Backstretches

As any of my former track coaches could attest to, the longer distance races were not my specialty. My high school coach often joked that he would need to pull out a calendar to time my quarter mile. As I progressed to the 800m “dash” in college, I did so with trepidation because it hurt. Whether I ran it in 3:03 or 2:23, the pain always met me along the way. The fear subsided as I grew in confidence that a) I wouldn’t die. b) I could improve each time. c) I only had to run it 2-3 times a year. d) The 800 is way easier than the 400. (It’s not logical and highly disputed by those who run the shorter race, but let them enjoy pools of lactic acid in their butts.)

There is one stretch of the 800 that required a certain amount of extra focus, desire, and guts. At the 500 mark, with just 300 to go, one is faced with a seemingly endless straight backstretch. Due to track construction methods, this stretch is often into the wind and lacking any sort of stadium area for cheering. It is here that one realizes how much more is left. It’s as if the 800 has started over. For me, a curve girl, the straight track simply felt like a desert without an oasis. But of course, once I made it to the corner, I had but 175 meters to go and an end literally in sight.

Why bring up this now, you might ask? A valid question especially since I’m no longer training for such short races but instead want to tackle 26.2 miles. A marathon is just slow, endless and somehow thrilling in its own insane way, but not a proper analogy at this point in time. No, the 800 race reminds me of my current life.

Mac and I have worked out a system so that we’re both as productive as possible (he is succeeding way more than I am) and still attentive to each other despite living in different cities. Every other weekend we visit each other, enjoy a nice dinner or go to a show, and catch up on SEEING each other as we share stories and make plans.

Well, as I’ve come to notice, this is like running an 800 with that middle weekend posing as the looming backstretch. The two weeks fly by when we’re both busy, running the curves I might say, and living for the moment. But the lactic acid build-up and long straight stretch always greet me on the weekend. I know that I’m half way there, but tell that to my heart. Finally on Sunday night, I realize how close we are to reuniting. I’ve hit the curve, see the end in sight, and can’t wait to collapse into his arms.

Like the 800 races I ran, I know I will survive these relationship races. I find way too much joy in a heptathlon and in Mac to let this one little portion of the event keep me down. So instead of looking at my calendar to cross off the days, I’m going to hit the gym and my knees in prayer so the backstretches become a strong part of my race.

Today took shape...

A couple days ago I decided to run a marathon in Casper at the being in June. Yeah, IN shape is what I need to be. So when the first couple miles started to hurt, I tried to think about the yoga I did the day before and its mantra to shape your energies around a clear mind and relaxed breath. I know that LONG DISTANCE running shape will come, but as a sprinter, I have a tendency to want to rush these processes.

Since my new engagement ring is a little too big, I found a jeweler to make it perfect. Now that’s a tall order. Oh, the education one needs for all the decisions one makes is a bit mind-boggling. I love the look of my ring; G-Gpa Quire had great taste, but after 100 years even perfect metals wear down. So now I’m left to decide if I keep the ring with a different size, start all over, do an in between option or just stare at it, hoping the diamond will tell me what it was made for. The flow and size and color will all be wonderful in the end, and small changes for structural purposes will only enhance my pleasure in wearing it.

While I was in the wedding mood (which is practically constant these days (I’m only 2 weeks in) my maid of honor and I stopped at the neighboring bridal shop to try on dresses. Talk about a reality check. This spontaneous shopping excursion brought two things really into focus: 1) horizontal tapering is not flattering and 2) I’m the one behind this dress, getting married. Mermaid cut, cupcake poof and princess bigness is not my shape. But there’s a dress out there for me, just the right shape.

Finally, in reflecting about all these “shaping” moments, I thought about how the engagement and the marriage are really meant for shaping me. Not like whittling me away to a servant or even molding me on a high pedestal. Instead, my shape in personality, emotions, aptitudes and passions compliment Mac’s shape. Every shape has a purpose, round to roll and square to stack, so I know that my shape, Mac’s shape, and our shape as a couple will have a purpose. I’m sure any wise, married person could tell me how much I say is true and completely incomprehensible right now. But so are pyramids to toddlers playing with triangle blocks. So in ignorant bliss and humility, I’ll claim I can calculate when I’m in running form, touch my smooth ring, and see my body in a white dress, but know the shape of my future only when its revealed over time, corner by corner, side by side.

