Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

Lisa

What welcome looks like

“Good job, Isabelle! You’ve got this!”

We were on the track, running the last stretch of our 5K for Girls on the Run. I looked at the face of the woman cheering my daughter on. I didn’t recognize her.

“Do you know her?” I asked. Isabelle shook her head “no.”

“Then, how does she know your name?”

As soon as I asked the question, I had the answer. This year, the girls’ race bibs had their names on them, and strangers were cheering them on by name.

That’s the face I make when I’m trying to smile while running. My daughter, on the other hand, smiles perfectly.

We made our final push to cross the finish line and joined the crush of people waiting for water, bananas, chocolate milk and cupcakes. Humidity was at 100 percent, and our bodies were feeling the effects. My daughter’s face was splotchy red, and I was starting to feel a little lightheaded. Neither of us was puking, which could not be said for other finishers of this race.

After we grabbed our post-race treats, we made our way back to the spot where everyone from our team met up, reconnecting with my son and our friend Carol who has cheerfully been our support team for three years. We stood at the edge of the track cheering on other runners as they finished. I only called two names specifically, and they were both people I knew, but every time a name was shouted, you could see the runner perk up a little, as if it was just the boost she needed to finish strong.

One thing that leaves an impression on me from Girls on the Run is how inclusive and welcoming it is. Maybe it’s the T-shirts that identify everyone as belonging to this massive event or the commitment of showing up at 8 a.m. on a Saturday, but I always feel like I’m part of something bigger when I’m there. And I’m inspired by the people who come to the event, seemingly just to encourage others. I mean, why else would someone wear a full body Iron Man costume with a tutu and run through the crowd slapping high-fives? (I aspire to be that cool someday.)

Cheering on strangers, even calling them by name, it’s the kind of world I want to be part of.

—

Later that same day, we drove toward Washington, D.C. to see a baseball game. Our beloved Cubs were in town, and we were going to try again to cross Nationals Stadium off our list of baseball parks we’d visited. The four of us were decked out in Cubs T-shirts and hats. We boarded the train in Maryland and made an instant friend who was also wearing a Cubs shirt.

“Go Cubs!” he said. My husband responded with the same words. The man was sitting next to a guy in a Nationals jersey. He told us we needed to get on the train going the other way. (Spoiler alert, this train was the end of the line and only went toward the city.)

As we neared D.C., the train continued to pick up passengers who were wearing Cubs clothing. At one point, when personal space was limited, my son made a friend. A woman who could have been his grandmother started asking him questions about his favorite player and what he thought about tonight’s game. There were so many Cubs’ fans on the train, I almost forgot for a moment that we weren’t in Chicago. The experience reminded my husband and me of the time we took the train to see the Cubs in Chicago and the cars were packed from side to side with Cubs’ fans the closer we got to Wrigley Field.

Two of us ran a 5K a few hours earlier and hadn’t yet recovered, one of us had been up for work since 3 a.m. I think our son is superhuman.

We made our way to the ballpark and to our seats, where our visiting team clothing sparked conversation. A family behind us was from Kansas City, or they were Royals’ fans at least. They wanted to know if we were from Chicago. After the first inning, a family of Cubs’ fans sat next to us and the dad was super talkative. He wanted to know where we were from and told us all about the travel itinerary that had gotten them to the game that day. 

I don’t always like talking to strangers, but there’s a camaraderie among Cubs fans, especially when we’re in a city other than Chicago. It had been a long day, and my allergies were bothering me, and it was going to be late before we got back to our house, but I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

It might sound silly, but wherever the Cubs are feels like home to me. They’re a link to where we grew up. It’s a part of our childhood that we can share with our kids. And the players are familiar to us because we listen to games throughout the week and watch highlights the day after games when we can. Even when we’re visiting a ballpark other than Wrigley, I feel like I belong there. (And it’s been a long time since I’ve been to Wrigley, but it will feel like coming home the next time I’m able to go. My kids get to go this summer. Yep, I’m a little jealous.)

Maybe it’s the T-shirts, or the history that offer that same sense of connection. If I know you’re a Cubs fan, I know you’ve probably faced disappointment. Maybe decades of it. Even if you’re a new fan because of the World Series win, I know that you’ve chosen to cheer on a team I love, maybe regardless of location.

As transplants from Illinois to Pennsylvania, we sometimes feel like oddities. Not too long ago, someone who didn’t know our background asked us why we were Cubs fans and not Phillies fans. We walk through our daily lives wearing our team’s apparel, which gets an occasional second look, but the closer we get to a baseball stadium, the more of “our people” we find. Those of us who have been cheering on our team in our own homes or as the lone fan in the bar join a welcoming crowd. Suddenly, we feel less alone.

