottom, then quickly swimming to the surface and grabbing the side of the pool. 

“Now in the pool I can go wherever I want, right Mommy?”

*******

The deep of the pool reminds me of my own deep, that vast expanse of unknown out there waiting for me.  I see it.  It’s just barely out of reach.  I sit in the shallow end, listening to the joyful screams and laughter and gazing at the life happening out there.  Most of the time, I’m content to watch.  After all, I like the shallow end, which has its own charms.  I can easily stand here, and things are familiar.  But sometimes, I long for the opportunity to venture in to the deep, without knowing what exactly will happen there, but with expectation and hope that it will be something truly amazing.
  

When I receive invitations to the deep, I have my handy list of responses ready: I’m not smart enough, pretty enough, good enough, fast enough.  I’m not capable.  I don’t have enough money or the right skills or resources.  I’m too busy.  I don’t like being out there where everyone can see me.  I have young children to take care of, and I’m tired.  But sometimes, the right person or situation convinces me to say yes.  I can make it to the deep with their help, and more than just make it, I can stand there, toes reaching the bottom.  I can practice my own swimming skills, growing in confidence and finding new joy.  

When I say yes to the invitation and travel to the deep, I feel alive.  And I feel empowered to try new things too -- maybe say yes to the next invitation instead of relying on my typical excuses.  I invite others to join me, longing to see their excitement when they discover that they too can play in the deep.  I want my kids to experience this with me: my decision to say yes to invitations that aren’t safe or easy, my struggle in attempting things unfamiliar, and my joy in discovering new and empowering truths.

City Life

(Over the next few weeks, I'm taking an online writing class.  I'm looking forward to all that I will learn!  I will post some of the writing here.  I do plan to get back to writing more about running and water, maybe even as a part of this class.  Thanks for taking the time to read!)


My friends will tell you that I’m passionate about city life.  On some days, I’m smitten.  I felt that way, especially in the beginning, when everything was new.  I arrived in a small city called Lancaster a couple of years after graduating from college.  It’s a mysterious place, smack in the middle of hearty Amish country and acres upon acres of farmland, but with a diverse population including whites of German ancestry, African Americans, Latinos, and more recently, refugees from Southeast Asia.  And then there’s my husband and I, who twelve years ago were newcomers to Lancaster County and its unique culture, a culture that is evolving as more “foreigners” like us have reason to come and make lives for ourselves here.

In the beginning, walking to market, testing different running routes, finding favorite restaurants, and meeting new friends quickly became treasured activities.  During any one of these pastimes, I could be with people from many different backgrounds.  I loved the discovery and the learning.  It was all so very new and fun and interesting to me.

When my husband and I purchased a house, I started to see Lancaster as our home.  On our block were several neighbors who had lived on our street for years and years and were eager to tell us about their city life experiences.  We’d often meet one of these neighbors, an elderly gentleman named Charlie, on the sidewalk as he was preparing to make his weekly trip to market.  We’d exchange pleasantries, talk about the glorious farm and Pennsylvania Dutch goodies that Charlie was about to purchase, and discuss the latest neighborhood news, which often involved someone parking in someone else’s space or a complaint about Peggy storing her scooter in their shared alleyway.  A few years later, when Charlie was no longer able to make the trip to market and I started to make frequent stops there, complete with stroller and kids, I’d get a list from Charlie: fresh tomatoes, a dill pickle, two half pints of chicken pot pie, four beef hot dogs, and three small bags of Utz potato chips.  When I’d return to his house with his food and his money, he’d always be sure to hand back some change for the kids’ piggy banks.  It was the same song and dance every time.  Initially, I’d refuse the money, but he’s always been more stubborn than I, and eventually I’d receive his gift and thank him.  

This is city life at its finest: opportunity for relationships with others not like me, shared experiences (good and bad) leading to solidarity, helping one another.

I often say that the city can bring out the best and the worst in people.  After a while, the things that once made city life so fresh and invigorating started to wear on me.  Excitement about being with people of other backgrounds lessened as I realized that it is easier to be around people just like me.  The running routes, restaurants, and routines became old and tired.  And then there are the other small annoyances adding up over time: people hitting our cars and neglecting to leave insurance information, missing porch plants, escaped pets and stray cats in our backyard, a stone through our living room window, limited living space.  Friends are moving on to their bigger homes with spacious backyards.  I feel cramped, stationary, and angry at that stranger who just took the parking space right in front of our house!

Even relationship with Charlie is strained.  Bedridden now, he calls at night wanting me to adjust the temperature control on his heater.  He calls to complain about his nurses and our neighbors.  He calls asking me to visit.  When I don’t visit as often, he calls to check whether my phone number has changed.

