Advice

I sent an email to my kid sister as she approaches her college graduation. I racked my brain on what advice I would have appreciated 12+ years ago. The email wasn't especially long or itemized. Each sentence was a generality, a summing up of a million moments since I left college.

"...I just want you to know that even in that tough period, you're going to have grand adventures. You're going to meet fascinating people. You're going to find new forever friends, and you're going to figure out which of your current friends are the forever kind..."

Not a bad summation of what we add and subtract over the years, the trouble we get into, the people that link arms with us for an age or a season.  But I think that's the hardest advice to articulate, how to dig into people.  Friends are such a tenuous but vital part of the world we build for ourselves. It's easy to assume certain friends are part of a lifelong picture, and just as easy to take that for granted. It's easy to put up with hurt long enough for it to feel normal, and fail to see the crumbling of the railroad track until the train derails. But even the friends I've lost (by distance, by choice, by death, by silence, by chapters opened and closed) serve as some foundation for my faith in humans as a whole. The way our hearts connect to strangers, the way we intertwine our lives with people who never knew we existed prior to that first meeting, that is the stuff of heaven.

"...You're going to have to ask Mom and Dad for money. And you're going to sob when you ask. You're going to resent them as a safety net and you're going to be immensely, eternally grateful. Your brother and sister are going to buy you dinners and groceries and send you money every once in awhile, and it's going to happen right when you need it. It's going to be one of the many moments where you feel God taking care of you..."

I wasn't a particularly interested Christian for the majority of my 20s.  I played the part well when I came home for holidays but God was a nuisance or a disappointment more often than a comfort. Peace Corps, Hurricane Katrina, loss of friends and poor romantic choices, while I can look back now and recognize the protections and gentleness God provided in those painful seasons, at the time I saw God as inattentive, uncaring, and not worth my time or reflection. But there were moments I could not ignore Him. And those moments were when I felt His love pour out through the hands of my family and friends. It still happens and it will always happen, because I firmly believe people are God's greatest tool for proving His existence. C.S. Lewis said it well, "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You too? I thought I was the only one." Recognizing ourselves in each other is a magical thing, and so often that recognition reminds me that God created us in His image. When we move the darkness aside, we see Him looking back at us in the eyes of friends. 

"...I don't have a lot of advice other than this: "Let love and faithfulness never leave you, write them on the tablet of your heart." Proverbs 3:3. When you're in a mess, when you're desperate, when you're sad or hopeful, center yourself on the life God gave you...Commit to being faithful in your relationships with friends, boyfriends, family, and complete strangers...."

I first fell in love with that verse in my early 20s.  It was written on a sachet of potpourri in a friend's bathroom (weird what sticks out to you over time). I don't remember which friend, I only remember that the writer in me loved that image. I pictured my heart as a stone, strong, heavy, but soft enough for the scratching of truths. Etching "love" and "faithfulness" seemed powerful, like those two things alone could provide all the direction one needed for a life of purpose, happiness. I've failed at both many, many times. I've damaged friendships, slung arrows with my tongue, been defensive instead of receptive, and I've cheated myself of connections every time. Committing to the connection, to the bond between us, when our instinct is to respond to surface hurts and insecurities, is very difficult. It's a skill acquired only through practice. That's why the etching into stone is key. It's a slow digging in.  We could so easily etch "self-preservation" or "fear" into our hearts.  That would take less effort, both come so naturally. Reacting to the world, to the people around us, with love and faithfulness, requires muscle that can weaken without use.

My sister's graduation comes in the same season as my 35th birthday, what feels like the very beginning of the middle of my life. It has been a season, for me, of digging into new friendships, relaxing my grip on old wounds, and reflecting on what God has given me as opposed to what He has not. I won't say I have life figured out (laughable), but I have come to a place that recognizes love and gives love with greater gusto than I've thought possible in the past. And that ability only came about through the trial and error of attempting to love God with all my heart and my neighbor as God loves me. It's a commandment I've always thought of as so simple as to be functionally impossible. But the attempt is what makes the road worthwhile. At 23. 29 (you too, little brother). 35. Forever.

Before It Closes

A couple of weeks ago I had dinner at La Belle Vie.  It was the last week of its 17 year history and I, like others, found myself struck by the fact that the restaurant I'd been saving for a special occasion was cooling its kitchen, closing its doors.

