You Can't Make Me

Tulsa is just beginning to dig out, or melt out, of our biggest snow storm in decades. My precious angels have been home going buggy with me for two weeks straight. It's taking a toll.

And I don't mean on the kids. They're having the time of their lives.

I mean this girl. I haven't been able to get outside for a nice long run in those two weeks. Sure, I've bounded through snow banks with The Dog, in the snow, in the cold, like a reluctant pioneer who forgot to bring her woolens. The roads have been covered with layer upon layer of packed snow and ice. The sidewalks were worse.

Eleven weeks from today I plan to run my first half marathon. The massive snow had me all wigged out that I would have to totally restart my training. A few things are funny about this. First, I never wanted to train in the first place. It just sort of happened. Second, the fact that I'm now referring to training in somewhat serious terms shows some level of self awareness on my part that this effort will require...effort. Finally, this will mean the adoption of some kind of plan.

Perish the thought. I'm decidedly anti-plan. Plans suck all the joy out of running. Plans make official the voluntary and fun. Plans mean some outside authority is asserting its will upon mine. I really dislike plans. Truth is, one doesn't just wake up one day and run a half marathon. Or, if one does, one will surely endure injury, pain, frustation or failure. I try to avoid those things.

I worry that adopting a plan will crush the spirit of joy I like to engage while running. At the same time, I recognize that anything worth doing, like our mothers always told us, is worth doing well. My personal coaches (I have a bunch of them) have made suggestions about distance and timing. They urge some kind of consistency. The best advice they've each given, though, remains the same: enjoy the run, have fun, do what comes naturally.

I will resist the plan even while I try to find one that doesn't cramp my carefree style. I will embrace the joy. So, maybe you can make me.

Asking to be Loved

My day started with a lurch. I went to bed angry that something I had planned and looked forward to wasn't going to happen. At least not in any way remotely like I had imagined it. I woke up with the tang of resentment and bitterness coating my tongue. This sensation crept into my abdomen and built a small hut. It stoked a fire of pity and whining that smoked up and filled my body with loathing and lethargy.

I trudged from room to room, gulping scalding hot mouthfuls of coffee, restless but unmotivated to make a change. I stood pointlessly in the office and allowed the bitterness, the resentment, the frustration and anger to send its permanent address card to the postmaster.

Yuck. If there's anything worse than feeling sorry for oneself, it's standing resolutely knee deep in the stinking pit of it and declaring, "Come on in! The water's fine!"

I posted a little blurb on Facebook, a pitiful request for someone to say something nice to me. You know what? You staggered with your responses. I feel like Sally Field. You like me! You really like me!

What surprised me about the comments was how divergent and representative they were. Of course, I mean my friends made comments that truly represent me, or aspects of me. But more than that, the comments they made represented them. And what an amazing display of unique and wonderful people I saw! I saw the beautiful face of each person who replied: earnest, funny, quietly witty, brilliant and simple.

I am heartened. In light of my recent posts about identity, I find the diversity of my friends illuminating. In fact, I do "belong." Because I know you and you know me. Thank you, every one. You make me blush.

Who are You? Dance Remix

Maintaining this identity theme I've been chewing on, I wonder about the self, or how we behave, in certain groups. I think of all the times I flitted from one Christian group to another, making the necessary adjustments along the way, attempting to assimilate.

In other words, in the simplest terms, that most Christians can agree with, I am a Christian.

However. We Christians can be like a world of middle school girls: clique-alicious.

I have theologically conservative Christian friends and theologically liberal Christian friends. Unsurprisingly, these folks tend to be polar on politics as well. I know moderately knowledgeable Christians and incredibly academic Christians. I know Calvinists, Anabaptists, Catholics and some others whose names I forget. I move among the groups that denounce gays and lesbians, and I move about the devout gays and lesbians. I have Christian friends who are all about the love. I have others who are all about the law. Some of my Christian friends have the wisdom of the ages, and others have this gorgeous simplicity that astounds me.

There are times I'm in groups where I must bite my tongue to the point of bleeding in order to maintain a modicum of decorum and peace. There are other times when I'm popping off like Papa Bear O'Reilly, loose and loud with the opinions.

So. You see where I'm going. How does a woman, finding her identity in Jesus and full of passion, talents, gifts and questions navigate her way through these crowds, crowds of alleged "sameness," and still remain herself? And by "herself," I mean the "she" God made and mandated. The "she" God crafted with his intense attention to detail, with all her conflicting humanity boiling over inside.

