On a Whim

Earlier this week I signed up for Grandma's Marathon.  The race is a famous sort, winding along Lake Superior in Duluth in mid-June (the 16th, to be exact), late enough for a warmish race but North enough (I hope) to avoid sweltering. There have been hot, hot races in the past but my fingers are crossed that this year will be a sunny, mild, humidity-free, high-of-65 kind of day. 

I've always been somewhat wary of June marathons because they require the bulk of training to occur in the fickle spring months, where you could luck out with a bunch of sunshine or be doomed to snow drifts and icy patches through the end of April.  Our weather this winter has been unseasonably warm and snow free, so I'm putting a lot of eggs in the continuingly-warm basket. 

But moreso than the weather, I haven't signed up for Grandma's in the past because when registration occurs, I tend to be in my winter exercise laziness.  Most winters I do make it to the gym often but my intensity wanes a great deal until I'm able to get my butt to a race starting line.  Thus, December-March tend to be fairly lazy months for me running-wise and that's simply not a good foundation for a June 26.2 miles.

This year, however, in part due to the snowlessness and in part due to my own quasi-obsession with gaining zero weight over the holidays (success!) and focusing on getting stronger with weights (scary...mildly successful), I've stayed very healthy and race-ready throughout the winter.  I felt strong enough even to sign up for two half-marathons, the Securian Frozen Half and the Eden Prairie Hypothermic Half, and those two races ended up being my fastest ever.  And signing up for them was purely on a whim! No real training beforehand.  My longest run before the Securian had been a 10K on New Year's Day.  I was simply strong enough to randomly run 13.1 miles, even if it was ill-planned.

More than any other hallmark of my health, I think the "on a whim" nature of those races is what makes me feel good and strong and proud and thankful.  Having been unhealthy for so long (years ago now, I realize), it still amazes me that I am capable of running 13.1 miles.  It amazes me that I signed up for my third full marathon. It amazes me that I poke around websites looking for other races in other places the way I used to poke around websites looking for diet fixes.  It amazes me how powerful and welcome a comfort the road has become.

I feel very lucky to inhabit this little body, with its strong (if slowish) legs, bounce-absorbing knees, and will-never-look-normal-again toenails. 

Today was Day #1 in my Grandma's training.  And I think Day #1 will always be my favorite.

It Upsets Me When It's a Liberal Bias, Too

I don't mind anyone knowing that I vote left of center.  In an ideal world, there'd be some middle ground, some moderate window of political affliation.  Until that happens, I'm a somewhat sheepish Democrat, throwing in the occassional comment that my liberalness is relative to the population I inhabit.  I've been The Commie Hippie to my conservative friends and I'm practically Newt Gingrich to some of my uber-liberal brethren.  The fact that I can float fairly comfortably in both camps speaks to how moderate I actually I am.  I understand both extremes, but see the danger in extreme anything.

I mention my moderate liberalism only because I want to make it clear that I recognize my own bias.  I know which perspective tends to speak clearest and truest to me.  And I do feel that my political leanings (or, rather, my political hopes and ideals) are supported by my faith.  But I do not marry my faith and my politics.  I do not equate them or even heavily commingle them.  I think there's danger there and that is the subject of this post.

I wrote this summer on attending a church whose political commentary offended me.  In that instance, the commentary swung right of center, swung in the direction I tend to vote against.  So I noted that some element of my offense could have been political sensitivity as much as my own general belief that politics should be left outside the sanctuary.  But today a brief comment by the preacher at my neighborhood church swung in the opposite direction and it offended me just as greatly.

We're studying the life of David.  And at some point the pastor mentioned the "least of these" and our Christian duty to provide for them, to love them as Christ loved them.  All good.  Agreed. But then he began to list the antithesis of this perspective, quoting from Ezekial the admonition against "shepherds" (kings) who fatten themselves on the sheep they're meant to guard and protect.  In paraphrasing this passage, the pastor commented, "I don't care about the poor."  There was a soft murmur in the pews.  Not everyone noted it.  It was a fairly quick quote, followed by other Ezekial-based admonitions.  For many, I'm sure it meant nothing.

He was quoting Romney.  It was deliberate and clear.  It was obvious to several of us, I know.  And it infuriated me.  I don't like Romney.  I won't vote for him.  But that quote was ripped so violently out of context and squashed into scripture so easily, I wanted to stand up and leave.  I have no doubt that this preacher's heart is in a good, Godly place.  I have no doubt that his political leanings, in his mind, are supported by Scripture in the best ways he can manage (political parties being inherently flawed, etc.).  But as a pastor, I think it's irresponsible to continue the political habit of taking sound bites and crafting them into individual and/or party ideology.  Not only that, but the greater risk in my mind is that there could have been someone in that audience who was searching for Truth (and I mean GOD Truth, the important kind) who heard that statement and assumed that those who vote for someone like Romney have no place in that congregation, have no place in church, have no place amongst God's children.

