Mountains, Valleys and Marathons

Humility is realizing that a lovely, smiling grandmother, a race walker and several hundred people of all shapes, sizes and ages have just left you in their dust in a half marathon.

The very idea of walking 13.1 miles, let alone running it, wouldn’t have occurred to me a year ago. Now a participant medal and my bib number, #1051, are attached to my home office bulletin board. April 17, 2010. It’s kind of surreal.

So are the thoughts that go through your mind during a race of that length — and sometimes the blankness of your mind — while bystanders ring bells and hoot and clap and the scenery changes from neighborhood streets to rough trails to parking lots.

I had a mix of music for the run that ranged from pumped-up Black Eyed Peas to gutsy Barley Girl. Half the time I didn’t hear it as my mind chattered on about an upcoming incline or annoyance at losing my pace in a sudden jam of runners.

Halfway through the race you start to bargain and give yourself pep talks. “I can make it to the next mile marker.” “Okay, I can make it to the next sign.” “Okay, the next person who starts walking…I can catch that person!!!”

At times you are alone. Then you are in a crowd. Then a different crowd. Then alone again.

You get mad at yourself for not training harder, for being slow, for thinking too much, for not having more fans cheering you on, for being envious of the faster runners.

Just when you think you must be one of the last people to get through this unbelievable trial, somebody shouts to you: “Quarter mile; you’re almost there!” “Finish right around the corner!” Something in you revives. You believe you’re going to make it. Your legs start to pump, you hear the music again and run down a chute to cheers and clapping and someone announcing your name.

You find out later that a few people didn’t finish. They signed up. They trained. But they either didn’t show up or didn’t finish what they started. That, too, is humbling.

Standing on the other side of the finish line, I felt a bit surprised. Did I really just do that? Could I do it again? Could I do it better now that I know the terrain, the pace, the obstacles and opportunities? Lord, I hope so.

I hate to make the tired comparison that a long race is just like life, but there are too many similarities to discount. I don’t know if I’ll ever run that distance again, but it is one of just a few times (so far) when I have been simultaneously humbled and overjoyed.

Now take that mountaintop experience and translate it to the every day ordinary encounters, the project deadline, a struggling friend, the housework, a sick child or community need. To be simultaneously humbled and full of joy in those moments is a much better measure of success.

When I am at the end of my life (yes, the final and ultimate race), I hope to look back with both humility and joy. I want to be surprised by my capacity to love, work, apologize and forgive. If I have a cheering section, I hope it comes from heaven. And when I meet my God, I hope he announces my name.

When in Doubt, Go to the Balcony

I read somewhere that when you dream about being in a house, it often represents aspects of yourself.

Last night, I dreamt that I was in a house — filled with clutter. It didn’t seem to be my house or my clutter, but I felt that I had to clean it up. Then I noticed the cat puke. The living room rug was covered with different spots of cat puke. Some of them had been doused with rug cleaner and were already bubbling. The others I started to spray myself.

But the whole time, I knew that this wasn’t my house and these weren’t my cats. It wasn’t my mess. I was frustrated about the mess, but more frustrated that I was there in the first place.

Had I climbed to the balcony of this house in my dream, it may have shown me a way out or at least shown me the actual size of the problem. I may have realized that we all have our messes to clean up, but focusing on our own mess first is always best.

The minute we start bending and hovering over another person’s mess, we’re on our hands and knees with a bottle of rug cleaner looking foolish. But from the balcony the people and situations look more alike — fragile and messy and hopeful — backs bent and heads bowed, an authentic picture of survival and learning and living.

From the balcony, we can look up and out and over. There is better lighting. Sound carries farther. It isn’t a place to hide or sit in judgment, but a place to rest and reflect.

Climbing out of the crowds to a higher place and view is not meant to separate us from our responsibilities. It is simply a breath…a stepping back from the ledge…so we can return to the crowds to do and act and serve in healthy ways.

And we have to return. Contemplation for its own sake — without right action — is just as foolish. If we stay in the balcony too long, it becomes its own distraction from reality.

Any mother will tell you that there is always something to clean or fix. But we should always take time to discern our own mess from someone else’s.

As we teach our kids, so we teach ourselves:

1. If it’s your mess, clean it up.
2. If it isn’t your mess, ask how you can help.
3. If your help is not requested or acknowledged, take a break in the balcony.
4. Return to #1.