Number Six

This picture was taken in 2010, the year after I ran my first marathon. I'd always assumed that I'd only run one race that distance, but as soon as I crossed the finish line I knew I'd do my best to do it forever. Maybe not every year, maybe never any faster than that first one, but forever. 

When I started running I was fat. Not chubby. Obese. Nobody would have ever looked at me and thought, "that girl is destined for marathons!" Over the course of running my first 5K, first 10K, first half, I dropped enough weight (80+ pounds) to no longer categorize myself as fat, at least not objectively. And on some level running continued to be the method by which I sought to escape ever being fat again. Running has continued to have that role in my life and I can't say that I expect that reason to disappear, but my need for a run shifted while training for that first marathon. At some point running stopped being just a means to an end, the end being a body I could accept. At some point running became the single fastest way to make me happy. And that's when I stopped feeling like a poser, some guest in the running world. It wasn't a fad or a quirk while I slimmed down. It was a visceral, emotional need. In my mind, that made me a Runner. Capital R.
Friends who'd known (and loved) me in my fat days voiced surprise and encouragement for my new love of distance running. I always struggled to respond adequately because the running-to-lose-weight thing had lost its luster. Running carried me through every season of doubt, every heartbreak, every disappointment, every joy. It reminds me every day that anxiety is wasted energy, energy better channeled into two feet and the pulse of pavement.

I say all this because my companion in training for my upcoming sixth marathon is Stephanie, pictured beside me. She knew and loved me in law school, when running was the last thing on my mind, and she encouraged me throughout my steady accumulation of race t-shirts. This will be Stephanie's first marathon, and she's flying up from New Orleans to experience Grandma's Marathon in Duluth with me. And she gets that current of joy, that happy easing of the shoulders, when she runs now, too. To be a person who doesn't run and then, over the course of months, to become a Runner (capital R), is a transformation that leaves you a bit breathless. It's like the world opens up, lets you in on a secret, that the agonies of the day are lessened by the quickening of your heart.

All of my marathons have been special.  They've felt important, each in some unique way.  But number six will be especially sweet, because this time a friend who knew and loved me when I wasn't a Runner, will run beside me, having since become a Runner herself. It's a reminder to me that the best friends are the ones who see the stuff buried deep, love the You beneath the flesh and beneath the veneer of accomplishment. The ones who loved you before you dreamed of running a marathon are the absolute best people to have at the finish line.

Hello

I'm no different than most in that a new year feels like a fresh start.  An easy place to brush off past failures and refocus on any and everything I want to be in the future. Stronger, thinner, faster, healthier, prettier, calmer, more devoted, more ambitious, smarter, kinder, a better cook. And while I have a few solid goals supporting those general hopes, the only true resolution I've made in this new year is to smile more at strangers. Seems odd, maybe. But my undergrad, Washington and Lee University, is well-known for its speaking tradition, a tradition of saying "hello" to everyone you pass on campus. It's done quite resolutely, deliberately. And I was thinking of it a few months ago after an alumni event here in town.

Over the past several months I've become aware of a habit of looking away, keeping my head down, ignoring those who have no immediate influence on my well-being. More often than not it's because I'm in a hurry, or I'm distracted, or I'm with a friend who deserves my attention. But I don't think any of those things is an excuse for ignoring those with whom we share space. What is it in us that makes us so resolutely insular? So quick to shield ourselves from those around us, in favor of those with whom we feel comfortable? It's a normal, human habit, I know. But it's not a habit I want to reinforce, being that it's such a natural tendency.  I don't think Christ looked away from anyone.  I don't think he ever pretended not to see someone.

It's a small, quiet thing, and an atypical resolution. But resolving for the umpteenth time to eat less carbs or do more crunches seems so self-involved.  Yes, health is important, but I resolve and give focus to myself every single day. I channel all my energy into bettering or amusing myself every single day. And in the rush to buy groceries or meet a friend for drinks or run a loop around the lake, I shut out every person who doesn't directly impact that self-centered purpose.

Over the last couple of weeks, I've tried to be more deliberate about smiling, acknowledging others. When I go for runs, I wave at everyone I pass. Sometimes they wave back, or nod their head, or smile, but I don't much care if they reciprocate.  I'm not smiling to garner attention, but to give it. At work, I try to say, "Good morning" more often, even to the crabby folks that speed by in a huff. And when I'm out and about, at the grocery store or church or the movies, I try to remember that every person needs acknowledgement, and a smile is the least I can do in providing that assurance.

It's funny, how exhausting this is, even to an extrovert like myself.  It tires me because I've accepted the fact that people wander by on the sidewalk and we're not socially required to acknowledge one another. That desire to lift one's head, smile, perhaps talk about the weather, is a muscle like any other. Without regular flexing, that desire will wither and weaken. And social contracts notwithstanding, I don't believe that inclination is spiritually sound, at least not for me.

I wonder sometimes what a sinless Earth would look like, how people would interact.  I don't think introversion is a sin, so I can't imagine that a perfect Earth would be one where everyone constantly sought out the company of strangers.  But I do think a perfect community would be one where every individual used their God-given personalities to glorious effect. And because I am extroverted and sociable, in my perfect state, I'd be a greeter, a welcomer, of all who crossed my path.

It is a fallen world, of course, and my extroversion can take sinful turns. It can be attention-seeking and deliberately exclusionary when I define who I spend time with and who I avoid. Those sins I recognize immediately.  I know when I'm boastful, proud, snobbish. But the banality of everyday exclusions, wandering by the old lady at the gas pump without saying hello, saying thank you to the store clerk without the courtesy of lifting my eyes to hers, those are the habitual sins I glance over and ignore.  They don't feel particularly sinful, they don't inflict any obvious wounds. Ignoring the woman next to me as we both poke the tomatoes doesn't seem harmful. But I don't want to acquire a habit of exclusion, of walking amongst others with blinders on, just because it's objectively harmless. Does tilting my head and smiling a silent greeting really cost me anything? What if that smile brightened someone's day by a tiny increment? Wouldn't it be worth the loss of a "harmless" habit?

I want to look the whole world in the eye and say, "Hello." The picture attached to this post is of that word, which hangs next to my front door. I've looked at it frequently over the last couple of months as I've tried to strengthen my resolve to greet the world, seeking nothing. The more I look at it, the more I feel like it encompasses everything I want my home to provide and everything I want to give the world. Hospitality, welcome, joy, grace, invitation, comfort, and warmth. A dense meaning for a simple word, and a weighty resolution.

Hello.