And the larger question would be, how do we, as believers, navigate "the other?" The challenge is to be a group of believers willing to explore, to expand, and to find the smallest common denominator and work from there. Moreover, how do we love "the other" in the mess, in the polarization of politics, in the heat of theological debate? Do we honor the uniqueness of God in our treatment of "the other?"

Again: I don't know. Do you?

Who Are You?

Last week I felt overwhelmed by the number of blogs I read about depression. This is at once disheartening and encouraging. Paul was right when he admonished the early church to "carry each other's burdens." He knew that this life we walk through contains a lifetime of scrapes, bruises and bone crushing agony. He knew because he lived it, in prison, being beaten, living on the generosity of others. Paul knew a world of hurt. Paul was not too big for his britches. He knew humility and he practiced it when first meeting the disciples, when speaking to crowds, when giving thanks for the many gifts he'd received. Paul knew that when we share burdens, it makes them lighter. Duh.

Seems like another burden I'm hearing about is this question of who we are. I recently spent about an hour with some wise women on twitter talking through identities, categories (boxes), and busting them down. Jules offered this: "I just don't know where I fit in all this."

Isn't that a question of the ages. Where do I fit in? Do I want to fit in? Am I compromising some other aspect of my identity in fitting in? Does the act of fitting in over here shortchange me or my peers over there?

Kristin reminded us of the dreaded "twitter bio," wherein one boils the self down to a few well-chosen descriptors. Or not. I've long had a knee jerk reaction to personality tests and other methods whereby we ascribe certain characteristics to another. They feel so limiting and prescribed: answer these questions this way, then we'll draw a perfect little box around you, and there YOU are. Forever and always. Just so reductive and far too simple.

Except, not really. Read the chapters in Exodus where God through Moses tells the Israelites exactly how to construct the ark of the covenant. He doesn't simply say, "Hey. You know what would be totally rad? What if we had, like, a pretty box, or something, and you could all carry it around?" Nope. He goes on for CHAPTERS about the kind of wood, the types of workers, which sides the angels heads should face. He describes in detail what kind of fabric to use for curtains, how far apart to space the clasps, which are to be made from specified metals. From start to finish he is intimately involved in the design and execution of production.

As I read, on and on and on about the ark and all these seemingly senseless directions, knowing full well that they each, I'm sure, have their reasons, I couldn't help but think in much smaller terms. The twitter convo reminded me of that. If God spent that much time giving explicit mandates for the ark, if he cared that much about this piece of wood and metal and fabric, how much more time does he spend being the ultimate artist, calling us to a glorious, messy, fantastic identity.

If he cared so much about something that he'd blast apart with the birth of his son, then what does that say about how he views his people?

I don't have the answers, and I know it's trite, but really, isn't this the beginning and the end of the identity question? Where do we begin? Where do we end? Can we live in a world without descriptors? If not, then how can we engage them to work for us rather than against us?

I don't know. What do you think?

Is Virtual Community Still Community?

I'm going with, "Yes." Yes it is.

In Tulsa, we're on our fourth in a row snow day. More of the dreaded-by-moms, hoped-for-by-children white stuff is flying through the air as I type. I'm kind of enjoying the snow days with the kids because they are so relaxed and chill. I'm also resisting the urge to curl up in a corner and weep silently for the lost time of the work week and what little shred of sanity I thought I had left.

But it has given me some time to catch up on my favorite blogs. January and February seem to hit us hard, and that truth has never been more real than this year. As I click through links posted by different and amazing, clever and thoughtful, lovely and illuminating bloggers, I'm seeing a trend. That trend makes me sad but also hopeful.

I seem to keep reading posts about depression in its various ugly forms; what it feels like, what to do about it, how to talk about it, feel about it. Of course it's troubling that so many of my online friends grapple with the pain of the dark beast. What I like about these posts, though, is that these people are talking about it. They are telling their stories about it. They are kicking back at the many-headed monster through words and the sensitive touch of virtual community.

When I talk about my "twitter friends" I get a few different responses, but the most common is a sort of understated eye roll. And I get that. I know it seems empty and virtual and what possible good can that be?

Well, I'll tell you: it's community. And it is real and organic. I'm sure that's not what everyone finds there, and it sure doesn't apply to every single person whose updates I read. But, the sense of caring and compassion I've found online is as real and true as what I experience in so-called "real life."

