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.

Mixed Emotions

You guys. You know it's Super Bowl Week, right? You know that all my favorite sports talkers (Dan Patrick and the Danettes) are in Dallas talking up the celebrities, attending Media Day, getting ready for the big game. You better know it. You know I bleed black and gold, just like all my fellow yinzers who are goin' dahntahn to watch the game and celebrate after the win, n'at.

As a kid, the paper printed a centerfold caricature of one Steelers player each Sunday. My brother and sister and I would carefully plaster this inimitable artwork to the walls of the staircase leading to our basement. By the end of the season, the stairwell was our own holy shrine to the Steel Curtain, our very own Pittsburgh-only Hall of Fame. Franco Harris, Rocky Bleier, Terry Bradshaw, Jack Lambert...we had them all. Now I've got Terrible Towels strewn about my house as if it's a known decorating scheme much praised in the world of design. My car scurries through town emblazoned with Steelers statements. You get the point. I'm tried and true.

This year I've been sitting on a very uncomfortable fence, stemming from allegations made against Steelers starting QB Ben Roethlisberger. His alleged sexual assault and/or rape, on more than one occasion, does not sit well with this feminist mother rabble-rousing Steelers fan. How can I stand behind a team that allows a suspected predator act as their strong armed savior? How does that square with what I want to teach my children about respecting oneself, that no always means no, that there is never a reason for such actions. How can I cheer when, by his height and strength and footwork, scrambles out of the pocket and finds my friend Heath Miller or Hines Ward downfield for a huge gain to win the game?

I'm torn between rooting for my team and throwing in the Terrible Towel in disgust. Allegations like these are hard to prove and even harder to talk about because of the celebrity status and money involved. It is easy to believe both sides of this story: that Roethlisberger is a total pig who needs to serve some time, or that these are women looking for easy paydays. These types of things boil down to he said/she said and carry the assumption of guilt for all involved. Public sports pundits want to wag fingers, cultural leaders want to advocate for tougher victim's rights laws. Spectators just want the game to go on.

In listening to sports radio, I've been disgusted at the willingness of men and women fans. We are all complicit, willing to keep watching the sport, to keep blaming the woman, proclaiming that "boys will be boys." All because we're uncomfortable talking about it.

But we need to talk about it. In light of recent proposed legislation to redefine rape, in light of a culture that's growing increasingly desensitized to aggressive sexuality, in light of our responsibility as adults, spectators, humans, to demand better treatment of our fellow humans. I applaud Terry Bradshaw for excoriating Roethlisberger and calling him to task for his inappropriate, possibly illegal, behavior. And if it's true, that Roethlisberger is indeed a changed man, when he gives praise to God on the winner's dias, I hope it's true.

But don't tell me you're a changed man. Show me.

Raising the Bar

My friend Kristin has written about the bleak blah that is the month of January. While many people have never had a glimpse of the beast that is depression, many of us know its long and strong tentacles can gasp at any moment, sucking us down into a pit of miry clay, if I may be so bold.

I seem to live according the rhythm of the students' calendar. With three school-aged kids and one teacher man living with me, my life is set by the school. In the 16 years that he's been a teacher, and in the years prior to that when I was a real live student, I've experienced the roller coaster that is the school year. And I will tell you that January can bite it. (Along with August, December and May.)

Usually in January, I'd be wrapped up in layers and layers of soft, elastic-waisted clothes going face down in yet another pint of Ben and Jerry's Americone Dream. But you know, I've been running. And I have these goals! And it's so pretty outside right now. And I as much as I adore Americone Dream, I just can't eat another pint. Well... maybe just a bite.

My running routine was a precise and secure process in my day, leaving the house for a run right after the troops left for school. I was faithful to my routine all the way up to the day Christmas break started. It's been downhill since, rather deliciously I might add. I took time off for a trip to Pennsylvania. Then it was icy and cold. So I lost about 4 weeks of regular running. But this week my cabin fever reached critical mass. I had to find, gasp, a new routine! Golly I hate change. It's so...changey.

It occurred to me that I did not have to run in the mornings, when it was so blasted cold. Duh. What took me so long? I don't know. And I won't bore you with the logistical craziness running in the middle of the day causes. I will just say that it's not the most convenient. Silver lining: I still get outside to do the thing I love. And this is good.

So?

Well, a few things. One, the minor inconvenience is worth it to get something I want. A simple shift in perspective opened up a way for me to carve out the time I wanted. I know it's temporary and I can deal with that.