Midsommer Celebration

With enough strawberries in my belly for a whole pie and more fun than one can handle in a single party, I just returned home from an afternoon of partying the old Swedish style. In Sweden, Midsommer is as big as Christmas, if not more so, and they make the most of it (18 hours of daylight during this time of the year). It's a national holiday so people get the last Friday of June off from work so they can visit their lake cabins and participate in the festivities of the day.

The Downey family took my to Sigtuna, one of the oldest towns in Sweden, where we participated in the local and folk traditions. A short parade of people dressed in folk dancing costumes carried a Maypole through the main street, the same street that the Vikings trekked over 1500 years ago. In the Center Square and park, they erected the Maypole and began the many silly dances. Children abounded, some in traditional dress and many with a halo of flowers on their heads. The colors were as bright as a Christmas tree.

The meal followed with an assortment of sil (a specially prepared herring dish), other fish dishes, Swedish meatballs, potatoes and salad. We ate to our heart content only to realize that the Swedish cakes were on their way. The youth of our group prepared layered cakes of whipped cream, cake and strawberries. A Swedish man who had joined our party made pecan pie so the Americans also enjoyed a taste of home.

The evening continued with games such as Kubb and dancing on Wii. Kubb is a Swedish game similar to horseshoes, but involves teams and is much more fun and harder than it looks. Wii Dance made us all laugh as all of us, youth and adults, swung our hips and tried to stay in step with the rhythms.

I give thanks for the collection of countries represented (Australia, America, Sweden, England, Switzerland, and Canada) that can fellowship in celebration for a new season, delicious food, universal interactive game, and life. This in my mind is as good of a national holiday as I can imagine.

Uppsala and down

A few plans fell through here in there with plans to ferry to Finland or ride the train to Gothenburg, Sweden, but in hindsight our flexibility offered us the best plan we could make. Tuesday morning, early for some ☺ but right on time for others, Mac and I jumped on a regional train to Uppsala. This quaint but lively city 40 minutes north of Stockholm is the home to a university from the 15th century and citizens from times as early as 600 A.D. The streets are bustling with fruit stands, mothers pushing their kids in heavy duty strollers (these strollers are made for commuting through blizzards), shops of every bit of fabric, book, second hand nik-naks or pastry you could want.

We climbed off the train in search of our guesthouse and went the wrong way. (My fault.) And then we came upon Wayne’s Coffee. It’s the closest thing to an American coffee shop around so my companion was thrilled. (Also my fault.) Armed with a cool, caffeinated drink we turned around and found Eva at the Samaritan Guesthouse.

Formerly used to house and train deacons from the Church of Sweden, it now hosts guests and conferences all year round. We had a simple but accommodating room with shared kitchen and bathroom facilities down the hall. Couldn’t have asked for anything better especially since we could check in at 9:30am, drop our extra stuff and head out. After a leisurely morning reading and resting, we went to the park along the river to eat our homemade pizza packed for lunch. We promenaded through the park where we found a small amphitheater (though, Daniel, it looked like a baseball diamond on the map) where an ABBA sing-along would take place at the end of June. Bummer- just missed it. Walking through the seats, however, I’m a little concerned for anyone coming in go-go boots; the aisles are big or smooth enough to dance. We found a track in the park, and, yes, they’re the same everywhere…they all make me smile.

Highlights of the afternoon:
Gustavo Museum: Anatomical theatre where surgeries occurred towered up into the top of the dome.

Uppsala Cathedral: Gothic church with amazing stain glass windows. It was the first time Mac had experienced a church like that so seeing an old church with new eyes was particularly special.

Lemon Creperie: We needed a little snack late in the afternoon but when one stumbles on a place that lists over 20 different types of delicious crepes made to order, dinner becomes the name of the meal. We had a crepe with tomato, ham and cheese and another with Nutella, coconut and ice cream on top. Heaven seemed a little bit closer with the tastes in my mouth and sun warming my back.

