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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.

Do you sometimes get really bizarre dreams? Dreams so vivid you remember them clearly even years later. Dreams about waterslides, weird animals, random celebrities, and Santa; you wake up wondering, wtf! Some say dreams are the portal to your subconscious. They say you should pay special attention to recurring dreams because they can be a clue to some physical ailment or an unresolved psychological problem. I used to get recurring dreams that I was trying to run- usually towards something- but I could never run fast enough. It felt like I was running the wrong direction on a conveyor belt. I couldn’t quite get my legs to work right. They always made me feel frustrated and helpless.

I suppose one could argue these dreams had something to do with the feeling of not living up to my potential. Maybe they were an indication of my impatience or of the fact that there were many things I experienced later in life than most. A friend informed me once that it was actually just my muscles recouping after being overused. I’m not sure. I don’t get those dreams anymore.

The dreams I love the most are the ones where I get to run through huge open fields. They bring the feeling of freedom and deep contentment. A few years ago, I dreamt that I was in one of these fields when I came upon a fairly steep hill. I trudged up eagerly. It was a gorgeous day- bright, clear, and hot, with a palliative breeze. The green of the grass and the blue of the sky were vibrant. I got to the top and was greeted with a long paved path. The path was lined with majestic trees on either side and rows of multi-colored flowers connecting the tops of the trees, creating arches overhead. I was overwhelmed at the sight of it. I walked through the path until I made it to the other side. I kept on walking, down the right side of the hill. A part of me wanted to stop and stay at the top because I had the feeling that nothing would be as beautiful as what I had just seen. But something drew me towards the bottom. As I made my way down, the sky began to darken, turning to a menacing grey-black. At the bottom of the hill were dozens of deer skeletons and rotting animal carcasses. It looked sort of like the elephant graveyard from The Lion King. My joy vanished. I surveyed the scene, trying to make sense of it all. I woke up before any answers came.

At first, I thought this dream was some sort of metaphor representing my thoughts on Heaven and Hell. But as time wears on, the events of the world seem to spit out at us like debris from a tornado and I find myself reflecting on the beauty and ugliness that we witness here in real life. Things seem to have reached a new level of tragic. Just weeks ago a 17 year-old, a child, lost his life. He was a young man who had dreams of being more than most would expect. But, as if from a nightmare, the very thing he was afraid of happening, happened. It shouldn’t have. And, as a teenager, he shouldn’t have had to ponder the harsh realities of this world in such a profound way. But there it is; not a bad dream, reality. Innocence lost before it’s time. Another dream wiped away.

The ugliness that crept in over the next few days was disheartening to say the least. Social media became a breeding ground for hatred. The comments and sentiments shared were appalling and infuriating. Nothing divides people more than the desire to be “right”. Justice is important, but true justice can’t exist without compassion.

I couldn’t scroll my news feed without getting angry. I wanted to respond to some particularly ignorant comments.  Having a lack of respect for other human beings doesn’t make you funny or cool, it makes you disgusting and pathetic. I was fuming. But I didn’t comment, I wasn’t going to change anyone’s mind. It would’ve only fueled the fire.

I went about my life as usual, trying to understand why or how people think the way they do. This occupied my mind a lot for the next few days. The positive side of it was that it made me a little more patient and a little more likely to say hello to strangers I passed on the street.

I practiced this patience while I was waiting in the long T-shirt line at the Walk for Children’s that following Saturday. It was a about a 30 minute wait, but it was a good chance for people watching and contemplation. There were a lot of cute families with matching outfits and kids with their faces painted. When I finally got my tee, I made my way towards the food trucks scanning the crowd for my friend. I was looking for a thin, pretty, blonde with a soft, sweet voice and an even sweeter demeanor. I found her quickly and we greeted with a hug.

