Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns
If you think Jesus would have come into your home that day and not issued a strong rebuke to the head of household, you are mistaken. These words of condemnation have been haunting me for days now. They aren’t all that different than the soundtrack I play in my head on an almost-daily basis. It’s…
I am nesting. On Saturday I emptied the refrigerator. Last summer’s homemade pickles in their jars. The bread ends that seem to multiply on every shelf. The eggs. The milk. The fruit and veggies. All of it sat on the floor or the counter as I carefully removed the shelves and wiped them down with…
I’ve heard that life is like a highway. And it definitely seems like that sometimes. The pace of life swirls around me at dizzying speeds. We’re all so busy. In such a hurry. Always somewhere to be, something else to do. I’m a get-to-the-point, get-there-quick kind of girl. I don’t like to waste time on…
Sometimes life is so ridiculous I can’t help but laugh. And shake my head in wonder.
I’m focusing on “intention” as a word for the year, and this weekend I learned that sometimes intention can be a negative thing.
A few weeks ago, we signed up as a family to run a 5K at a state park that has some significance in our family. Last year, my husband and our daughter ran it on a Sunday afternoon that felt more like February than April.
This year, we wanted to run it all together because more of us are fit and able. We took a practice run as a family a few Sundays ago, attempting 2 miles and that went well enough that we made the commitment to run the race. Our plan was to start together and let our kids tell us when they needed to walk and when they wanted to run.
Race day was a perfectly beautiful spring day with temperatures close to the 70s. We were there to enjoy nature and each other’s company and to run/walk through the woods.
We had said we would try to run the first mile all together and then branch off if needed, but the heat and humidity got the best of our daughter and she needed to walk after about 3/4 of a mile. My husband and our son kept going while I stayed with my daughter. We walked. And walked. And walked some more. And with every step, I was becoming a horribly selfish person in my head.
I hadn’t come to walk the race. I had come to run it, and I was frustrated that I couldn’t give it my best effort, even though I knew going in that I wasn’t going to come close to a personal best time or anything like that. I was also annoyed because my son seems to be a natural athlete. He hadn’t even trained for a 5K and he was talking about how he might win a medal for his age group. The male half of our party disappeared quickly ahead of us while I tried to strike a balance between compassion for my daughter’s aches and pains and encouragement to keep going. (She is 11 and I’m not always sure which complaints are genuine and which ones are overdramatized because of hormones and other changes.)
I can be a competitive person, and when older people walking dogs passed us, I had trouble keeping my frustration to myself. I did not want to wound my daughter emotionally by saying something I didn’t mean because I was wounded inside. The urge is hard to resist but I think I managed to keep my tone as neutral as possible.
We walked a good portion of the mile between 1 and 2, jogging a bit before we got to the water stop just before mile 2. I had my phone with me and was casually tracking the time. It was more than 25 minutes when we got to mile 2 and the battle in my head began again. Part of the reason I run is to challenge myself and to stretch what I think my limits are. I wasn’t feeling terribly stretched, and the more we walked the more I realized that my real reason for wanting to run this race was to prove that the last year of training and running had been worth something. Something tangible. With numbers.
At the very least, I wanted to come close to or beat my time from the Thanksgiving 5K. Especially since as far as running races goes, 2019 has been a disappointment.
It wasn’t looking good, and my daughter wouldn’t stop talking. I wanted to run, and I was “stuck” walking.
—
Less than a week earlier, our family was huddled together, a gusty wind at our back, sitting in lawn chairs in a field in the rural middle of our country watching lacrosse. Our son started playing this spring, and it is our first experience as parents with youth sports. (It is also our introduction to lacrosse. I still have a lot to learn.)
With youth sports, I have heard horror stories of demanding coaches and overbearing parents (not from this team or sport, but in general), and I have, in some ways, been dreading the competitive nature of youth sports. As I mentioned before, I am competitive and sometimes it presents as fierce loyalty. Think mama bear. (Or mama llama as I saw depicted in a meme recently: Typically chill but if you try to mess with my kids, I might spit or kick.)
That night, our son scored his first ever goal in a game. I have enjoyed watching him learn this sport and practice drills and try new things (like being goalie!) and make new friends. It is the kind of stretching activity I recommend for everyone and don’t do enough of myself. When he carried the lacrosse ball near the goal and shot and missed the first time, my disappointment was loud. I was not disappointed inhim but for him because he likes to do well at the things he does.