Ergonomic benches: Rather than an upright backed seat, we found a row of lounge benches along the river.

Movie Theater: Though we decided not to pay $30 to see an old movie such as True Grit, it was interesting to experience the atmosphere. All movies are shown in the original language with Swedish subtitles added.

Wednesday morning, after a great night’s sleep despite it being the longest day, we went to the complimentary breakfast. True to the European form, we had our choice to a lot of bread, meats, cheeses, hard-boiled eggs and yogurt, plus tea or coffee of course. Completely full we hopped on a bus toward Gamla Uppsala (Old Uppsala) where large hills/mounds cover the remains of buried royalty/chiefs from back in 600A.D. Some of the mounds have been excavated, but archeologists are still uncovering entire houses and burial sites along the ridges of Gamla Uppsala. While it looks like a serene area of rolling hills, there is much history and legends buried within the landscape.

We finished our trip as we started, with sweets treats and a train ride. On our Wednesday wanderings we discovered Landings, a bakery with yummy pastries and cute marzipan figures. Promising to stop before leaving Uppsala, we descended upon the store with wide eyes and great indecision. Or at least that’s how I felt. Couldn’t I have a little taste of each one? Finally, we (I) decided and with three tantalizing treats, went outside in the sun to enjoy them. Oh the crème. Oh the richness. Oh the surprises. Oh how I wish could indulge all the time. Satisfied beyond belief we boarded the train back home where I now sit with a cup of tea, smiling on the many upps of our trip.

European Yogurt

I prefer this Swedish yogurt “Yoggi” that I’m eating right now. It’s thicker, less sweet but still as flavorful as that in America. I know the many reasons why yogurt is different in various countries; I’ve read a book or two about it. But I’m here to champion Swedish yogurt.

Traveling offers countless opportunities to compare, contrast, and sometimes criticize the new or home worlds. Of course, most of the differences are just that and don’t really engender superior value. Just because I enjoy Swedish yogurt better than what I find in Safeway doesn’t mean Sweden is a far more excellent country. It just means my breakfast is a bit more enjoyable. Comparing and contrasting is impossible not to do as humans. Not only is it necessary for survival (i.e. on public transport I have to keep my things close in order to avoid pickpockets even if at home I leave things in my car overnight.) but it’s also an enjoyable exercise that opens one’s eyes to the world as it has never been before (i.e. I rarely see men in bright colored pants and blazers conducting business in America.)

On Saturday evening, the Downeys hosted a dinner party of 3 couples from their international church. The table included a Polish couple, a Chicago-native and her Swedish husband, and a Danish woman and her American husband. Conversations flowed beautifully with unique turns and clops of accents. We shared stories of travel, pondered the differing characteristics of churches in Europe and America, and ate a wonderful meal of BBQ hamburgers. I learned that getting a driver’s license in Sweden is extra difficult because the culture is based around public transport. I recognized that tithing is more an American practice while Europeans give offerings at church. I discovered that despite knowing several languages, a skill most Americans only dream of having, obtaining a job in a global market is just as taxing and trying as it is in America.

The variety of this world is remarkable and to think that God has a plan and purpose for each of us in our own little pocket of this planet continues to strike me with awe. But I think God in all his wisdom realized that the differences were necessary for us to be interested in each other. Yes, this is a very Western idea since the Japanese tend to focus on similarities more than differences. But the point remains: in our sweet or tangy or thicker or runnier ways, each person and place can enhance human life and make both guests and hosts more of who they’re meant to be by sharing perspectives.

Walking, lunching, singing Star Wars theme music…it’s all universal.

The first full day in Stockholm found us still without a bag in the morning, but much more alive after sleep, a shower, and toast with Nutella. If you haven’t experienced the wonders of this spread (good for anything including celery which we combo-ed for lunch) don’t fret about buying a ticket to Sweden. Just run to the nearest grocery store and treat yourself to a little bit of heaven- it’s a universal heavenly experience. Armed with water bottles, a picnic lunch and the camera, Helen, Valerie, Mac and I took the train/metro to downtown.

