In Community

I'm training for a marathon.

You probably know that already.

(I blog about it a lot.)

My last long run was miserable. I wanted to puke a little. I was dehydrated. My knee was sore. I wanted to cry. I almost fell on my face trying to step up a 3-inch curb near the end because I was too tired to lift my foot over it in the first attempt. It was awful. I started wishing for an injury. Then I'd have an easy "out" and would be able to bail on running the whole 26.2 miles (even if Amber, Dyana, Kirk and Blair would have been disappointed). Anyway, I digress...

Tomorrow is another long run. But instead of attempting this one on my own, I called my local, ultra-marathon running friends. They're crazy because a "short" run is about 2 hours. They seemed the perfect people to call when I needed motivation to run for about 3 hours. Three hours with two crazy ladies. Should be fun.

I couldn't do this on my own. OK, well, I could, but it wouldn't be as fun. I'd get miserable and tired and sore, and there'd be no one to show me how to keep going when the going gets tough. Without them, I wouldn't have people with whom to chat and pass the time. And without them, there'll be no one to tell me that it'll be OK when I'm not sure it will be.

Life is a lot like that. We need people. We need friends. We need community. It's just better that way.

Would we have been friends?

If I lived 2000 years ago in Israel, I'm not sure I would have been friends with Jesus.

Yup. You read that right. I said it. I really said it.

I'm not sure I would have liked the guy who told his friends that they were wrong and went against what I was told I was suppose to do my whole life. (That's not all He does. But He does that a lot. It'd be annoying, probably.) Is it that the people he hung out with needed that much help, that they were specifically that messed up? Or was it because living life abundantly called for an addition of love and grace requiring change in everyone who desired to know the Living God on a personal level?

I'm reading through a section of the Bible that was written by a guy named Mark. He's one of people who walked around with Jesus for a few years and then wrote down what happened and what was said. If Mark were around today, he'd be a fabulous online journalist. He overuses the word "immediately," showing the timeline of everything. He tells long stories with a few words and jumps from one action scene to the next. With the way he writes, you'd think that Jesus and the disciples had a transporter to get from one place to another.

I digress. Back to the point.

I couldn't help but notice that Jesus tells his closest friends that they are wrong. All. The. Time. These guys confidently argue for who gets to be Jesus' favorite, they try to stop the little children from getting face time with Jesus and they are convinced that Jesus shouldn't be bothered by some who are sick and in need. 

And Jesus tells them that they are wrong. Over and over and over again. I wonder if they sometimes thought that Jesus was being mean? I wonder if they sometimes were a little embarrassed? And I wonder if they were confused as to why Jesus was disagreeing with what they thought was appropriate and fair?

But I also wonder if they saw Jesus for who he was - Lord of their lives - and so his opinions, corrections and answers invoked feelings of clarity, confidence, joy and love...instead of denial, frustration or embarrassment?

We are much like these guys who asked Jesus questions. We want to be favored. We want to control what others do. And we want to protect those who we love the most. We want to be right. 

We live in a world that over-emphasises comfort and acceptance. The only time someone ever seems to be considered wrong is if he or she tells someone else that they are wrong about something. There's a perspective that's considered different and right for almost every given question...or so it seems. (I started to include that in this blog and realized that it would be so long that no one would would ever read it, so just go with it, OK?) 

Jesus wouldn't fit into this "it's all good" world. He gave answers. Specific ones. Of course, most of the time people asked Him questions, He asked them a question in return, which I'm sure was rather frustrating. But when it came time, He spoke Truth. Yes, Truth with a capital "T." He came with authority and could call his buddies on habits and priorities when they were not in line with God's agenda. And they seemed to be OK with this. We don't know how they responded emotionally or what they said when Jesus walked away after sharing his wisdom, but we do know that they continued to follow him and eventually all were killed for their beliefs, so it's not like Jesus offended them in a way that ruined relationship.

I wonder if I would have walked away? Would I have seen Jesus for who he was and is - God Almighty, Lord of my life - and, in turn, opened up all the junk in my heart, allowing him to speak Truth that lead to authentic and visible life change? Because if I knew deep down inside and trusted in such an incredibly love, it would have been safe and filled with grace and joy. I would have known that His words were out of tender care and mercy. It would have been OK. Or, would I have walked away, wanting to stick to the rules that brought me comfort, never embracing life to the fullest that He so desperately wants us all to live?

     

Details Matter

There are probably dozens of blogs written about how running is a good illustration for life. The long race ahead. Preparing for specific challenges. Running with others instead of trying to do it alone. Keep your eye on the prize. Etc. Etc. Etc. Blah. Blah. Blah.


This is one of those blogs.


I went for a 12 mile run this week. Runs like that are reserved for crazy people who think that paying money to run 26.2 miles with a few thousand other people is a fun idea. Well, I've become one of those crazy people - at least temporarily - and now have to do these long runs once a week. 


This latest run started out great. I had an incredible amount of energy, the sun was shining and there was encouraging stuff to listen to on my iPhone. (Thank you, iPod application.) I had a large chunk of time, the course was set and my pace was good. It was going to be wonderful, one of those runs where you feel like 26.2 miles is for beginners and start to dream of an ultra-marathon in an exotic location, which can probably mostly be blamed on the lack of oxygen because that truly is crazy. 


Then I started to hurt.


But what was wrong? I ate a good breakfast. I had enough water early enough in the day to keep me hydrated but not too much to make me get a side ache. I stretched after a short warm up, which I don't even typically take the time to do. I slept well the night before. I was excited. I waited for perfect weather. It should have been easy.