So when he got the ball right back and took a shot that WENT IN THE GOAL, Phil and I were ecstatic and tears pricked my eyes. I did not love my son more because he scored a goal and it is not my sole measure of his success, but I know what that meant to him. I was happy for him.
They lost the game, and I told him that you could play a great game and still lose. And that scoring a goal was not the only measure of whether he’d had a good game.
—
This is part of what I was thinking about as I ran through the woods. That, and I was looking for the cabin where my husband and I had stayed for a weekend to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary. That was seven years ago now, but at the time, celebrating five years of marriage was a huge milestone. At the time, I wasn’t sure if we’d still be celebrating our tenth anniversary or beyond. This year, it will be 12 years, and I am still in awe of the journey.
The lane leading to the cabin looked familiar. I took a picture as my daughter and I walked, remembering that weekend and its importance to our marriage and our family. That weekend all those years ago was the reason we were running the 5K this year, in a long and winding road kind of way.
I was still feeling grumpy and frustrated by the way the race was turning out for us, and I kept trying to turn my thoughts in a different direction. Between miles and 2 and 3 we finally went back to running a little bit, and we could start to hear the cheering from the other side of the lake for those who had finished. I wondered if our guys had finished and what their time had been.
We walked over a bridge that had open slats. It freaked my daughter out to run across it. But we did run across the dam of the lake, then walked a bit more and started running again when the end was in sight. Our guys were there waiting for us to finish, yelling our names. We pushed to finish hard and fast as the clock ticked toward 42 minutes.
Forty. Two. Minutes. A full four minutes slower than my last 5K and my slowest 5K time in the history of my 5K running. (Okay, who’s being dramatic now?) I gave my husband a look that caused him concern but when I assured him I felt fine physically, he gave me a bit of space. We got water and a cookie and a banana and walked around. Our son reported their time to us: it was in the 35 minutes range. I tried to cool off, both my body and my thoughts. I needed to get out what I was feeling, but I didn’t want to say anything that would hurt my daughter’s feelings.
Because how I was feeling wasn’t her fault.
I managed to tell him a few snippets of what I was feeling. I released some of the big feelings by focusing on the other runners. On nature. We watched a bald eagle soar over the treeline across the lake. I reminded myself that finishing a 5K is a major accomplishment no matter the time.
We had decided to stick around for the awards in a show of solidarity. Last year when the temperatures were too close to freezing to be comfortable, we stayed but were mostly miserable. This year, it was just an excuse to spend more time outside in the park. Our daughter’s age group came up first and when she realized she only missed the third place time by a couple of minutes, she smiled this huge smile: “I was so close!” Not for the first time, I wished I had her attitude.
The top times for some of the other female age groups disheartened me. I’ve seen the top times in several races and I don’t think I’ll ever get to that point. I’m just not a fast runner, and I certainly wasn’t for this race.
So when they called my age group, 40-44, and the first place finisher’s time was 40 minutes and some change, I’m sure the shock on my face was evident. And when the announcer called second place and I heard my first name followed by a jumbling of my last name (it’s not his fault), I received my medal with continued shock.
“Phil, how did that happen?” I said as I walked back toward our family.
“Good job, Mom!” the kids said.
Maybe I should have felt excited but mostly I felt terrible. Because I had spent the entire race whining internally about how I couldn’t give my best effort because my daughter needed me to stick with her, and in the end, I got a medal anyway. (My husband also placed second in his age group and his time was not nearly his best time, either. Why is the world so weird?)
—
“God has a sense of humor.”
I said this out loud as I looked at the medal, still shaking my head in disbelief. I don’t know always know what I believe about God’s involvement in our personal and daily activities but I had to wonder if He was watching me that whole time I was running with the kind of a grin that knows a secret but can’t tell yet.
I got a medal just for showing up to the race. I could have walked the whole thing and still gotten a medal for my age group because there were only two awards given to females between the ages of 40 and 44 and I was the second of the two. For all the fun we as a society make of participation trophies and everyone winning, I have to admit that I felt special even knowing that it wasn’t my best effort that got me the award.
This, I think, is the lesson God is trying to get through to me right now.
I am an achiever. A high achiever. I want results, especially ones I can measure. I say I’m not a numbers person but I totally am when it comes to how successful I feel. I track my word counts daily and monthly so I can feel accomplished as a writer. (This is not a bad thing, per se, but quantity and quality are rarely the same thing.) I think that the more people who participate in something I’m leading means it’s more successful as a venture. Less people=less popular=less successful.