When I stopped getting phone calls from Charlie, I went down to his house to check on him.  He didn’t recognize me that night.  He was confused and cold to the touch.  The next morning, surrounded by close friends that he has collected over the years, it was clear that the end was near.  Or so we thought.  Charlie is as stubborn as ever, even in death.  Waiting with Charlie binds us together.  Despite my weary and sometimes bitter description of city life these days, times such as these, the precious moments and relationships, keep me holding on.  Gratitude for both the sacred and mundane city life experiences results in hope.  This hope causes the frustration to dissipate, at least temporarily, and allows me to tolerate the closeness.

My Loss: Someone Else's Gain

Yesterday was my birthday, and on my birthday, I am reflective.  I crave time to rest and remember, to gain perspective and seek direction for the year ahead.

In an effort to make some space for pondering on my birthday, I began my day with a run.  Lacing up my shoes, I included some money for a stop at our local farmer's market on the way home.  Cool morning breezes and abundant sunshine met me as I got on my way.  Feeling grateful for the beauty of the day, I wondered if it was too self-focused for me to believe that God was celebrating me and giving me a gift in the weather.  My steady pace and hopeful thoughts were interrupted when I stopped to confirm that my market money was still in my shoe and found it missing.  I stood there, careful to check both shoes and the sidewalk at my feet before jumping to hasty conclusions.  But I was right the first time; the money was nowhere to be found.  This had been my practice -- including money for market in my tight shoelaces -- on many runs, and I never managed to lose money before.  As I turned to retrace my steps, a vain attempt to find the cash on city sidewalks already dotted with pedestrians, the feelings of shame welled up inside.  How could I be so stupid as to run with money in my shoe.  Why didn't I tie my laces tighter?  These kinds of thoughts went on for a little while.  Maybe the thinking was a bit extreme, given that it was only $16 that I had lost.  But I guess loss does that to you.  Loss brings on all of these intense emotions -- disbelief that something is permanently gone, shame that you failed to make a decision that would have kept this from happening, sadness when you realize that no matter how hard you try you can't recover what is gone, and fear that something like this will happen again.  The next time I run with money, I'll be determined to hold onto it.  It will be in a tight pocket, or better yet, in my hands, where nothing can take it away from me.  The fear of loss causes us to think some crazy thoughts.

As I continued my reflective birthday run, which turned into a reconnaissance mission for my money, I remembered a time when my sister lost her market money.  I felt so badly for her at the time and offered to help her look for the money, but she shrugged, and in her thoughtful and gracious way replied, "maybe there was someone who needed the money that I lost this morning."  When I considered this possibility, it lifted the weight of my negative thoughts.  Maybe someone else needed my money.  My loss will be someone else's gain.

Thoughts of lost money turned to thoughts of lost life as I attended a funeral for a friend's son later that morning.  Only 20-years-old, he died as a result of a motorcycle accident last week.  Stories shared about him provided evidence of a full life -- one of adventure, relationship, ingenuity, and care for others.  One that had no room for fear.  Donating vital organs to multiple recipients, he was full of life even in death.  Bittersweet this is.  His loss, his family's deep and painful loss, becomes someone else's gain.  Others gain life because he lost his.  

Despite the weight and severity of a physical death, a loss that makes missing money seem so trivial, I couldn't help but wonder if real loss occurs in a life that is too protected.  When you get on a motorcycle, you know the risks that are involved.  You've seen the accident reports in the newspaper.  You've heard stories from friends.  Perhaps you even know someone who died on a bike.  But you still get on and enjoy the ride, despite the risks, because you are fully alive when you're out there negotiating a tight turn or feeling the wind against your face and hair.  If you never get on the bike at all, you're never fully alive.  In this case, you don't have much to lose.  But is this really a worthy consolation?

So a question emerges during my day of reflection, a day marked by birthday festivities, missing money, and a funeral.  What kind of life are you living?  Is it one where you cling to the securities of material possessions or accomplishments, hover over your children to ensure their physical safety, and attempt to control how others feel about you?  What kind of life is this?  I want to get out on the road, attempt a difficult turn, and feel the wind through my hair.



** This story made me think of the Jesus's caution, recalled in the gospels.  Jesus said, “If any of you wants to be my follower, you must turn from your selfish ways, take up your cross, and follow me. ³⁵ If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake and for the sake of the Good News, you will save it. ³⁶ And what do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul? ³⁷ Is anything worth more than your soul?"  -Mark 8:34-37