I only happened into dinner due to the invitation of a new, lovely friend. What should have been a threesome of food-loving adventurers, turned into a duo, and I think we muscled through that well. I say "muscled" only from my own perspective, and only due to the import of the restaurant, not due to any lack in my companion. I think for anyone saving an experience, they're saving it for something, someone, in particular. They're saving it for a daydream they can't shake.

The food was beautiful, the service attentive without being cloying, and the company, warm and engaging. I usually leave restaurant posts to my Minneapolis/St. Paul blog, The Minneapolite, so I suppose any dedicated reader of both blogs knows there's a different bent to this musing compared to my typical restaurant raves.

The trouble with going somewhere knowing you'll never be back, knowing you could have been a dozen times before, is that you eat the what-ifs as much as the food. The trouble with saving an experience for an unpromised future, some miraculous moment that lends itself to that specific celebration, is that experiencing it without that miraculous moment risks the experience ringing hollow.

Happily, the meal was less bittersweet than I expected. It felt, instead, like acknowledgment that saving such things is, itself, an increasingly hollow exercise for me. Perhaps it's because my Mamaw is in hospice, and because I'm weeks away from 35, and because I saw the Matterhorn this summer, and because my kid sister is graduating from college, but dinner felt more like a reminder that little is promised us on any given day. Future-oriented dreams are powerful, beautiful things.  But they also cloud our ability to embrace the day God made. This day. The one we're currently in.

My dad blogs, too. And he volunteers at a local hospice.  He comforts the dying and their families, and he answers phones and listens to the stories of people without too many days left to tell stories. In a recent post he mentioned being some folks' "last new friend," and that pierced me.  What an honored thing, to be the last new friend, to anchor a moment like that. I'm not equating moments.  I'm not comparing the eating of a meal at a storied restaurant to the connection made between a friend bound for Heaven and one still (thanks to God) likely earth bound for a while yet. But my dad's post, and his comment, made me sensitive to the time allowed us, the slipperiness of it all.

Daydreams are good and lovely things.  Days are longer without them. But when they lend themselves to saving experiences for some unpromised end, they run the risk of keeping us from the dream altogether. Saving La Belle Vie for something special meant I only had the chance to love it once, when I could have loved it dearly many times over the last few years. It's a mistake I'll try hard not to repeat.

Special can be a Tuesday. It can be a new friend.

Synthesis

When I was in 4th grade I learned about synthesis. It was a concept taught in a reading class and I first remember learning to spell it. We then, through some series of cartoons involving hamsters, learned how synthesis meant whittling down, chiseling off the fat, tidying up, taking many, many things and wrapping them in a pretty, hamster-sized bow. It was a weird cartoon.

But it stuck with me.  It made a deep impression on my brain. To this day, in interviews, when I'm asked about things I love to do, "synthesizing" information is my first answer. I like walking into a mess, learning what the mess means, and unifying disparate perspectives into a gleaming whole. It's a good fascination for a lawyer, a good trait for anyone frequently called upon to build one Something out of a million little Somethings.

My Mamaw is getting older, sicker. While I was vacationing in Italy, she was electing hospice care. I learned via email hours before I boarded a plane in Zurich and I had trouble calming down, trouble stopping the tears. It was one of those ugly cries, the kind that just rolls around in your chest all damn day. I bought a ticket to Arkansas a few days after I returned home and I'll head down to spend time with her this weekend.

As Mamaw doesn't use the computer, I've been synthesizing my trip into a manageable pile of pictures to share. And as I chose ones to print, I threw in others of the last year that spoke to what has made me happy since the last time we visited in November. A picture of me and my nearly-walking niece, a picture of me dressed to run a marathon in June, a picture of me and my sister dressed prettily on a summertime rooftop, a picture of me holding a fish I caught while fishing with my dad, a picture of my new dog.

My trip to Europe is imprinted with a Mamaw-tinged hue. And that isn't to say that Mamaw's failing health makes the memories sad or muted.  Rather, knowing someone I love won't share the planet with me indefinitely, being reminded of that, made me so impatient to tell her everything, to sit next to her with my pictures and tell her the tower in Pisa really does lean, and the Sistine Chapel is perfect. It made me thankful for every happy memory, not only because I get to share it with my Mamaw, but because I got to live it. I got to catch my breath climbing the stairs for a view of the Duomo. I got to skid down a trail with a glacier at my back. I got to drink wine with a friend and climb the stairs that Christ climbed. It made me want to treasure moments better, value gifts of friendship instead of taking them for granted, recognize the primal love of parents and grandparents without questioning their veracity, and better wipe away the meaningless fluff that surrounds every single day and bring together the essential parts to form a single, unwavering story. Who have I loved well today? And who can I thank for loving me? Synthesis, at its best.

