I attempted and quit my first triathlon this morning. It's also the first race I've ever quit. Every race I've ever registered for, I've finished. Counting only half and full marathons, that's fourteen (fifteen?) races entered and completed. But midway through the swim, at the furthest point from the shore, I panicked. I can blame part of the panic on poor preparation, and part on a gimp ankle that has been throbbing for three days now, but neither reason makes me comfortable with crawling into a sheriff boat, walking across a beach, sitting on the sidelines, shivering with failure.
I couldn't stand sitting there so I walked my bike back to a friend's car, sat inside with my triathlon numbers cruelly etched on my skin (I've taken two showers, these numbers are stuck), quasi-permanent reminders of what I didn't do.
I texted the friends who I knew were praying/rooting for me and all texted back with condolences, hugs, words of cheer, reminders that the marathon was my "real" race and this one didn't matter. But they all matter. All races matter.
My kid sister, in her first few days as a college freshman far, far from home, texted the only words that made sense to me. I quit, I texted. "Sometimes you gotta do that," she replied, followed by realistic words like "next time" and "heal" and "practice more," followed by the best words, "if you want to call now I have 20 min before I go to church."
This race hurts the most now because of how much I miss that dear, wonderful girl. I have spent 18 years trying to be kind and loving to her, hoping that I am strong and wise enough to benefit her in some way. But in truth, she has always been the kind one. Inherently, gloriously kind. She has been enormously good to me in the seasons of my life when I could not fathom being kind to myself and to have that wealth of support living, now, so many miles away just makes me sad.
But her text was everything it should be. And the phone call was all I needed in that moment, to hear my sister happy, encouraging, hugging me with that voice that says "we all have bad races."
This was my bad one. The one I quit. And that failure will pester me long after the ink is finally scrubbed from my calves. But I will try to hear my sister's words in this:
Next time.
Heal.
Practice more.
Go to church.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
An Easy Joy
My little brother, Rob, married his love, Laura, this past weekend in St. Louis. They were surrounded by family and friends, burdened by some pretty gnarly humidity, and by all measures, deliriously happy. I wondered off and on throughout the weekend what I would write about that day or that weekend, how I would welcome my new sister, how I would gift my kid brother with a lingusitic kiss on the cheek as he scurried off to his new, grown-up life.
I could write about the social oddity of being the elder sister (30 years old and single, the horror!) and witnessing the younger brother marry. But the ridiculousness of that churns my stomach, as if social temporal expectations somehow trump the movement of God. Marriage is promised to noone, so when its blessing occurs, especially for someone as dear and loving and devoted as my brother, the only viable option is Joy.
As is usually the case with this blog, it's the small, forgettable moments that tend to impress me in the midst of change, adventure, turmoil, ecstasy, etc. Their wedding day was no different. The wedding itself was beautiful, my first Catholic wedding, made familiar by echoes of my family's faith wrapped up in old hymns. After the meal at the reception I danced, visited, hugged, did all the things one does in the company of both sides of the family for the first time. Well into the evening, I sat at a back table with my sister and my best friend, Megan. Megan and Caroline were chatting about Caroline's recent trip to Guatemala and her impending adventure as a freshman in college far, far from home (something Megan and I are quite familiar with). I fleetingly thought of how often Megan and I babysat that future freshman, how wrapped up in my life and perspective both these women were, one by virtue of years and friendship, one by virtue of blood and sisterhood. From there my eye caught my dad, dancing (!!) with his cousin, Suzie, who once carried my sister on her back up a mountain in East Tennessee. And to the right of them I saw my aunts and uncles lining a wall, watching them dance, laughing, occassionally tiptoeing onto the floor themselves. I saw old neighbors with their arms draped around children I once tucked into bed in exchange for mall money. I saw my brother shaking hands with our cousin, three years my junior and the wedding videographer, in a way that made him seem equal parts adult and 6 year-old. A handshake born of blood and childhood backyard comraderie.
In some hodgepodge of love and limbs, music and movement, my whole heart took in every inch of my family. Every single body in attendance, every single body who couldn't make it, every single soul who smiled from above. I felt every inch of that flesh and blood as in one warm, unexpected hug, the kind that sneaks up from behind and envelopes a person, heartbeat to heartbeat. And it took my breath away, that much love. I felt how vehemently every aunt who'd kissed Rob's knees, every friend who'd found him a cab, every neighbor who'd watched him out the window play H-O-R-S-E with his dad, loved him. I felt how powerfully and intentionally those prayers in that church had been directed on his behalf, that his life with his bride might be more than just happy, that it might be blessed. I felt every single smile.
And that was the blessing to me, to witness how gifted we are, we children of Tom and Robin, we grandchildren of Tommy and Audrey, Bob and Betty, we cousins and neices and nephews and friends, to be surrounded for the entirety of our lives by those who find it easy to rejoice, to dance, in view of our happiness.
I could write about the social oddity of being the elder sister (30 years old and single, the horror!) and witnessing the younger brother marry. But the ridiculousness of that churns my stomach, as if social temporal expectations somehow trump the movement of God. Marriage is promised to noone, so when its blessing occurs, especially for someone as dear and loving and devoted as my brother, the only viable option is Joy.
As is usually the case with this blog, it's the small, forgettable moments that tend to impress me in the midst of change, adventure, turmoil, ecstasy, etc. Their wedding day was no different. The wedding itself was beautiful, my first Catholic wedding, made familiar by echoes of my family's faith wrapped up in old hymns. After the meal at the reception I danced, visited, hugged, did all the things one does in the company of both sides of the family for the first time. Well into the evening, I sat at a back table with my sister and my best friend, Megan. Megan and Caroline were chatting about Caroline's recent trip to Guatemala and her impending adventure as a freshman in college far, far from home (something Megan and I are quite familiar with). I fleetingly thought of how often Megan and I babysat that future freshman, how wrapped up in my life and perspective both these women were, one by virtue of years and friendship, one by virtue of blood and sisterhood. From there my eye caught my dad, dancing (!!) with his cousin, Suzie, who once carried my sister on her back up a mountain in East Tennessee. And to the right of them I saw my aunts and uncles lining a wall, watching them dance, laughing, occassionally tiptoeing onto the floor themselves. I saw old neighbors with their arms draped around children I once tucked into bed in exchange for mall money. I saw my brother shaking hands with our cousin, three years my junior and the wedding videographer, in a way that made him seem equal parts adult and 6 year-old. A handshake born of blood and childhood backyard comraderie.
In some hodgepodge of love and limbs, music and movement, my whole heart took in every inch of my family. Every single body in attendance, every single body who couldn't make it, every single soul who smiled from above. I felt every inch of that flesh and blood as in one warm, unexpected hug, the kind that sneaks up from behind and envelopes a person, heartbeat to heartbeat. And it took my breath away, that much love. I felt how vehemently every aunt who'd kissed Rob's knees, every friend who'd found him a cab, every neighbor who'd watched him out the window play H-O-R-S-E with his dad, loved him. I felt how powerfully and intentionally those prayers in that church had been directed on his behalf, that his life with his bride might be more than just happy, that it might be blessed. I felt every single smile.
And that was the blessing to me, to witness how gifted we are, we children of Tom and Robin, we grandchildren of Tommy and Audrey, Bob and Betty, we cousins and neices and nephews and friends, to be surrounded for the entirety of our lives by those who find it easy to rejoice, to dance, in view of our happiness.
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