Something I never expected to learn from running is the value of being still. It seems contradictory; running is about moving forward. We’re constantly pushing ourselves to achieve the next goal. This is helpful in the sport as well as life, but sometimes we just need to stop. We need to observe our surroundings, see where we are, how far we’ve come, and figure out where we’re headed. It’s only in the stillness that we are able to uncover the path that is right for us. Most importantly, we need to be still enough to receive what the world has in store for us.
The thing is, we can try to plan things out to the most meticulous detail, but life often has different plans for us. Having a game plan is important, but we also have to be prepared for the curveballs. Well, actually, we have to be prepared for the curveballs, the beanballs, the rogue foul balls, and the random pigeon flying onto the field. Expect the unexpected. I think most of us learn that the hard way, after getting pelted a few times. Then we eventually learn to embrace the unexpected. Before I began this post, I actually had three other posts started. I planned on one of them being my next entry. But after I’d written a few paragraphs for each one, none of them seemed to take off.
There’s nothing wrong with taking a break. That’s what I was thinking one lazy Saturday morning, sipping on coffee and scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed. I noticed a post from a young man breaking the news that his wife had lost her battle with cancer. I contemplated on leaving a comment. I didn’t know her well- we were in a wedding together a few years ago- but she had left an impression on me. She was someone I truly admired, although she probably had no idea. There were a lot of supportive comments already. One in particular caught my attention. It was a simple, “My condolences.” But I recognized the name. It was the name of someone I went to junior high with. I’ll call him Fred for purposes of this blog, but that’s not his real name. Aww, Freddie! I wonder how he is. I tapped to view his page and realized it was actually his father who made the comment. I scrolled to find pics or a tag so I could view Fred Jr’s page. A few posts in, I saw the telling picture. It was of a tattoo on someone’s arm that read: R.I.P. Freddie 1979-2015.
Damn.
I Googled for the obituary. It wasn’t morbid curiosity, I just needed to know that he didn’t die from the same thing that seems to take so many 20 and 30-somethings from my hometown. But my fear was confirmed. According to the obituary, he had battled with drug addiction for a long time. The information landed like a heavy rock in my gut.
We lost track of each other after junior high because we ran in different circles. What I did remember of him was actually really sweet. I had gone to one or two of his birthday parties, first and second grade, I think. His mom was very pretty and seemed kind and patient. She was a natural beauty; fair, with luxurious blonde hair, and always wore the perfect shade of lipstick. His sisters had the same pretty long hair and he had her dimples. I have flashes of memories of her standing behind him as our moms talked. He would often give a bashful smile as she tousled his sandy brown hair.
One particular memory stands out after all these years. We both had Mrs. Risinger in first grade, but for reading, I had to go next door to Mrs. Skibo’s classroom. After class one day, I was returning to Mrs. Risinger’s room as she was collecting students’ assignments. They were given a worksheet to complete, but Fred was far from finished. “Psst, Bianca!” He caught my attention as I walked past. “Can you help me?” I glanced down at his paper. Ohhh, he’ll be in trouble! Mrs. Risinger was nice and a good teacher, but she was also a no-nonsense kind of teacher. I pulled a chair up to the other side of his desk and grabbed the spare No. 2. In a fury we worked together to match words, fill in blanks, and connect dots. I was happy to help him because he was easily one of the nicest kids in the class. At least, that’s how I remember him. He was always smiling. He had one of those genuine, infectious smiles that showed off his cute dimples. I’m sure I had a crush on him at some point between first and ninth grade.
I replayed that memory over in my head a few times, trying to conjure up others. I just kept going back to that happy smile and the tragedy of how his life came to an end. My thoughts were like a long dark cave that I was trying to fumble my way through. I wondered when the darkness set in for him. Is that even how the addiction started? Was it an emptiness he couldn’t fill? Was there one particular turning point or more simply a series of bad decisions? Are we all just meant to fulfill our own destinies? That lead me to the most colossal question of all: Should we believe in fate or freewill? Is there room for both? I’m a strong proponent of discernment; the decisions I make are careful and well thought out. I don’t think that we should merely let things happen to us, but I also think that anything that’s meant to happen will. I’ve said it a thousand times and I’ll say it a thousand more, life can surprise you everyday.
That thought resonated as I realized that this was going to be my next blog, not any of the others that I planned on. I set out on my long Saturday run around 1:30pm. It was 80ish degrees and I was a bit distracted in my nostalgic mood. As I tied double knots in my sneakers, I remembered how a couple of the kids in first grade liked to help me tie my shoes. (I had a little trouble transitioning from the velcro straps to laces.) That made me chuckle. I’m pretty sure Freddie was one of those kids. It was all about helping each other at that age. The things we can learn from our younger selves.
I was maintaining a comfortably hard pace when Ben Woodward’s cover of “So Far Away” came through my ear buds. A raw sadness sank in. I thought about the effect of time and distance on people. It’s powerful and it’s bittersweet. How often two people start in a similar place, but end up worlds apart.
The song switched to “Fast Car” and my heart pounded as I began sprinting. A cardinal flew a few yards in front of me and perched on a tree branch. They say cardinals are signs of loved ones who’ve passed. I’m not sure if I believe that, but it gave me a chill. Or maybe it was the sweat. My tank was soggy, my face was melting, my arms were slimy and the turkeys were done. It was time to call it quits. My eyes burned as I pulled a dry corner of my shirt up to wipe the perspiration away. And then they came; the tears. They were tears from the sweat sting and they were tears from an emotional sting. I thought about all the people I’ve lost for one reason or another. I broke down. Why does life have to be so shitty sometimes?
I quickly gained my composure as I struggled to unlock my apartment door with my sweaty hands. I had no business crying. I didn’t know Fred past the age of 14 and I certainly won’t assume to know anything about struggling with drug addiction. I do know a little a bit about the darkness that can take hold of your life. Running helped me escape that darkness. I’ve run long enough to put it 15 years behind me.
It’s truly by the grace of God that I fell into running instead of something destructive. I’ve felt the endorphin high when I needed it and felt the satisfaction of a well-worked body when I needed it. It’s been a mixture of being deliberate with my decisions and learning to let things unfold the way they’re supposed to. We can look forward to the pleasant surprises and look for the lessons in the hard times. It’s a delicate balance that I’m not even close to perfecting. And that’s okay, we’re not supposed to have the answers. Sometimes we’re supposed to just be. Be still, be loving, be true, be a friend. There’s a lot of ways to get it wrong, but there’s also plenty of ways to get it right. I think of my old friend and his path that was so different from mine. Those differences had very little to do with the way I’ll remember him. I remember him being happy and kind. A few small moments made a big impact. At the end of it all, what matters the most is not how you die but how you lived.
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