And I still believe that my best efforts will be rewarded. In school that meant if I studied enough and did all my homework, I would get As and that would mean I was successful. (I graduated second in my high school class. Ask me how that has helped me get further in life.) I have measured success by income and square footage. I still do sometimes.
It is a horrible way to live life.
Numbers don’t always tell the whole story, and they certainly aren’t the only markers for success.
Nor are they the only criteria for reward.
Can you imagine receiving an award just for showing up? It’s almost mind-boggling in our western work-hard culture. We don’t like it when people get rewarded for minimal effort. (People who heard Jesus speak didn’t like it much either. See the parable of the workers in the vineyard.)
—
What does it mean to be successful?
I don’t have a clue anymore. Sometimes it means showing up. Sometimes it means giving your best effort. Sometimes it means winning. Sometimes it makes no sense at all.
I’m still shaking my head, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all while also feeling a small amount of pride that I can say I won a medal for a second place finish in a 5K.
Maybe success is whatever you want it to be, despite what others say.
It had been two months since I played my guitar. (You might remember that it had once been YEARS since I picked it up. That was in the fall and I started playing in public--on Sunday mornings in church, no less. It still feels weird to write that and say it.)
It’s a truth about me that if I don’t have a deadline or a scheduled reason, then some things just don’t happen. So with Christmas and our worship leader on break and then some health concerns in our family, there was no scheduled time for me to play and in my mind, no urgent need to practice. It wasn’t until earlier this month when I found myself back on the worship team schedule that I made myself start practicing again.
As I started practicing again, my fingers told me I should change my thinking. Typing hurt because any callouses I had built up in the fall from playing guitar were gone and my tender fingertips pressed the guitar strings two nights in a row. I was frantically practicing the songs I was scheduled to play the following weekend.
I am no gifted musician, just someone who learned how to play but can’t read music and can’t play bar chords because of my short fingers. I’m constantly googling how to play certain chords “easy” or what I can substitute. I know nothing about music theory so I use a chart I also found online to help me cheat my way to the right key.
I suspect that this is sort of normal for those who play guitar. I don’t think it’s a secret and even though these things sometimes make me feel like an imposter, I don’t think anyone who is singing along on Sundays would notice my methods. (One of my fears is that I sound screechingly horrible when I play. I think I would notice if that was the case, but honestly, when I’m playing, I can’t really hear how my instrument sounds. Maybe that’s a good thing?)
I was struggling with two songs that are songs I love and wanted to play but were proving a bit of a challenge for me. The first night I dragged my guitar to the living room to practice, I cringed the whole time, wondering why I had ever thought it was a good idea to play guitar for people (and okay, yes, for God). I pulled up music videos for the songs in question and tried to play along, but it wasn’t syncing like I would have hoped. I play be ear, which sounds impressive but really just means that I know how things are supposed to sound by listening not by looking at the chords or the notes and when it doesn’t sound “right” I get frustrated because I’m not sure what to do.
The second night of practice I was beating myself up again for being inadequate and lacking talent. I mean when you’re listening to Chris Tomlin and Matt Redman play and sing the songs you’re struggling with, that’s an easy thing to do. I’m not either of those guys nor is that my aim. I spent most of one day humming the tune of one of the songs in my head (and sometimes out loud) just to get familiar with it.
And then something clicked. I could hear it and I could play it. This synchronizing was a magical moment because then I began to believe that I could actually play the songs the way they were meant to be sung.
—
I’ve already established that I’m not a musician, per se, but I do love music and I think there are some important metaphors related to music that those of us who are not musicians can apply to our lives.
For example, I think there’s a soundtrack that accompanies us throughout our days. It might be a laugh track like from the “old days” of comedy shows. Maybe it’s more like a record scratching or skipping. Maybe there’s one note you can pick out and it reminds you of something familiar. Maybe it’ s a lullaby and it soothes you. Maybe it’s the kind of song that makes you dance.
I’m not talking about a literal song, although there are plenty of those. I’m still trying to grasp this idea myself. It’s one of those things I know when I see it or experience it. So, let me see if I can explain.
Some tasks are drudgery. I do not thrill at the prospect of laundry (I folded five loads one night recently. Ew.) or dishes or cleaning the bathroom. I do these things, not always as often as I should, because they need to be done. Like paying bills. They are part of the price of living. But I have to sometimes pump myself up to do them. Sometimes I play music to motivate my work. The peppier the better.
