I've always been sensitive, but I never experienced the typical emotional swings of puberty. When I'm unexpectedly emotional I blame it on not getting it out of my system when I was fourteen. For instance, this morning, there was snow on the sidewalk and I suddenly pictured
Isaac in our childhood home shoveling off the deck, our deck that was
always unfinished even though we started building it when I was six. And
then I saw my grandpa springing up the two sets of deck steps and
letting himself in. He apologized for letting in the cold too and for
tracking in snow. He blew his nose in his handkerchief. And then he
smiled, and his ears were so big his hat didn't cover them all the way.
It
was a wonderful, happy memory and I shared it with Maryah as I stood up from
the table where I'd been eating oatmeal in our rented dining room, walked over to the rented sink. The
second I finished telling it, though, my smiling lips quivered. I washed
my bowl to regain composure, sorting through all the emotions that had just collided on a clear highway on a sunny day.
Perhaps I am prone to
this sort of weakness because I was recently close to another death.
This past month I had the privilege of helping put on my
neighbor's funeral. The Catholic church is only a few blocks from my
house, but I had never been inside. The service, which found me in the
cold, pale blue, musty nave on a Friday afternoon, was one metaphor
after another, each ritual charged with symbolism. The priest's kind
eloquence masked my uncertainty—born of my protestant-ness—when I
stood before the small gathering of mourners. There were more people in
the choir than there were in the congregation.
My formal black dress is
sleeveless, and I'd wrapped myself in a gray-blue scarf to stay warm,
but I still kept getting chills. I was happy when I was back in my car. I
had parked on the street, in the sun, and the black leather interior
was warm. I sat there, thinking about the brief, excruciatingly intimate
period of time I'd known my neighbor, and thinking again, for the
millionth time, about converting to Catholicism.
Wouldn't that be ironic. Protestant girl who went to Italy twice to evangelize Catholics becomes Catholic herself.
I
digress...the metaphors and the ties to tradition are appealing, but I can't cash
in on reformed doctrine, no matter how painful it gets sometimes.
It's
not like I don't have metaphors to keep me company. Take running, for
example (I'm so thankful the apostle Paul liked writing about running).
let us run with endurance the race that is set before us (Hebrews 12.1)
Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. (1 Cor. 9.24)
Running
and I have been hanging out again lately. I mean, we've been going
steady for years, but sometimes it's more intense than others.
Last
week, preceding this nor'easter, we were under a wind advisory. It was a
little fierce. I decided to complete an out-and-back running route:
west before east. The
first half was hard because running into a strong wind is hard. You
expend more effort than usual and accomplish less than usual. But when I
turned around and ran with the wind, the air felt still, smooth. The
mid-morning sun warmed my chilled, salty skin. The stars (i.e., blood
sugar, lack of muscle soreness, hormones, good night's sleep, playlist)
aligned and I found the sweet spot pace—a little under 10 min/mile,
for me—and the last half was almost easy.
I run because I'm in search of a metaphor. Every time I run, I find
one. It's often the same metaphor, but I need to experience it over and
over again. I live off of metaphors. Especially this one: it's hard, but it will be worth it.
The key is not to turn around out of the wind and head home too soon.
Don't head home too soon.
Actually, maybe, never turn around.
Running is horrible. But, a little like Eric Liddell (I'm sure not to the same extent), "When I run I feel God's pleasure."
I'm
still looking for the career/post-college-work scenario equivalent to
running. Something that, even if it's horrible, I feel God's pleasure
while doing it.
Something that's not comfortable.
Something that's not boring.
Something
that doesn't come with health insurance, or a retirement plan, or paid
vacation, even though that's what my degree could land me in, instantly.
Life is short, and I'm constantly aware of my
mortality. On the one hand, that makes me want to build a huge stone
wall topped with barbed wire around a stone house full of Anthropologie
things and stay safe in it, with multiple insurance policies. I want
stability, the 9 to 5, organic apples, a family doctor who stays my
doctor for 20 years, the same set of friends who come over every Friday
night, and the go-to vacation spot.
But then there's
the voice coming from my other shoulder, that says that's not the life I
was made for, that water breaks are okay, but let's stretch out the
faith and run.
Bear in mind that I write this from the
comfort of a huge leather armchair, in slippers and a cozy sweater with a
cup of sleepy-time tea. And I will probably be a suck-up and take a
county job and do the American thing and spend my first paycheck in
Anthropologie.
But, in these final two months of being a grad student, I'll dream while I can. Dream of being more courageous than I am.
They
acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. For
people who speak thus make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If
they had been thinking of that land from which they had gone out, they
would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better
country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be
called their God, for he has prepared for them a city.
(Hebrews 11:13-16 ESV)
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