Stockholm is made of several islands that are connected with bridges and ferries. The Downeys live north of town on a separate island so we commuted over the water inlet and arrived on the Rodeo Drive of Stockholm. Too bad I had exchanged any money yet, though I’m sure Armani or Guess in Sweden could melt my plastic as quickly as American stores- it’s universal. Passing through this chic part of town, the four of us found ourselves walking along the water and the famous street Strandvägen (strand=beach, vägen=beach). Boathouses, ferries, sailboats both large and small lined the harbor. We gawked at the Swedes relaxing and lounging in couches provided at open-air cafes. Maybe I’ll go back to soak up the tan skin and bleached-colored hair like the rest of the natives. Blondes have more fun- it’s a universal truth.

Djurgården welcomed us with green grass, luscious trees and more geese than we knew what was good for us. Hissing from a bird is a frightening sound so even though the goslings were super cute and fluffy, taking one home as a pet was out of the question. Instead we trekked up and down the paths through this protected natural land until we reached a large garden with benches and a fountain at Rosendal. The fountain was that of a boy riding a goose, which deemed appropriate as we were but half way done with our picnic and a flock came waddling over for a drink of the stale water. Their in-take didn’t distract us as much as their out-put habits, but we were able to manage especially when the Reese’s Pieces came out- it’s a universal truth.

After another hour jaunting through the trees and past the carnival grounds, we ferried our way to Gamla Stan (Old Town). The narrow streets, uniquely colored buildings, numerous cafes, and cobbled streets gave the small island in the middle of this vast city a fun personality. The many tourists also added personality as they walked around as groups from Japan, made a fashion statement in patchwork and rainbow, and rejected all propriety when they insisted on their way. An outdoor concert played by the Swedish Wind Orchestra brightened our day with various pieces by Sondheim, George Gershwin and from the Harry Potter soundtrack. Accompanied by a little rest, nice coffee and children blowing bubbles for unknown new-age song, I found bliss. Bubbles make people smile no matter what age or place- it’s a universal joy.

Train rides home after a long day are the perfect place to nap so I immediately fell asleep on Mac’s shoulder, able to carry myself off the train just far enough to my bed for a longer snooze. Familial voices and smells of Swedish meatballs woke me up for an evening of chatting, sharing pictures, and listening to an informal piano concert by my travel companion, an experience which will only keep repeating itself while he’s here. His tremendous skill brings so much energy and awe- it’s a universal gift.

Off with the Eye-Mask

On June 14th I left for Sweden to visit friends, extended family really, and experience their beautiful new home. Traveling is such a unique way to grow and open my eyes that every time I get in a plane or hop in the car for an extended drive, I expect the extraordinary. It’s a time when the ordinary moments are experienced, lived out and found to be AWEsome.

I’m currently reading two books which is necessary for a 9.5 hour plane ride. The Nomad tells the story of a woman trekking around the world to experience cultures and create deep connections with the locals. In the current chapter the narrator joins the Indonesian government at a very special ceremony where the grandmother of a high-ranking official is properly buried deep within the jungle. Despite being solitary women traveling with the entourage, she throws off the outcast label to be included in each unique custom from exhuming the bones to drinking a local alcoholic drink from a skull. Her ordinary black mourning clothes danced in an AWEsome event.

The other book sets my thoughts on the revelations of God. Ordinary people make ordinary churches only to have God transform them through the Holy Spirit. Buildings and faulty people are made to live out this AWEsome transformation.

So now I find myself with Mac, two ordinary kids, traveling around the world, encountering every ordinary moment of the TSA, well-designed bathrooms, cloud shadows on the fields far below, Jesus rays and small airline meals. And these moments of discovering and living are miracles. We have the ability and opportunity to know deeply the ways of the world. I’m sure one has never been so esoteric about the TSA, but I insist that even those systems help me see the AWEsome.

being misguided by my own goodness

“Sometimes our greatest gifts can be the quickest way to sin.”