But there are other things I do that I could do even if I had little to no energy. Reading, for example. Almost always if I pick up a book, I can become more energized for the other parts of my life. Writing is another one of these things, once I actually convince myself to start.
These things are so ingrained in who I am that I don’t feel like I need to “listen” for the tune. They are soul songs I know so well that I can play them by heart.
But sometimes I have to listen more carefully for the tune that makes my heart sing. Lately, I’ve been finding it more often in connection.
I have always felt a little bit like a bridge that brings people together. I think this is part of my personality makeup (Enneagram 9 stuff, if you’re into that), but I haven’t always known this about myself. But it’s become more apparent.
Let me tell you about a recent experience. Some of our students are learning about careers for a project, and one of our students had an interest in an area that one of my family members worked in. We were able to arrange a phone call, and I was so thrilled to see the student’s face almost literally light up when a connection was made between things they like to do and things my family member likes to do. It was confirmation that the student’s interest in this field was not only valid but quite possibly the THING they were meant to do with their life.
I don’t always leave work feeling like I could dance or skip but that day I did. I had found the tune of my heart, part of the song I was meant to sing with my life, and it was almost intoxicating.
I feel this, too, when I’m helping people tell their stories because I’m connecting them with readers. Sometimes when I end a client phone call, I have to get up and walk around or do something physical like folding laundry or washing dishes because I have so much adrenaline. (I’m not a thrill seeker at all. Not in the traditional sense. I get my thrills from meaningful work and authentic interaction. I don’t know if that makes me weird or just me.)
Maybe that’s what thrills me about writing and reading, too. A connection with a character or a reader or with my thoughts to the rest of life.
—
Sometimes it’s hard to hear the song you were meant to sing because of static or noise or being too far from the source to get a good signal.
I know this all too well. The noise of daily life–the drudgery of the things we don’t like to do–can drown out the soul song. Distance from the Source of life can cause me to tune in to other songs that are not mine to sing. This is when I start to criticize my abilities or efforts or when I look at what others can do and wish that I could do that, too.
Static, though. Interference. This is a big one. Stress. Trauma. Painful experiences. A history of talking badly about yourself or believing lies told you by someone you trusted. These can make the soul song almost impossible to hear.
I don’t know the path for you, but counseling was the path for me. After a long and sometimes painful process, I was able to tune down the static and begin to hear the tune of something lighter and freer. Even then, in those first days of hearing it, my steps were tentative and my “dancing” was mostly internal. But the more I heard the song, the harder it was to resist.
Do you know those songs that make you tap your foot almost without thinking? The ones that make you want to shake your booty even if you’re pushing a shopping cart through the grocery store? That’s what this soul song is like for me. I can’t help myself when I hear it. I talk faster and my eyes widen and sometimes I’m practically shouting my enthusiasm. Occasionally I will forget that I’m even talking to anyone else about this, and sometimes my husband will tell me how attractive I am in these moments. I assume it’s because I am so fully alive and free. Maybe I should ask him.
That’s the power of the soul song.
But only you can hear it. Only you know what the tune sounds like for you. If I could wish anything for anyone it would be to have the chance to clear the distractions and the static and the noise, to do the hard work to listen for the soul song and then dance.
To be fully alive is my goal these days, and I don’t always meet that goal, but I know now that it’s the only thing I really want. Does that mean my life is free of drudgery? No. But it does make the ordinary days more than bearable.
One day, I am practically flying when I leave work and the next I am grumbling at having to shovel snow from my driveway at 7 in the morning. But I will keep listening for the song and go where it leads me.
—
Would it surprise anyone to learn that it’s easier to hear the tune in a group? I had almost no problems following along when it came time to practice with the worship team.
It can be that way with our soul songs, too. I have been most in tune with the song of my heart when I have found others who are living their soul songs out loud. I have found it with the caseworkers tirelessly advocating for refugees. With the teachers who give middle school students everything they have every day. With friends who are passionately pursuing their purpose, even when it costs them (money, time, family).
I should mention that sometimes I didn’t know what I was passionate about until I saw other people living their passions. If you’re reading this and thinking you have no idea what your soul song even sounds like, maybe you just need to hang out or observe people who do. Soul songs recognize each other, I think, and stir when they hear each other.
Listen for the tune. Remove the noise. Dance to your song.