We spent the first few minutes just catching up. We chatted and enjoyed the scenery for most of the walk. We passed the Schenley golf course and I talked about my plans to take up golf. My mind drifted for a few seconds as I imagined what my golf outfits would look like. My thoughts were interrupted by droplets of rain on my arm. My friend opened her umbrella and invited me in. It was white and pink with silhouettes of men in black suits all over it. “It’s raining men; I love it!” I slinked over to huddle underneath the umbrella with her. We were nearing the end of the walk as it began pouring. We paused underneath a tent, deciding on our brunch options. I scanned the crowd again, a flurry of ponchos, strollers, and umbrellas, trying their best to stay dry. It was a diverse group; all ages, races, and walks of life. Everyone coming together to support a good cause. It was uplifting scene and something we needed to see, perhaps now more than ever.

We decided on Dor-Stop for brunch because it was near my friend’s house. We took a shuttle back to my car which was about half a mile away. The shuttle driver was kind enough to offer us a ride even though the parking garage wasn’t on his route. As we were jostled by potholes, I stared out the window, easing into a more peaceful state.

I think we hold the misperception that reality lies somewhere on the spectrum between a great dream and a terrible nightmare. The thing is, we see glimpses of both in our everyday lives. We often try to dissect our dreams, seeking answers, trying to figure out what it all means. This is true for life too. In the pursuit of wisdom, we neglect the beauty of innocence. Wisdom is helpful, but sometimes we need to just be and let the answers unfold in their own time. Although it is also important to be aware that there are evil, ugly parts of the world. This will make us more diligent about trying to find the good in it. And more importantly, it will motivate us to bring the good out in ourselves as much as we can.

I was recently given the assignment to study some scriptures about grace. The aim of this task was to give me a different perspective on rejection and self worth. We all struggle with rejection, but some deal with it better than others. I’m one who handles it poorly. Very poorly. I remember a conversation with a friend who, trying to make me feel better about a particular situation, said she believed that nobody really handles it well. Maybe, but if there’s a best way to handle it, then I want to figure out what it is.

It’s not so much the rejection, but the lack of acceptance and approval. I have this huge and fragile ego that needs stroked from time to time. It’s like this over-inflated balloon floating blissfully and obliviously above the trees. It only takes the tiniest of pricks to deflate it and send it plummeting to the ground. I have been deflated a couple of times by a couple of pricks in my life. But let’s not go there. This is about God’s grace and redemption. We can’t earn redemption by our own merits; only by grace. This is so affirming because, let’s face it, we’re all a mess in some way. It’s possibly the most beautiful tenet of Christianity, but it’s also the hardest selling point. It’s just so difficult to wrap our minds around the fact that we can’t earn salvation. We are loved and saved anyway, despite the mess. I get that, but I don’t always get it. I know it, but I don’t always feel it.

I was skeptical taking on this assignment, but in the interest of personal growth, I took it on wholeheartedly. I figure if I can learn to embrace a more grace-filled life, then I can help anyone else do the same. I got started in the morning, slowly emerging from a cloud of grogginess, I set my bible and coffee mug on the end table. I sat down on my living room couch, and began flipping through the pages. It’s a student ESV Bible with over 1,800 pages. I quickly realized this wouldn’t work. I shut the giant book, grabbed my phone, and googled ‘verses about grace.’ I scrolled through the more than two dozen results. Okay, these are great, I know these verses, I understand the message. But now what? The message just wasn’t connecting to my real life. I searched for sermons from some of my favorite pastors, hoping to gain some insight. One of the lectures advised that we should work towards a more Godly life even if we’ll be saved anyway. If we work on our sins merely to fix some problem in our lives or to gain approval, then the results will short-lived. We should be motivated by the sheer sake of living a more Godly life. We should embrace the goodness. …Or at least try our hardest.

Finally, this was something that resonated. I often use the example of running (huge shock). When I first started to run, my goal was to lose weight. I was 20 and wanted to look cute for the boys. On its own, that wouldn’t have been enough motivation to keep it up for almost 18 years. Along the way I fell in love with the simple fact that running takes discipline. It’s a decision I make every day. I am (more or less) consistently improving. That improvement takes hard work and hard work is its own reward!