I was miserable. 


By about mile 6, I started to have trouble. By 8, I was taking short breaks to walk the uphill parts, which was often seeing as I managed to discover the hilliest part of Atlanta. And by 10, I had a cramp/ache/pain/something awful in my right leg and had to walk almost the entire way home. 


I hadn't prepared.


What?! Not prepared?! That morning went all as planned. Sleep. Food. Hydration. Clothes. Weather. Entertainment. Course. That day, I had prepared well.


Only that day.


The two weeks leading up to this scheduled run, which was actually postponed for at least half of that one day at a time, my life did not reflect that of a person who could even fake being someone who was training for a marathon. I ran three times. I was up too late and awake too early. I was eating like a middle school boy. 


I had one of those "duh" moments on my run that made me glad no one could read my thoughts because I felt pretty ridiculous. I had prepared well - that morning - for this long run, but that was it. I couldn't fool my body into thinking it was ready. My legs knew the truth and were screaming so loudly that they couldn't be ignored. I tried. And almost fell over at one point because it hurt too much to life them over the 3-inch curb. Literally. Right in front of this park security dude driving a golf cart. It was a little embarrassing. 


I thought I could make it the whole 12 miles easily...but I'm not sure why. I ignored the short runs. I ignored the interval workouts. I ignored eating well. And I ignored resting my body. Now that I think about it, I'm not sure what gave me this ridiculous idea that it would be easy. But I thought sure those short runs, that healthy food and those long nights of sleep were not a big deal. To me. I'd be fine without it.


Yes, as I type that, I'm realizing how ridiculous I was to think that I could just get out there and run 12 miles after two weeks of not preparing well. But keep reading.


How often in life do we ignore all the little things and assume that we'll be fine when it comes to the big stuff? How many phone calls do you have to not return before you get together with an old friend and realize you know nothing about each others lives? How many friends who are married can't get through a crisis after realizing they ignored all the "little things" along the way causing them to "grow apart"? How many students bomb exams every semester because they failed to do the daily homework because it wasn't a big part of their grade? How many Christians lose faith when something difficult happens because it's then that they realize they never really did build up a relationship with God along the way?


Running 12 miles should have been easy. I'm no Olympian, but I'm in decent shape. I've been running regularly for about a decade. But when I failed to do the little things - the short runs, the intervals, the other workouts, the eating right and the sleeping well - I failed when it came time to conquer 12 miles. 


Details matter.
  

Change

Twenty10 has been full of new adventures.


I have a new boyfriend, have begun a new job and live in a new timezone.


(Unfortunately, the first one of those three is not located in the same place as the second one and is not in the third one.)


In 2009, I was living in Austin, country dancing weekly and eating lots of queso. Lots and lots of queso. And it was good. I ran at Town Lake and planned happy hours at the Domain. People watching was at its best in both. I drove down Mopac and talked about traffic on I35. My ears were filled with live music constantly. I was dating...but not one person consistently. I had quit my job and wasn't working. And I was good at that. The not working thing. I was meant to be independently wealthy.


But then on the last day of 2009, I went on a date. It was no big deal. It wasn't going to turn into anything because I was moving...but it did, and now I have a boyfriend. It's more proof that God has a ridiculous sense of humor when it comes to the timing of these things. Then this job that I had accepted was actually going to begin. In Atlanta. Atlanta, Georgia. That's not anywhere near Texas and in a region of the country in which I've claimed that I'd never live. But now I do. There was a farewell party, we packed the POD and the adventure began.


I left one Thursday morning, stopping at Rudy's to buy some sauce and Whataburger for lunch, and started to drive north. The east. East took a long time. I stopped in Mississippi to see Bubba for the night - most know her as Sarah - an old friend from a camp staff almost a decade ago. (Are we really that old?!) I ended up in Atlanta. At rush hour. On I20. Turning north on to 75/85. This big city of almost 6-million people was to be my new home. And my job started about 45 minutes after I arrived.


I lived with one of the kindest women I've ever met for about a month before finding my own place. It was another set of change-of-address forms and finding another new grocery store. I discovered Chastain Park and the running trails and signed up to run a full marathon. I am adjusting to working at home and spending time alone. I'm planning weekends for visitors - the boyfriend, my parents and other relatives - but am still not sure what this city has to offer. And I'm taking advantage of living in this region of the country by meeting up with a friend in South Carolina in a few days.


Yup...a lot has changed. Some people freak out with all this change. Some people thrive off of it. I'd say that I'm somewhere in the middle, veering slightly more toward the thriving end. I love a new adventure and enjoy meeting new people...but I miss the old familiar and the comfortable. New challenges intrigue me and this new job seems almost too good to be true, but it'd be nice to go meet a friend at the Lake or take a spin around the dance floor at the Spoke. Nonetheless, I'm discovering great restaurants and already have a new community group. I'm going on longer runs and loving the hills...most days. And the change has been good. Very good.
  
   
   

...because that's the way we've always done it...

"'Neglecting the commandment of God, 

you hold onto the tradition of men.'"

Those words were in red. Jesus said them. Mark wrote them down (7:8).


It's easy to point fingers at the Pharisees that ruled and regulated the worship of God 2000+ years ago. After all, Jesus did it too. We stand behind him with smirks on our faces as if to say to the bully, "see, I told you so." Happy, proud and content with the serving of truth that Jesus delivers.


But sometimes I can't help but wonder if we need several servings of that truth. And then a little for dessert. And maybe leftovers the next day.


Is your worship holding onto the tradition of men in a way that neglects the commandments of God?