The Good Life

This time last year I was licking my wounds a few days post-breakup and making the quasi-ridiculous decision to buy a house (again, folks, buy a new pair of shoes as retail therapy, not a house). The rest of 2014 unfolded quickly, buying my little plot of happiness in South Minneapolis, high fiving myself for reattaching cabinet doors post-painting, and settling into my first winter as a home owner. Despite the somewhat ill-advised impetus for purchasing this house, it has been nothing but a blessing since last fall. I love every quirky inch of it, even the sidewalk that's going to cost me a pretty penny to replace, even the fire alarm that mistakes a steamy shower for a life-threatening blaze. This house has made Minneapolis a home.

But I didn't know how much more of a home it would become with another beating heart inside these stucco walls. Little Debbie is six years old, a rescue I adopted almost exactly a month ago.  She's, by best guess, a mixture of basset hound and lab, and is thus a healthy mix of lazy (basset) and playful (lab). Her little butt wiggles with joy when I get home after work and she's perfectly content squeezing in between the couch cushions, tummy in the air, while I watch TV.

She tucks herself under my arm whenever I'm sitting somewhere she can snuggle into, and she thumps her tail like a drum on these hardwood floors when I'm spending too long on the computer and not paying her enough attention. The clickety-clack of her nails on the floor, her whine if I close the bathroom door in her face, the thump of her tail against my not-long-for-this-world Ikea lamp, they're noises I didn't know this house was missing.  And now that they're there, it's hard to imagine a home without her small and mighty self.

I'm infrequently frustrated by my singleness. I, of course, expected to be married by now. But, honestly, the failed delivery on that expectation has not caused me as much heartache as I think a younger me would have imagined. The fullness of my life always astonishes me, because it is so much richer than I deserve. And even in moments of great contentedness, I'm overwhelmed by how much joy God continues to delivers into my life. And Little Debbie is just one such joy, a happy, loving example of what it means to rest in the simplest things. A good walk, a good meal, a good belly scratch. You're right, little girl, it's a good, good life.

Connotation is Everything

Over the last few weeks I've been wrestling with the decision to take my career in a new direction. The decision ended up being a simple one, not simple in that it isn't causing some emotional upheaval, but simple in my feeling that it's the right path forward. Now the days ahead have the tinge of nerves that best accompany new things, a mixture of excitement and oh-heavens-what-have-I-done.

In conversations with friends over this period, some who knew of my decision, some who didn't, several times I've been met with some variation of the following:
"You always have something in the works, don't you?"
"You've always got big plans."

The connotation of the above is everything. One way, it sounds like I'm some master manipulator, constantly looking ahead to see how I might conquer new tasks, new people. It sounds cold, conniving even, as if I have no regard for the life I'm living today. Put another way, it's a bit more sunny, unafraid of risks, questioning the status quo, excited by the potential inherent in the future. Depending on my mood, and whether I'm more excited or nervous about this next step, I am equal parts hurt or encouraged by the comment.

Connotation is partly derived from the tone of the speaker, but in many conversational instances, it's equally derived from the positive or negative expectation on the part of the listener. A sneer in delivery is hard to ignore, but an imagined sneer is just as powerful and equally hard to dismiss. And as I only have my own expectations under control, it's only the imagined sneer I can fight with any success.

I don't want to live a life devoid of big plans. Or small plans. I don't enjoy sitting unless that rest is preparation for something, preparation for work, or travel, or adventure. And I think that's just one facet of my personality, perhaps not even a defining one. Ambition doesn't negate gratitude for the here and now. And I don't think ambition or restlessness or curiosity, or whatever hybrid of those traits sparks a fire in the belly, requires justification.

My best friend gave me a wall hanging of Proverbs 31:25, "She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future." It isn't reflective of me on most days, but it is an aspiration. I'm not sure how often I laugh without fear of the future, without worry over my big plans. But the older I get, the less ashamed I am of the feeling in my gut that I can do more than I presently imagine.

"You've always got big plans." Yes, I do.

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.