It’s all about genuine intention. God wants us to want to grow. But this fallen world is full of obstacles and temptations that get thrown at us at every turn. Life often feels like a five-against-one dodgeball game. That’s why we have grace to cling to and God’s love to shield us. We should appreciate that, but Christianity shouldn’t be just for our comfort. Faith takes work. It takes work to trust and be grateful and be obedient. If you’re anything like me, you struggle all the time.

I guess that’s what brings me to this assignment. Somewhere along the way I’ve learned to measure my self worth by the approval of others. I suppose we all do that to some degree. Being a good friend, a good spouse, a good daughter, a good coworker, a good parent; that’s just everything in this world. It is important to be good to others, but it’s dangerous to grade yourself based on how well you please others. It is human to falter. At some point, you’re going to disappoint and be disappointed. God’s grace tells us that we are enough despite what others believe. This can be incredibly difficult for someone who was raised to be an achiever.

I reflected on these thoughts over lunch later that day. I sized up the two slices of Hawaiian Pizza on my paper plate. It was my 3 year work anniversary and that’s what I’d chosen for my special treat. I get excited for Hawaiian Pizza for sure, but there are some that just don’t care for it. Maybe it’s all just as simple as that. Maybe whether we get chosen for a job or a friendship or a relationship is merely a matter of taste. You’re not going to be everyone’s cup of tea. And not one person’s judgement is better than God’s.

I can tell myself that, but it I can’t stop it from hurting. And I’m not sure why. I stared out the window, contemplating, but no answers came. I got back to my desk and examined the clear plexi plaque that I’d recieved that morning. It came in a dressy grey box with a few ‘congratulations’ and high fives from my coworkers, and the sentiment that they were grateful to have me there. I believed that. Still, I felt a little sheepish getting recognition just for being at a job for a certain amount of time. It felt good, though. There’s nothing like knowing that your mere presence is appreciated. It gives you a much better perspective on your own self worth.

It reminds me of those times when my Dad, out of the blue, tells me he’s proud of me. I always look at him, perplexed. “Why?” It’s not like I’m in high school that I can bring home a good report card. “I’m just proud of who you are.” Damn, that just hits me. That’s a lot like God’s love and acceptance. It’s something we may not deserve, but we’re afforded anyway. Sometimes we need someone in our lives to mirror God’s grace for us because it makes it a little easier to comprehend. It also makes me wonder; do I do that enough for others? 

God loves each one of us as part of his creation. And He created each one of us for a special purpose. This should help us to look at the big picture when we’re faced with rejection. Rejection is part of the plan too. And that’s okay, because we’re accepted by the One that matters. We only need to keep working and showing up. Working on our faith and showing up for those that need us and love us. Even if that love is an imperfect love. Because just as we’re given grace by God, we should extend grace to others as often as we can.

In honor of the Race for the Cure and Mother’s Day, I initially wanted to write this one just for the ladies. I wanted this to be an uplifting story about how I’m constantly in awe of my mom friends and how much I admire my own mom. This is all true. I can’t tell my friends enough, what amazing moms I think they are. To be completely candid, I have moments when I feel like my life isn’t as important because I’m not a parent. That’s just not where the cards fell for me. Most times I believe it’s for the best, sometimes I wish things could be different, and a lot of times, I just think I wouldn’t be able to cut it as a parent.

It’s that feeling that changed the direction of this story. We all feel inadequate in some way, at some point. It’s important to let go of these feelings and recognize the good in ourselves. We all have shortcomings, but we also have ways in which we shine. It can be easy to get caught in the pit of insecurities and forget about the things we have going for us. This is a struggle men and women can both relate to. In fact, sometimes I think it can be harder for men. Guys aren’t supposed to be vulnerable or admit their insecurities. (That’ll probably be a topic for another blog). As I mentioned, circumstances inspired a different kind of story than I had originally intended. So this post is for everyone. Men and women, parents and singles, athletes and couch potatoes. There are things we can all relate to.

I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but I’d submitted 3 stories to a writing contest back in February. I received the results in my Inbox two weeks ago. I didn’t win a damn thing. The rejection email didn’t explain much except that there were roughly 400 entrants in the contest. It wouldn’t have mattered if there were 40 or 4,000. The rejection stings just the same. I’ve been getting accustomed to those kinds of emails lately as I’ve been searching for a job in a different department of my company. I knew it was going to be difficult, I just had no idea it would be this hard.