—

A couple of weeks earlier, I attended a community breakfast before work. An author friend was the guest speaker and the organization is one that is near to my heart. For years I volunteered with Church World Service helping with refugee resettlement, and then 18 months ago I got a part-time job that consumed my weekdays and my opportunities to volunteer dwindled. I still care deeply about refugees and immigrants, and I’ve done other things to support the organization.

But the truth is I miss the people. All of them. The newly arriving refugees walking through the city to learn about their new home, the ladies gathering every other week in a stuffy second-floor gym in a church, the paid employees who work tirelessly (and beyond their meager pay) on behalf of people who need assistance and advocacy.

I was a little nervous to be rejoining the group for a free breakfast. I didn’t feel like I had earned the right to be there. But I learned another lesson in welcome that morning. It’s not something that’s earned. Welcome is given freely and generously, and I left the breakfast full in spirit, having shed some tears.

Photo by Katie Moum on Unsplash

Two of the CWS employees, women I worked closely with, greeted me enthusiastically with smiles and hugs, wanting to know all about how my family was doing and what I’d been up to. One of them extended an invitation to rejoin the women’s group I’d been part of, anytime I had free time. Others waved “hello” and my author friend chatted with me for a bit.

I was particularly moved by the words of one of the CWS staff, who said she has learned from refugees and immigrants that “Hospitality is so much broader than I thought. It’s being willing to be welcomed into someone else’s home as much as it is welcoming someone into your home.”

I always think I have this huge responsibility to provide welcome through my home. Sometimes, it’s the opposite. It’s being willing to be received into someone else’s home–or life–even if you don’t think you’ve earned the right or deserve it.

—

Reconnecting with Church World Service reminded me of the opportunities I still have to welcome people into the community. Refugee arrivals have dwindled but not stopped completely. Cross-cultural friendship is different from the kinds of friendship I usually seek, but if I’m learning anything about this practice–call it welcome or hospitality or something else–it’s that we have to start somewhere, and it’s not as complicated as I make it out to be.

It’s easier to seek out those with whom we have some obvious things in common, like the schools where our kids attend or the sports they play or the neighborhood we live in, but we can still provide welcome even if we have to look a little harder. I often remind myself to start with our shared humanity if that’s all I can come up with. (Spoiler alert: that’s more than enough as a place to begin). 

I don’t always like to admit it that I have a circle drawn around the people with whom I’m most comfortable, and I’m not always willing to widen that circle and let someone in who I’m less comfortable with. But that’s our challenge if we want be people of welcome: We find ways to open the circle a little wider.

Photo by Mikael Seegen on Unsplash

I love this sentiment from Glennon Doyle:

Sarah Quezada in her book “Love Undocumented” reminds me that how I do this isn’t as important as the actual doing it.

“The point of bighearted hospitality is not the act itself,” she writes. “No, the point of bighearted hospitality is to demonstrate our love for God by showing love to strangers. The specific action stems from the needs at our doorstep and a willingness to open our hands and offer everything to the version of God right in front of us. The stranger in our midst.”

—

I have been shown welcome in so many ways. How will I pass on the welcome? How will you?

I’d love to hear about a time when you felt welcome or like you belonged. Feel free to share in the comments.

For the ones who try

It was 80 degrees on a Thursday afternoon when the adults began to gather outside the school. We walked and stretched and chatted as we waited for the girls to emerge. Star-shaped balloons danced in the wind, and when the girls walked out of the school, we cheered and clapped like they were red-carpet royalty.

Each one found her running buddy. I slapped a high-five with my daughter and when we lined up, we put ourselves in the middle of the pack–the “walk some, run most” section. We are realistic about our efforts these days.

This was the practice 5k. In two weeks, we would run the real race.

Weeks of laps around the field led up to this moment. Three miles is intimidating, and I could sense the anxiety from some of the girls early on.

But before we could let our doubts and fears take over, it was time to run.

—

We learn our deficiencies early. 

We are not enough this or too much that, and those thoughts burrow deep until we don’t remember ever feeling anything different.

It’s gradual, at least it was for me. Like an erosion. Slow. Steady. Almost unnoticeable, at least in the day-to-day. 

When I am in the company of elementary-aged or middle-school girls, I can’t help but think of myself at that age. About all the ways I didn’t think I measured up to whatever the perceived standard was. How I didn’t attempt difficult things because I was sure I would fail. I played my life safe for a very long time.

I wondered about these young girls, if they had any of these thoughts as they set out on the neighborhood course. Did any of them wonder if they weren’t cut out for this? Were they comparing themselves to the other girls on the course?

Because I still do–wonder if I’m cut out for this, compare myself to others.

—

Sometimes we catch a glimpse of who we can be.