Keep talking, people. About the mess of life, the pain of loss, depression, divorce and infidelity. Keep talking because when you tell your story, it gives others courage to share theirs. And when they do that, trust forms and healing begins.

Okay, enough of the love-in. Back to my black and gold updates. Have a great weekend.

For Those Without Walls

Photo credit: The Art of Helping Others

I started a summer running challenge on Memorial Day. A twitter friend suggested running 150 miles from the beginning of summer to Labor Day. At the time, I was looking for a little motivation to run with the dog who lives at my house. (If you know me, you know he poops under my sewing machine when I don't take him. Jerk.) I don't accept any running challenge without assessing the feasibility. I figured even if I only ran a mile or two a day, I could easily squeeze in 150 miles, as staggering as the number seemed on May 30.

As I ran my regular short path near my neighborhood, I grew stronger and more capable of running longer distances, so I started exploring the trail to see where it would lead and how long it extended. I ran over a bridge one day, looked underneath as I did so, and noticed two figures in repose under a light blanket. A bucket and a box lined up against the concrete abutment of the bridge. In a flash, I made my decision to run in the opposite direction.

I ran in the opposite direction from the homeless people all summer. Never ventured under or beyond the bridge. Each day in passing, thoughts flooded through me; conflicting ideas, emotions and questions. Should I help? What would I do? Why are they there? How awful! How infuriating! How gross! (I should say here that it never ceases to amaze me the vast expanse and complexity of human emotions that so much can run through me so quickly.)

Finally, my running endurance was such that I needed to run under that bridge, and I'm embarrassed to say that I felt nervous. I didn't want to disturb them or, worse, interact with them. I didn't want my dog rummaging around in their business. I just wanted to run by and get on with it. Running above them on the bridge was entirely different from running past them. My awareness of them as humans came into disturbing relief.

It seemed like I invaded their space, that I had just trampled through their bedroom. That thought made me angry on two levels, and they are not pretty. To be perfectly honest, my first thought was an incredibly selfish, "This is NOT your living room. It is a running trail." My second was to kick myself for my ignorance. "How can I possibly run by these people every day and not act?"

All summer, I tried to think of what I would do about it, but I never did anything. Two days ago, I ran under the bridge on my way home and I beheld the most grim vision that has spurred me. The woman crouched over an old bucket to relieve herself. As gross as that might seem, the reality is there is no dignity for a person without walls. I don't know her story, I don't know why she's there but I do know that every person deserves food, clothing and shelter.

I've been thinking about walls on my runs this summer and I've written about them before. Here is another kind of wall. Or to be more precise, a lack of walls that builds a distinct barrier. I know, with absolute clarity, that I need to do something about this. I still don't know what it is. I'm thinking, I'm praying, and now I'm asking you, my friends. I want to help. I want to say that I acknowledge them as humans. I want to show compassion to my brothers and sisters. Will anything I do make a real difference? Will it house the multitudes? I don't know but I have to stop running by and start doing. What should I do?

I made my goal and then some, by the way. When I accepted the challenge to run 150 miles, I didn't know that it would potentially take me, and my community even farther than that.

Do you Tweet?

I got a Twitter account this summer after reading about it on an airplane. Sounded silly and fun. Turns out, in my little circle, I'm the only one who uses it. (If you don't know what it is, visit twitter here.)

After using it sparsely for a few months, a long lost friend found me on Facebook and then I found her on Twitter. Now I use it daily. It's good for a giggle and some people use it to grow their online businesses. There are many who argue that updating Facebook status reports is challenging enough; these people are the same who think there is nothing they need to report that others need to know.

While I see the point, I can't deny the fun and amazement it gives me. There are people following me who are literally "rock stars" of their industries. Most of the people who see my updates don't know me, never met me wouldn't recognize me if I tweeted them silly. In theory, they should not care that I just had a honeycrisp apple with peanut butter down the center. And maybe they don't.

What is fun for me is the questions it raises about the kind of life we live now: separated, busy, disjointed, technified. It also begs the relational question of what makes one tweeter decide to follow another tweeter. Sometimes there are clues like common interests; other times it seems out of the blue.