For me, the best way to forget these work week frustrations is with a long Saturday run. In general I thoroughly enjoy the peace and freedom of Saturdays to myself. This particular Saturday, I was looking forward to an extra long run followed by watching the Penguins win game 6 of the Stanley Cup playoffs. I certainly had more confidence in the Pens than I had in myself lately.

They did not win.

They lost in OT.

It felt like a gut punch.

The next morning was humid and dreary as I lagged through my typical recovery run. It started to rain about ten minutes in. Perfect. But actually, it was kind of perfect. The day matched my mood. It was overcast, quiet, and heavy. In addition to my own recent failings, my team had lost their chances for the Cup, and I’d had a stomach ache  that kept me awake. Fatigue and the weight of things made me feel like I was running under water. This was going to be a day to simmer in disappointment. Simmering can be a good thing when it gives you time to find the lesson in the hurting. You just can’t dwell in that place too long.

But that’s where I’d been for a couple of weeks. I even contemplated scrapping this blog site altogether. I mean, if I’m not good enough for a stupid little contest… what am I even doing? I had to remind myself that its not about being good. I do it because I like it. And, inexplicably, some of you like what I have to say and find it thought-provoking. Bless you for that. That’s why I do this.

I was actually working on a different version of this blog, when it took yet another turn. I had escaped to an empty conference room on my lunch break. Writing and listening to music is how I decompress. I was completely lost in my head when one of my coworkers crept up from behind the cubicle divider. She was a little hesitant to interrupt me.

“Are you still collecting money for the race on Sunday?”

I took my ear buds out and looked at her, a little surprised.”Really? Are you sure? I think everyone else forgot.”

“Yep, I’m sure. Take it!”

It was a sweet gesture from a sweet lady. I was elated. I took her cash, thanked her and immediately made a donation on her behalf. Later in the day, my coworker Sean handed me a cash envelope with my name scribbled on it. I took it, almost in disbelief.

“This is from me and Quinn.”

My heart melted. I probably had a dumb ass grin on my face the whole drive home. When I stopped at Giant Eagle, I checked my phone and saw that another coworker had donated the remaining amount I needed to reach my goal. Now I was getting totally verklempt. And it didn’t stop there, later that evening my brother had added to the total. The next day, another coworker, and then a coworker and his wife donated. Even after the race, another friend made his donation. It was all too much for my poor soft heart. My eyes welled up and I felt that familiar lump in my throat. I’m getting emotional even now. I was overwhelmed by the generosity and support.

Until this time, I’ve always been terrible at fundraising. I’d tried and been frustrated in the past, but for whatever reason, I kept trying. It might be just a little bit of money to those that contributed, but to me it meant a renewed sense of purpose- that means everything.

I started writing this post with the intent of inspiring others to overcome their insecurities. But my own sense of failure and disappointment had been stalling me. So this encouragement came to me when I truly needed it the most. Small gestures can leave an enormous impact.

It means so much to feel like I’m making some kind of difference. That’s what we’re here for, after all. That’s what gives me the motivation to keep running. It’s what makes me happy to be working where I am. With support like that, I can’t help but wonder if there’s a reason I haven’t found a new job yet. I really don’t know; I only pray that I make the right decisions and find the way to what is meant for me.

If life were to turn out exactly the way we planned, it would probably be too boring. Failure is a part of life. It’s meant to teach us and sometimes redirect us. The most we can do is put our best effort into the life we have. Engage with the people, places, and things that surround us. Because the impact you have on someone else’s life might just be worth all that work.

…And as for the Pens, there’s always next year!