It's the exact same line of reasoning some Christians on the other side of the spectrum use against those of us who vote left.  How can we be Christian and vote for a politican/party that allows for abortion? Equating Christianity with Political Agenda, making the latter a prerequisite for the former, is offensive to me. It is 100% wrong. It's not Biblical.  It's not merciful.  It's not gracious.  And it's not Christ-like. Both parties fall short of anything resembling heaven.  Both parties fail.  Miserably.  To assert otherwise is to be blind.

Churches are flawed because they are inhabited by men.  I really love this small, warm, welcoming neighborhood church and I will continue to attend.  I think they are right to point out injustice, to ask "why?" in the face of inequality, and to invest time and effort into the immediate needs of an urban, often marginalized population.  But I refuse to equate my faith with any political expectation of my vote.  And I refuse to support any statement that my vote is indicative of either "good" or "failed" faith.  My vote is an exercise in doing my best to elect those who embody what I count as the most important tenets of God's directive to 1) love Him and 2) love my neighbor. It will always, always be an exercise in disappointment.  But it is a far greater disappointment to me to hear political commentary intermingled with the Word of God.

For Onis

I've had the honor of being loved by three grandfathers in my life, a rare and special gift for which I am very grateful.  My Papaw died when I was 11, my Grandfather when I was 18, and now Onis, technically my step-grandfather, when I am 31. Three very different men, but similar in their capacity to love their families deeply and the Lord moreso.  I want to whine that I did not have enough time with any of them, but I will give thanks instead for the years of my life they did fill and be comforted in the knowledge that I will see them, happily, again.


My Mamaw married Onis when I was 18 and away at college.  I wasn't able to come to the wedding but I saw pictures of the grinning couple, saw Mamaw in her beautiful red dress, and looked forward to knowing this new member of the family.  But the speed of life in college and beyond, not to mention my habit of moving far, far away, kept me from spending much time with Onis.  I knew and loved him peripherally, the way one intrinsically loves a person that brings a loved one joy.  He made Mamaw happy, thus, I loved him.

It wasn't until August of 2005 that he became a grandfather, in the sense I'd come to associate with that word.  In August of that year I was living in New Orleans, attending law school, and I evacuated back home to Arkansas for what felt like the umpteenth time to once again kill a few days while the hurricane threat loomed.  Hurricane Katrina, in my mind, would be no different from every other evacuation.  I'd get a nice, long weekend with my Mamaw, and then I'd lug my little duffle bag back to New Orleans. 

Hurricane Katrina did not turn out the way I'd expected.  The long weekend became five months.  I cannot say they were a happy five months as I was consumed by anxiety over my degree, my friends, and what would be left of my life in New Orleans. Midway through my stay, I drove to New Orleans, best friend and law school roommate, Stephanie, in tow from her own evacuation story.  That trip is both a blur and a hodgepodge of images vividly burned into my skull.  But one of the most powerful memories I have from that trip was returning to my adopted home after hours on the road.  I remember Mamaw being in the kitchen and Onis coming to the door to help me with my bag.  And I remember his smile, that big, loving, nothing-can-ever-go-wrong smile as he said, "there's our girl!" and hugged me, patting my newly permed mess of hair, his hand getting tangled briefly.  Mamaw came in and said he'd been sitting in his chair by the window ever since I'd called from Memphis, intermittently napping and pacing, worrying about the rain, the traffic.

Looking back, I thank God for those five months.  To live with Mamaw and Onis as an adult, to play games with them, to watch TV, to talk early in the morning with Onis as he logged his two mile indoor laps around the living room, to sit at the dining table with a plate of crackers and peanut butter, to listen to him play the harmonica, to hear their prayers before we ate, to unpack their groceries, to kiss them both on the cheek when I went to bed, to love them the way you only learn to do when they sleep in the same house...those were gifts.

The ache of losing him is made easier, or will be made easier, by the memory of those moments, those smiles at the door, and the one thing he said to me over and over again in the five months I lived under his roof.

Almost every morning when I left for class, or sometimes when we were just sitting in the living room, silent, Onis would say to me, "you make yourself at home, honey.  This is your home.  You're home now." 

And now, I can say the same to him.