Walking with my dear college roommate brings me great pleasure (not to mention a cute figure) but also challenges my thoughts and actions. She once reminded me that Satan can use what we’re most good at to lead us astray, even if that simply means forgetting about God. I hate to admit it, but I had a taste of that today.

A family from Congo relocated here last July after leaving several years of “captivity” as refugees in camp. Life was hard with two meals a day of rice and beans all year long and no scenery or familiar landscape a part from the red dirt that surrounded the dwelling. So a new life in America seemed like a wonderful new life. Now the mom and kids are but a week away from being homeless.

These realities come with several long stories complicated by government systems, mistranslation, a hard winter, little understanding of the USA, and just life. I have no desire to go into these situations for the wrongs and rights, blessings and disappointments, joys and heartaches are too numerous to explain. The fact remains that this family’s life is broken and most tragically by not knowing where they will lay their head come June.

But don’t worry- here I come to save the day. SPLAT!

As a pro-active, driven, solution oriented person all I want to do is fix this circumstance. The family needs a new apartment? Here’s an application. Oh, she needs a reference? Let me send that to her work. A co-signer is necessary? With the ability to back her financially? With a mortgage? Um…I. I. Let me think.
And HERE is where I remain, thinking. I cannot afford to be her co-signer. I cannot move her into my place. I cannot even guarantee another place for her to live in six days. I cannot.

So even though my skills of networking, problem solving, and providing remedies seemed so necessary and sufficient, I know now what my roommate was saying. These talents distracted me from seeking out and relying on God. Instead I began to worship an idol of power and call on the name of organizational crisis management to rule over this issue.

God has to be in control. I can do what I can, but I cannot be God. He will fix or mold or handle this situation. I can be obedient, but I cannot decide for God. He will not grow weary of details or negate his promises. I can be bold, but I cannot be the strength of God.

God created the earth in six days and he didn’t call me for floor plans, operations management, and strategy consulting or even to fill up his coffee cup. Thus I’m letting God’s talents, untouched or obstructed by Satan, bring about utter goodness.

And I’ll use my talents to follow his lead.

this just in...

Developments in a friend’s life can leave a person searching for the right sentiments. Am I supposed to be happy or sad, excited or nervous, honest or just superficial? If I know the person well, I’m as truthful as I can be which often matches his or her sentiments. When my friends hurt, I hurt and when they bounce off the walls, I’m a pinball with them.

Today I shared some exciting news with my friend Rosette from the Congo. I told her I was planning a trip to Africa next summer. She cried out with great joy and delight, but just as suddenly, her cries brought tears. I’ve only ever seen this transformation in the movies, and I think the actors were holding onions. Rosette held nothing back; she didn’t fake a countenance of pure elation. Instead, she internalized the news and what it meant to her. It meant that her home seemed even further away, only to be visited by those who could afford in every way with time, money, and the liberties of US citizenship to go across the ocean. Well, that put me in another frame of mind, praying a pipe-dream of a prayer that she could go see her home and family someday soon. With God anything is possible, but in that small apartment with laundry to fold and lunch to make, that dream didn’t seem all that realistic.

I’m grateful the Bible tells us to mourn with those who mourn and dance with those who dance. Sometimes, when I’m not in the mood I need to just act in obedience to what God asked me to do. Go alongside a person in whatever state he or she might be in at present. I seek to be genuine and honest with my emotions and responses to news, and hopefully where my sentiments fall short God will fill in the gap with his own comfort or confirmation of exaltation.

Beyond just comfort or a God-sized smile, though, I think the greatest gift is Jesus’ promise to be our peace. Both moments of sadness and joy can be coupled with fear and anxiety for what the future holds. Only through the peace of God can I faithfully step forward into the reality of new developments. His peace assures me that I have security and love in him; it’s not a peace from the world that might show happy faces but gossips behind the back. His peace assures me of my worth in his eyes and the value he holds in my friends, especially those who shout with cheer and cry all in one moment.

no broken bones

When I was 11 years old remember distinctly wishing to break a leg. To break it for one day. I wanted to experience the pain, the crutches, the extra “get better soon” popsicles and ice cream and the test of maneuvering through school. As I had only had stitches once and no other major hospital visits, I desired the extreme. The extreme of senses and pain, emotion, challenge and in all honesty, attention. Now as a wise old woman (ha!) I realize everyday how lucky I am to be whole, at least with two unbroken legs.