The pictures below popped up in my Facebook Memories a few days ago. It’s from my friend’s “bridal tea”- a posh, pre-shower gathering of close friends and family. We were going for retro-chic in our fascinators and 1960’s inspired garb a la Mad Men. It was 5 years ago, but it might as well have been 50 years ago. So much has changed in our lives since then. I look at all of us; young and bright and happy and wondered for a moment if I would go back in time to prepare us for everything we were headed for. But that’s not how life works. I’ve written before about the rocks in our paths that divert us from our plans. I’m starting to realize that they’re not there just to trip us up. By getting in our way, sometimes they’re actually guiding us to the right way. If we take all those rocks and lay them out together they eventually create their own road. It’s a crooked and bumpy road, but it’s the one that we were meant to take.

It can be difficult to see it that way when things don’t go according to our perfect plan. Our hope is so often tested. It’s especially hard to know when to hold on and when to let go. As I’m getting ready to run the Achilles Hope and Possibility race in a couple of weeks, I’ve been reflecting a lot on hope, despair, and perseverance.

Here’s a story that brought all that to mind:

Something terrible happened a few weeks ago. In the middle of my a.m. run, a lip balm fell out of my pocket and got caught underneath the treadmill belt. In a fury, the belt started folding under my feet. Noooo! I jumped to the side and turned the machine off. Chest heaving, I stared at the carnage in disbelief. Effff! I tugged on the belt trying to unfold it. It wouldn’t budge. Stuck! Stuck!! Stuck!!!

I didn’t have much time to assess the damage if I was going to finish my run before work. I put on my fluffy fleece and grabbed my gloves and my apartment key. It was brutally cold and a little too dark out for my liking. I ran on the sidewalk next to a busy road to feel safer. The wind was biting, though, and it took my breath away a couple of times. The weather reports had been calling for negative degree temperatures. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep up this routine.

I spent a good part of the work day contemplating what I was going to do about the situation. The treadmill is no longer under warranty, but the belt had been replaced before so maybe it was an easy fix. Surely I’d be able to take the thing apart and unfold the belt. I got home from work, tossed my coat onto a chair and rummaged through the kitchen drawers for my screwdriver. Returning to the scene brought a pang like a tiny dagger in my heart. My poor old treadmill in such a state. I decided to start disassembling from the front. There were three screws in front and two on the side. I got this, no problem. I went to work on the first one. It was was pretty snug, but I worked it out after a couple of minutes. I made my way to the second and third. By the fourth one, I was feeling quite hopeful. But this one didn’t seem to be moving. I wasn’t sure at first, though. The light was too dim in my room, the screw was so small, and my hands were getting sweaty. I wiped my palms on my pants and held my phone up to the screw for light. It was stripped. Ugh!

I gave it a couple more half-hearted attempts before tossing the screwdriver onto the floor. I let out a long, defeated sigh. I picked up my phone and made my way to the living room. I slumped onto the couch. “Okay Google, find a gym near work”. I guess it was
finally time for a membership. I’d been reluctant until this point, but what other choice did I have? I lifted the living room curtain and turned to gaze out the window. Flakes whirled a few times and then disappeared into the dark. There’s no way I’m running in that for the rest of the week.

A few clicks later and it was done. I’d become a gym rat- one of those people with a gym membership that actually goes to the gym. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The reasons for my initial hesitation has to do with my own vanity, not my distaste for gym people. I’m sure gym people are great. Except for those inconsiderate mid-life crisis guys that insist on using the treadmill right next to you when there’s a dozen others to choose from. What’s up with that? So irritating! I might have to address proper gym etiquette in a future blog…

But for now I have to address something else. The broken treadmill that’s still in my apartment. Not the machine itself, but what it represents. I really haven’t tried again to fix it since that day. I’ve managed to work the gym into my routine pretty seamlessly. I need routine, but I can adapt like nobody’s business. At least when something important is at stake. Although, with this adaptability, I fear I’m lacking something in the way of persistence. Whenever I get a hint that something won’t work out, I shift my focus and find something else to work on. That can be a good thing, but I’m often left wondering what would’ve happened if I persisted.