While the heat is bearing down as we struggle to catch our breath, to take one more step. When we’re not sure we’re going to make it. We begin to believe other people have it better or different, and we doubt ourselves. Our efforts. Should we have even bothered trying?

But just when we thought we might give up, something happens.

Someone in the crowd calls our name. A sign encourages us to “tap here for an energy boost” and we do it, just for fun. We hear words that sound like “You got this!” and “Keep going!” And as we near the end of the race the cheering intensifies. Something clicks and we remember something true about ourselves.

I don’t quite know what to call it, but I know it when I see it.

My daughter sprints to the finish line with a smile on her face that grabs the attention of those around her. (I’m not bragging here. More than one person made mention of her smile as she finished.)

She wasn’t the only one, though. As we watched her teammates finish, it was the same every time. A girl and her buddy crossed the street to the school and when they hit the sidewalk that was the final stretch, we all started cheering and calling her name.

And the girl’s face would shine like she’s alive for the first time, a smile taking up her whole countenance. It was almost tangible, the belief that she could do the impossible.

It is my favorite part of this particular race. The confidence I see practically dripping off the girls when they finish. Because so many people believed in them. And maybe they believe in themselves just a little bit more.

Photo by Lance Grandahl on Unsplash

—

I know it doesn’t always last, this confidence. At least, not in the same measure as after a race. But it also doesn’t disappear. A hint of it remains for the next time, and each time, it grows.

—

Here’s what I’m learning about what it means to be strong: it’s not always about how fast or how much or how hard. Sometimes to be strong is to not give up, to do it in spite of how you’re feeling, to keep going.

When it comes to running some days, it’s easier to stay at my house, to take a breather between work and when the kids get home from school, to enjoy the weather without sweating.

Some days, time is not on my side and the window I have to get my run in for the day is squeezed almost shut. On those days, instead of giving up, I switch it up. Instead of throwing in the towel because I can’t run two miles or more, I see how fast I can run one mile. Sometimes I fall short of my goal. One time, though, I surprised myself and clocked the fastest one-mile time I’ve ever run.

When I think I can’t, I try to remember what I’ve already done and what I know I can do.

—

This isn’t just about running. Not in the least.

Some of us are giving all the effort we have to something or someone and coming up short. At least that’s how it seems. We’re trying and trying and trying, and we don’t feel like we’re getting anywhere. Other people are fast on our heels or blowing right past us. We’re panting, with heads throbbing and faces tomato red from the exertion. We don’t know if we can take one.more.step.

If I could wish anything for all of us it would be to have a cheering squad on the course and at the finish line, calling our name. A crowd cheering us on, reminding us, “You can do it!”

We can.

You can.

Photo by Kyle Glenn on Unsplash

It’s this small boost of belief that spurs us toward the finish line with an inexplicable energy, like we haven’t been running for the better part of an hour.

We need to cheer each other on because we’re all in this together.

That sounds vague and idealistic, I know, but I’m convinced more and more that I will cheer you on whether you’ve just started running or you finished a marathon. Whether you’re taking the first steps toward something you’re not sure you can do or you’re out there living your life fully with passion.

I want you to cross your finish line looking like you’re alive for the first time.

—

We finished our practice 5k in 41:25. I timed us, just for my own knowledge, and maybe to give us something to compare to. Our last 5K a month ago was 42:00 even, with quite a bit of walking, and while I’m personally hoping to log a better 5K time on my own, this particular run isn’t about winning. We’re all winning, just by being there.

We were as hot and sweaty as we look after the race.

I want to say that again: Winning is equal to showing up.

I know this isn’t a popular concept, and I’ll admit it doesn’t apply to every situation, but for so many things, if you’re on the field or the course, if you’re showing up, doing your best, and trying, then you’ve already won. (So many of my students want to know what the prize is when they’re playing a review game and I’ve turned into that teacher who is always like “knowledge is the prize.” That’s a story for another day, perhaps.)

My daughter didn’t seem upset with our time or performance. She has such a positive attitude most of the time, and she pushes herself pretty hard when she wants to. Even though we walked a lot of the course, we ran our first half-mile faster than I usually run it, and every time we ran for a stretch, she outpaced me. When I mentioned she might want to pace herself, she said, “My legs just fly under me.” Who can argue with that?

At the end, I reminded her (and myself and anyone who could hear) that there are people who are not even thinking about walking three miles much less trying to run any portion of them. Every girl on the course, even the one who is the last to cross, has already won because she decided to show up. Bonus points for finishing the course.

Showing up and doing it anyway and not giving up. If there’s one thing I hear the girls praise each other for, week after week, it’s that they didn’t give up.

These amazing girls recognize the try in each other.

We would be wise to follow their lead.