Yet, as a wise old woman I still have childish fancies. I seek extremes in different areas of life. And like that of a broken leg, the extremes are those I’ve seen or heard about happening to other people. When I went to Africa, I so appreciated visiting the village and kind of wanted to stay there overnight. Never before had I been in a place or position of such humility and poverty. When my friend worked as a “sound gal” for a Tony Award winning Broadway musical, I wanted to experience the adrenaline rush of tech rehearsal, post show excitement and drinks, and the feeling of pure genius. And when my closest friends and family are sick or sad in a way that I can’t do anything but stand by, I instead want to feel the extremes of their pain and sorrow, if nothing else but to empathize with experiential clarity.

This thought process is probably the most unproductive wishing though, because not only would my life be completely altered by these circumstances, and not for just one day, but my role as I am meant to play (and am playing) would be lost. What good is a crippled friend to another crippled friend if they need to get somewhere? What good is another tech person when the show needs an amazed audience member? What good is extra heartache in comparison to the dry and waiting shoulder?

This life has offered me a great many opportunities to live out extremes of emotion, senses, excitement, desire, fear, and hope. I’m utterly grateful for these experiences and the ability to embrace them in their proper time. So as the weeks move beyond days of celebrations, heartache, suspension, limbo and the extremes that others knew, I’m praying that I can content myself with my wholeness as is. May I better grasp how that wholeness is a gift to connect me to others instead of the sign of empty empathy.

hope a la mode

My housemate walked in the door this afternoon, dropped her bags and pulled out a bowl that she filled with frozen berries. She proceeded to make a full dinner with broccoli and all…oh and of course the berry crisp! Unless starvation has ensued, neither of us are that commandeering of the kitchen. But she had another mission. It wasn’t just dinner. Or food. Or a new recipe. It was a gift for her friends. Lately her friends have been dealing with the troubles and worries of a complicated pregnancy, one with a lot of questions and few reassuring answers. So my housemate made dinner for the couple and enjoyed a meal and time with them.

A friend from church emailed a bunch of ladies, looking for help. Another church member was undergoing emergency surgery. With boys at home, food had to be provided. So without hesitation, I made dinner for the family. An easy recipe made complete with a warm loaf of French bread was the offering I could deliver in the midst of this precarious time.

A family I love moves to Mississippi in about a month. The couple needed a chance to go out for a “unique” dinner and some time together before packing up their young daughter and heading south. So my sis and I gladly offered to babysit. I brought dinner for us all and then we played with Sesame Street finger puppets.

All these circumstances could have happier parts. My housemate could have gone over to celebrate a couple as they get ready for a new life in their midst. Instead, she just needed to be with them in this less than carefree moment in time. Likewise, surgery or moving don’t wrap me up in warm fuzzies. They are parts of life, kinda the gloomy parts, that have to be lived along with the rainbows and butterflies.

On my way home from babysitting, I thought of how Jesus ate dinner with people who had terrible diseases, women who were shunned from society, and friends who grieved. He could have and often did relieve these people of the heartaches of life, but actually promised to do more. He promised to share a meal, a dinner, with everyone; it was a meal that would help them remember him. This dinner also showed them how life, in all its circumstances, can be endured with perseverance and hope. As the Apostle Paul said, “Hope does not disappoint.”

I realized no amount of ice cream or cards or hugs or petitions to the people in charge can fix a circumstance. I’m good at doing those things. But Jesus didn’t want us to rely on such distractions. He wanted us to remember him because he gives life, and he gives peace unlike any that the world could give. He’s also helps us with perspective which I think is a huge part of persevering. Tomorrow is another day with new possibilities and no mistakes. And when the gloom recedes behind the sun, I’ll take that circumstance in stride, celebrating with a dinner and hope.