Life’s a giant pool of possibility and opportunity. If you merely dip your toe in, you won’t be refreshed, you won’t be challenged, you’ll get bored. But if you get in over your head, you might drown. At the very least you’ll be sputtering and gasping and you’ll be left depleted. Hope is life-renewing but false hope can be life-ruining. It’s important to have things that you’re passionate about. Something that if you lost it, you’d be heart broken. Heart break is important too; it’s character building. But it’s so incredibly dangerous to pin your hopes onto one thing or something unattainable.

Our passions help us find our purpose. And anything worth having is worth fighting for. But you have to be able to recognize whether to soldier forward or to reroute your pursuits. This is one of life’s most difficult tasks. Imagine treading water and not knowing which end of the pool to swim towards. It takes experience and wisdom to eventually get you there. I pray every day for that wisdom.

For now, that old broken treadmill remains like a reminder of unfinished business. It reminds me of things I gave up on too soon. It reminds me of traits and bad habits I still have to work on.  It reminds me that I tend to be more diligent about my running than about my faith. That’s one I’m working on. Because in the end, it may not matter how vigorously we pursue our own plans. It’s the plan that was meant for us that will be better than we can ever imagine.

I know, it’s a little late for motivation; the day is almost done. But hey there’s something to be said for doing things in your own time. This post sort of came out of nowhere. (And the pics will make sense in a bit, I promise). I was listening to music on my way home from the gym and I started mulling over an earlier conversation with a friend. I had texted her just to check up on things; it had been a while. She mentioned her family; her niece will be having a birthday soon. There was a bit of good news but not a lot of change. “…I live a boring life…” I responded in kind. “I have a boring life too, I think I prefer it that way!”

Hours later I was still thinking about that. I like to keep things pretty tame, true, but life really isn’t that boring, is it? It’s highly unpredictable.

I skipped a track on the CD in my car. It was actually a CD that was already in the player when I purchased the car last week. I really didn’t know the order of songs yet. So true for life, we don’t know all of the tracks on our playlist yet. That can certainly be a good thing if we don’t get dragged down by the fear of the unknown. The unknown can be scary, but it can be exciting and full of unexpected possibilities.

Rewind to a few weeks ago when I was on my way to meet friends for lunch and got into a fender-bender. That’s the reason for this new car purchase. Now those of you who know me, know that I was in 2 accidents about 14 months ago. In my defense, the first 2 were in no way my fault. In both cases the other drivers ran stop signs. This time I rear ended an SUV. No one was hurt and the other driver’s car had minimal damage. My car, however, crumpled up like an accordion. Sigh.

 I drive a lot. But still, no one would expect 3 accidents in 14 months. You just never know. And that’s what I mean. A split second and my lunch plans were changed. A split second and everything can change.

I don’t want this to be a downer, this is supposed to be motivating, after all. Like I said, there’s plenty of good that can be found in the unknown too. I think most things happen for a reason. Although, sometimes it’s hard to see it that way.

It was a cold, snowy night when I stopped after work to gather my belongings from my wrecked car. There was a row of mangled cars on the side of the road outside of the tow yard. I spotted my little white car in the row and my heart dropped to my stomach. It’s such a sad and strange thing to have to do. I grabbed my thermos and make-up bag and shuffled along the snow in my pencil skirt, tights, and sneakers in true “office lady” fashion. I realized that the electric was not working in the car which meant I wouldn’t be able to retrieve my Otis Redding CD. I was disappointed, but I didn’t want to dwell on it. It’s just a thing. Things are not important enough to be sad about. At least, that’s what I told myself.

But in a way, it’s like part of your life is gone. All those days of unwinding in my car after work, jamming to “Pain in My Heart”- those were all gone. Darn, Otis was my man! It was about the time I was lamenting my loss when I discovered this CD in the player. I pressed the button, hoping it was anything but death metal.

As it turns out, I actually like most of the songs. The second track is the same Ed Sheeran song that I was trying to remember just the day before! I’m not saying this was divine intervention or anything, it’s a happy coincidence, nothing more. But it is an example of how unexpected life can be.

In my 37 years, I’ve had my share of surprises. Some were like wrecking balls and some felt like miracles. Life is fragile. It’s hard and dark sometimes, but it can be light and uplifting too. We just can’t lose sight of that. Take on the day like you’re excited to see what it has in store. You may start out disappointed that you lost Otis, but end up delighted that you found Ed.