More fun is the challenge of writing in 140 words something interesting, informative and maybe even reassuringly cryptic. Again, this brings me back to belonging, community, being a part of something. Don't have any answers, just more to ponder. And you can follow me on twitter, user name jenluit.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

In my life long battle of the growing and shrinking belly, I have done my fair share of workouts. It ebbs and flows with the pace of my life; I've never been a terribly gung-ho gym rat. After training for (and not running in) a 15k in October (thank you dear Ellen), I took some time to well, to sit on my hiney.

The effort to get back on the fit horse is daunting because really, who has the time? After completing the five alarm drill of getting the kids out the door, tidying up the clutter, and prepping for work days, I am barely motivated to stand much less make my legs move quickly and start to sweat.

Also, I'm cheap and I despise the idea of paying for gym membership.

In passing I picked up a booklet that listed all the offerings at the Tulsa County Parks. Less than a mile from my house there is a park center with a fitness center and it is open during reasonable people hours. And it's totally cheap. I bought myself a twenty visit pass and went after it. This will be a fun adventure.

The kind man at the desk said that MWF between 7:30 and 9 are the busiest times. Of course that's when I can go. What he didn't tell me was that this was the blue haired workout club. Yes, I was the youngest gal in the room, by a good three decades.

At first I was nervous and felt a little awkward, what with the lycra and the failure of my ipod to charge. But once I started my elliptical training, (yes, training, this is serious), I could listen to their talk and watch them in the full length of the room mirror. (And what is with those?)

One group of men near me were discussing the Super Bowl. This interests me as I love football and I LOVE the Steelers, who are in the big game this year. They must be coaches or former coaches because they were talking about packages and plays and x's and o's. Another man in his bald later years was actually strutting about with his muscle shirt and weight lifting belt. Then there was the precious woman in her matching pink sweatsuit and blue eyeshadow who came to bless me with "health and abundance." I blurted a thank you to her her through my gasps for air.

Finally, a rather large older man climbed aboard the treadmill near me. He started walking and was barely upright as his forearms rested on the handles. In the supremacy of youth I felt smug and fit and young and vibrant. The smugness wore off.

Walking in there was like entering the gym version of Cheers. They all knew each other so there was this light banter and cheerfulness. I could get used to that. I expected to be the new girl working off her Christmas in her thrown together sweats and coffee breath amid the perky cutie-pies in their matching sets.

I won't be dyeing my hair blue but I think I like this place. The more time I spend writing these posts, the more I am seeing community just about everywhere. Why does that surprise me?

As a side note, if you live in Tulsa, you must go here to check out the fabulous classes being offered around our city this spring.
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What is a Burgh

We left our home church of over 12 years recently, which was sad but necessary for reasons not relevant to this posting. In an exciting twist, some dear friends at that same time were called to plant a church here in Tulsa. It is called the Burgh. A burgh is a fortified community and that is exactly what the Burgh is striving to be.

The newness of it begs the participant to ponder what it means to be in community. Is community simply the people around you or is it something deeper? And for it to be deeper, does it mean the biblical model of shared purse and food and all that? Or can it be something deeper but in the middle between the two?

There are plenty of others out there desiring to live in a community and I think the common thread is "doing life together." Whatever that means. In college, a group of us spent the summer living in community at the beach. It was by turns confrontational, inspirational and frustrating. And I still, after almost 20 years, know and care deeply for some of these people.

My best friend lives in a deliberate community in Pittsburgh, where they moved into a block of deteriorating homes and reclaimed the street for the glory of God. They play together, eat together, and worship together, but not always. And by her accounts, her experience is much like mine. It can be incredibly annoying to have people you know around you all the time. But the benefit of ever present support outweighs the downside.

I am mindful of when our last child was born, at home by design. We had the midwife and her assistant, as well as two dear friends from church. These women came and had a great time, ministering to us the entire time. They took care of our daughters, cooked all our favorite foods, brought me tea as I nursed my son for the first time, even decorated the kitchen to celebrate this new birth. They showed up in the morning to take the kids to school.

It was everything I wanted. A burgh is a group of people with common values fortified by the strength of their faith in each other as well as the blessings of a loving God we serve. Is it easy? No.Does it simply happen? No. Is it worth pursuing?

In a time when text messages are sometimes all that bind us to family and the common dinner is rushed through for the next event, I think we could all use a little genuine community. Facebook and MySpace boast large numbers of participants, chat rooms are always filled with thousands of people. I think they are all looking for the same thing: commonality, friendship, love and support.

What if we could get that with real human contact? What if we didn't have to search the web for friends but they were right were we needed them, whenever we needed them?