I also realized that I didn't have to be a martyr about running. I had run in 28 degrees and that was not fun, yet I had this misplaced idea that cowing to weather was copping out. But then, I posted to Facebook this morning "I deserve higher standards," about running when it's below freezing. Heck yeah, I do. I found a way to keep running without torturing my digits in sub-freezing breezes.

And then I realized something I'd thought before. I am often disappointed in what an easy teacher running is and how thick I am that I need pictures to grasp the bigger truth. I long for running to be this largely contemplative exercise from which I emerge an enlightened, empowered voice of untaught wisdom. Truth is, running is a pretty simple stand in for much of life.

What I mean is, we do deserve higher standards and I'm not just talking about the thermometer. And I'm not talking about keeping our houses and children perfect. I'm talking about what we allow ourselves the time to participate in. I wanted, I needed to get moving outside; there were a few obstacles and I kicked them in the teeth to get them out of my way.

I'm worth a run outside. I'm worth one hour to think and move, to pace, pray and vanish.

What are you worth? How will you raise the bar?

There is No Jen in "Steelers." Or is there...?

My love for the black and gold has been well documented. And lest you think this black and gold of which I speak is the "little black dress" and gold earrings, you'd be wise to shift your gaze to that photo up there. Yeah, that one. The one of the Terrible Towel, marked with evidence of the Steelers' victories in an unprecedented 6, count em, SIX Super Bowls.

Yes. My ardor for the Steelers does not wane. And you most likely know this already. I can't help it. I love me some Steelers.

Last night, when the Steelers reached the Super Bowl for the eighth time by soundly defeating Rex Ryan and his wily, too-little-too late Jets, the texts and voice mails poured in to my very busy phone. You guys know me so well, and I know I'm not obnoxious about it. At. All.

"Congrats!" "Well done." "That was a close one!" "See you in Dallas!" "We're going to the Super Bowl!!!!!!"

This is what I refer to as the "royal we" of sport, wherein one's entire fan base takes credit for all a teams' successes and rues all of their shortcomings. When we say "We're going to the Super Bowl," we mean it. Our passion has carried our team to the crest of perfection and we ride the wave of their muscle-bound glory.

When someone says, "Congrats," that my team has advanced, and lived to play another game, another rival vanquished, I smile and say, "Thanks," because it is through my efforts that my team has a stout defense and scrambling giant of a QB.

"See you in Dallas!" They crow. "Heck to the yeah!" I cry back. Now, I'm not really, physically going to Dallas, but MY team is. And vicariously I am. And I will make my virtual presence known. You will hear the cheer in my tweets and status updates. You hopefully will not have to experience my anguish.

It's funny how invested we get in mere sport. I get loud, chatty and a bundle of nerves. I pace and hold my Terrible Towel over my eyes on 3rd and long or, worse on 4th and 1 when we choose to go for it. My husband sits quietly remote from the crowd. He doesn't talk. He barely eats. He is a stoic stone of passivity. Occasionally, though, he will mutter and grumble like the old man in the corner. "We need to tackle," he'll say. Or, "Why are we passing. We need to force the run." As if he's right there, on the sidelines, with some kind of authority to make these adjustments.

I know nay-sayers exist. There are those in the crowd who disdain the use of the sporting royal we, rightly claiming it simply isn't so. WE are not on the team. OUR cheering makes little to no impact on the game, especially those of us watching at home. We do not need to run the ball because WE do not get to touch the ball.

Sure sure. That's TECHNICALLY true. But isn't community and team spirit the point of teams? Aren't they groups of players and spectators for a reason? Sports wouldn't exist today if not for the fan dumping his cold hard cash nto the system.
Without her passion to show up early and stay there late if that's what her team needs. If no crowd arrives, there's not much of a point, is there? They play for us and we cheer for them.

So yes, thank you for the many congrats. I'm excited we made it and I'll see you all in Dallas. Look for me. I'll be the nervous nelly pacing with a yellow towel on her head.

The Mystery

I can't choose! Your theories on the lost cards astound and frankly, they frighten. I promise never to cross any of you. You are a diabolical bunch.

I got a lot of "missing persons" stuff, one Rapture (interesting) and one with a failed skydiving excursion.

My rational self leans toward the "dropped it at the bus stop" variety, which is so blase. I put myself to sleep with that meager offering.

I fear it is what you've suggested. Poor guy. In the wrong place at the wrong time, car jacking, takes a swing at his abductor, grabs his wallet and flings all three out the window to leave a trail of identity breadcrumbs.