For many of us, our favorite part of the holiday season comes wrapped in the memories it stirs up. We’re reminded of the excitement and wonder of a more innocent time; a time when it didn’t matter if we were good at something, it just mattered that we were good. That time doesn’t last long enough. But if we let it, this time of year can bring back some of that wonderment.

It’s the Christmas lights, especially, that do it for me. Whether it’s the soft glow of white incandescents or the playful pink, yellow, and green dressing up a shrub; they conjure up a thousand happy thoughts of Christmases past. Growing up in my house, the holidays were filled with warmth and comfort. I try not to take these memories for granted, not everyone is fortunate enough to have them.

That’s why I’d been looking forward to the Holiday Lights Run. I was anxious to see Pittsburgh all lit up, and it was important for me to donate to Children’s Hospital. I can’t imagine how it would feel for a child to spend Christmas in the hospital or to be the parent of a child who is sick. I’m not a parent, but I am an aunt to a niece and nephew who I love with my whole heart. I know how my heart would crumble if they were hurt or sick. Every child deserves to have happy memories.

The race started after dark on one of the coldest days this winter. For most of the day at work, I was dreading that cold. I layered up with a long sleeve tech shirt, a white fluffy fleece and my favorite red pom-pom hat. I’m not sure if that was enough, or if I was just too distracted to notice the cold. Runners signed in at PPG place where we were handed a list of directions to get us through the courses. I stared at the paper for a moment hoping that by some miracle I would memorize the entire list in the next 5 seconds. I’m terrible with directions. Um… yeah, I’m gonna get so lost.

“Right onto 3rd Ave, til end.” Okay, here I go. I headed out with slight trepidation. There’s something that feels sinister about a quiet, frigid winter night. But something felt surprisingly tranquil about this night. By the time I made it to Point State Park I was in a blissfully serene state. The reflection of the city lights on the water and the blue LED snowflakes along the route transported me back in time. For a few breathtaking moments my heart was four years old again; uncomplicated and untainted.

I ran at a comfortable pace through the city, marveling at the contrast of dark and light. Just like when I was little and would turn off the living room lights  while the tree was lit. I’d be soothed by the blinking lights casting colorful shadows on the wall. One time in particular, I’d overheard my dad and brother in another room listening to the radio. Billy Joel’s “This is the Time” started playing and my dad explained the important meaning of the lyrics. He spoke with a wistful and wise tone. That moment stuck with me through all these years and he doesn’t even know that I was listening in.

I probably got lost about 4 times during the race, but I didn’t mind. For once I wasn’t worried about my speed. Besides, I knew my way around enough to hit all the major landmarks. I saw three huge trees wrapped in multi-colored bulbs and a life-size nativity scene; I made my way through Market Square, past the ice rink, and back inside PPG Place. It was by far the most beautiful run I’ve experienced. This was the first race in a very long time that I ran for the fun of it. I usually get too caught up in the pressure of pushing myself to have a fast time. That realization came with a bit of sadness. I guess that’s life.

I stayed inside for a few minutes to warm up. My face felt stiff and my frozen ears probably matched the color of my hat. I perused the display of gingerbread houses made by local elementary students. I hoped that building them meant building happy memories for those kids. Under the warm bright lights their icing shingles and M&M door frames looked pretty delicious. I must’ve been starving by then.

Then I thought about the kids at Children’s. We want so much to protect our children and keep them happy. It brings us joy to put smiles on their faces. Not just at Christmas time- as much as we possibly can. There’s something exciting about watching a child experience the world, but there’s also so much we want to shield them from. We can’t always do that. What we can do is guide them with wisdom, arm them with happy memories, and fill them with light. They’re going to keep these things with them even when we’re not around. And after we’re gone, they’ll still have that light to guide them if they get lost. If we do right by them, they’ll be able to share their light with others. They’ll know that strength comes from hope; they’ll appreciate the beauty of quiet moments, and most of all, understand the importance of kindness and love.

Merry Christmas!