Of course, because I didn't run enough days last week, and didn't find it til Tuesday, my efforts to return to the documents are futile. The police will uncover the ugly truth, and I'll never know what became of the two. It's all my fault for not running even though is was, like, really cold out and stuff.

Have a good weekend.

The Perils of a Good Samaritan

After the events from yesterday's run, I threw the challenge flag and went to the booth for replay. I viewed the mental video of the goofiest things that have happened to me when I'm out running. Not too many, but enough to give pause. Surely there's significance in this?

I'll start with yesterday. I was almost done with my run. It was cold, colder than my phone app told me it was (*shaking fist and exlaiming "curses technology"). I turned the penultimate corner when in my periphery I noticed an ID badge and a notebook on the sidewalk near a bus stop. You know how your mind sometimes takes a second to balance vision with reality? By the time I had figured out that someone had dropped important cards, I was 50 yards down the way. My stupid conscience made me go back. My plan was to move it off the path, put it in the grass, so that if the person who dropped it came back, his stuff would be right there. And that's what I did.

I ran on and my stupid conscience would not shut up. Cripes. Fine. I turned around and went back. Again. This time I was about 150 yards away. I hemmed and hawed the whole time. Should I take it to a local business? Why make it their problem? And what if they didn't do their civic duty? Could I trust them to do the important work of researching and finding the poor sod who lost his badge? Oh, and his credit card? An errand of this import could not be left to mere amateurs.

By the time I got back to the lost items, the dog was thoroughly confused and a tiny bit reluctant to keep running. I grabbed the badge, the lanyard, the credit card and the wet notebook (I refuse to think about what liquid put it in that condition). I ran home. Now the conscience pushed me on. Well, that and the cold. A shift in my day. Now I had a project on my plate I didn't really want or care to carve out the time for.

Then it got interesting.

In the lanyard were two cards, one an ID badge and one a certification from some kind of training. Neither card had a phone number. The credit card that was with the lanyard but not inside it appeared to belong to another person altogether. In other words, the names did not match. Hmm. I put my citizen's officer cap on and got to work. The only identifier was the name of the training company so I called them up. Eliza answered the phone and was very kind. She told me the man's number. I asked Eliza what state I was calling; Washington. I told her I was in Oklahoma, and she said, "My word," told her colleagues and asked my number.

I called the number she gave me for my lost person, but all I got was a weird beeping. Couldn't leave a voice mail. Then I tried to call the bank of the credit card. Yeah. Have you tried to call a bank lately? Apparently, no people work at banks anymore. You simply push buttons until you either hang up or get an answer that will have to do. I was unable to speak to an actual person. In fact, I could not get past the first set of menu options. By now my good samaritan vibe had long been replaced by irritated nice person.

But! But! My twitter friends came through for me! (Thanks, guys.) In addition to offering possible story lines for the three cards and the notebook, suggeting all manner of crimes and even the possible demise of the owner, I also got advice. One friend told me to call the police.

The police? Whatever. They don't care about that stuff. I should just put it in the mail and have done with it. But again, do I really want to trust the post office to get this stuff where it needs to be? Moreover, no mere citizen can handle this kind of sensitive issue with national implications. I have never in my life called the police, and for this I am grateful. I was kind of nervous. I called, I told them the story, rushing through it to get to the important parts. The friendly officer asked me to bring it by whenever I had a chance and that they'd try to return it.

Because I didn't want some guy's stuff in my house all week, I took it in yesterday. Two new experiences in one day. It's almost too much. Called and visited the police. Yep. I'm that girl. I told the story again, and the silver crew-cut, barrel-chested, baritoned officer called me ma'am. And he said I could come to work for them. As if.

Okay. So long story. Who cares? If you're still reading, you do. If you're gone, then you'll miss these little gems. Your loss.

Being a good samaritan is a pain in the butt. It is inconvenient. It is inviting yourself into a situation and then not getting to see the resolution. It's also a good way to have a little adventure. And, even if the dudes never get their cards back, I would have wanted someone to do the same thing for me.

The other interesting part is the story of the three cards and the notebook. How did they all come to be at a bus stop a half a world away from where they originated? How did two guys drop three cards in one place? Is it identity theft? Missing persons? I'm so curious and I'll never know, and I'm worried about them both. I want to know your theories. Leave a comment telling the story of the lost cards. I'll post the best story on Friday.