Little Ones

Below is the text of the sermon I preached this past Sunday at St. Andrew's UMC in Edgewater, MD. In it, I talk about some interviews with the Freedom Riders that I saw on an episode of "The Oprah Winfrey Show." What I do not mention is that the Oprah episode was a tie-in with an episode of "American Experience" on PBS. I recommend watching both if you get the chance. You can find info about the Oprah episode here, and about the "American Experience" documentary here.

After I gave this sermon, I got an amazing surprise. For those who do not know, I have been attending St. Andrew's since I was born. I was actually part of an earlier congregation that evolved into the current St. Andrew's. So, I am lucky enough to go to church with many people I have known my whole life. One of those people- my childhood Sunday school teacher Mrs. Smith- approached me before church Sunday and asked for a few minutes after the sermon to speak about Sunday school. Naturally, I agreed.

After the sermon, I turned the pulpit over to Mrs. Smith and learned that the Sunday school thing had been a clever ruse. Instead, she was there to talk about me. The whole church had taken up a collection to buy me graduation presents, and asked her to present them. She told some stories about my time as a Sunday School student, including one of my mother's favorites: When I was a little over 2, my great-grandmother was dying in a nursing home. I had gone to see her, along with my mom and our former pastor. At the end of the visit, the pastor led us in the Lord's prayer. Apparently, I surprised everyone by knowing all of the words, and everyone fell silent to let me finish the prayer.

I've heard this story before. My mom can't tell it without crying. Yet, it struck me in a totally new way hearing it this time. My ordination process has been a struggle and I've spent a lot of time questioning my call. Hearing this story made me realize that I had a call long before I was aware of having one. If I was ministering when I was 2, then what else would I be doing at 32?

So, thank you so much to Mrs. Smith and everyone at St. Andrew's. Your support means more than I could ever put into words!

Matthew 10:40-42


40“Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. 41Whoever welcomes a prophet in the name of a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward; and whoever welcomes a righteous person in the name of a righteous person will receive the reward of the righteous; 42and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple—truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”

Little Ones:
Matthew 10:40-42

This past year, like millions around the world, I watched Oprah Winfrey’s 25th and final season. I’m 32, so Oprah has been a TV star almost my entire life. I hadn’t actually watched her show for awhile, but as the end drew near, I got nostalgic and started recording every episode. I’m glad I did, because back in May, I saw something extraordinary.

On that day, Oprah welcomed a group of true American heroes: 178 men and women who participated in the Freedom Rides. These brave Americans, of different ages, races, and backgrounds, all boarded public busses in 1961 for a trip into the deep South. Their mission was to non-violently challenge segregation in public transportation. For those of you who are a little rusty on your history (I know I was), here is a little refresher about the United States in 1961:

At that time, bus travel was a humiliating experience for African-Americans. In many states, they were forced to ride in separate sections at the back of the bus. At stops, they were forced to sit in separate waiting rooms, use separate bathrooms, and use service entrances at restaurants. Often, these separate accommodations were inferior. Sometimes, they were non-existent. It was not unusual for an African-American on a long bus trip to be find him or her-self unable to buy a cup of coffee or simply use a restroom.

In addition to humiliation, African-Americans who traveled also faced danger. Several of the African-American Freedom Riders told Oprah that travel was terrifying in those days. They never knew when they might be harassed or attacked by a fellow passenger. Many avoided travel altogether, only traveled in groups, or arranged for friends and family members to meet them at stops. Even when they obeyed the humiliating Jim Crow laws, they could never be sure of their safety.

At the time of the Freedom Rides, segregation in interstate bus travel had already been ruled unconstitutional by the US Supreme Court. The Supreme Court has also struck down the idea of “separate but equal” with the Brown vs. Board of Education decision. Still, many states ignored these rulings and kept Jim Crow laws on the books. Leaders in the federal government, who didn’t want to lose southern votes, did nothing to challenge these illegal practices.

The Freedom Riders set out with the goal of forcing the state and federal governments to honor their legal responsibilities. Their plan was simple. In mixed-race groups, they would board public busses and travel through the South, from Washington, DC to New Orleans. Along the way, they would challenge segregation by sitting together on the busses and using “whites-only” accommodations at stops. If they were harassed, threatened, or challenged, they would never respond with violence. Instead, they would simply state their rights under federal law and expect officials to honor those rights.

The Freedom Riders knew what they were doing was dangerous. Before going on the rides, they participated in trainings where they practiced responding non-violently to verbal harassment, threats, and beatings. In the final hours before boarding the busses, all of the Riders signed last wills, and wrote letters to be delivered to their families if they were killed. They knew that they were risking their lives, but they had decided that the cause of racial equality was worth dying for.

As I watched the stories of the Freedom Riders, I was reminded of Jesus’ disciples. This reminder was timely, because today’s Gospel reading is taken from Matthew 10, which contains the instructions Jesus gave to his disciples. We know from the rest of the scriptures and church history that Jesus’s disciples went on to become great leaders of the Church. But at the time of today’s reading, they’re really just twelve ordinary guys. Jesus didn’t choose the people who did his most important work from among the upper echelons of society. They were not religious authorities or political leaders. They were fishermen, tax collectors, and other everyday, ordinary people.

At the time of today’s reading, only a few weeks have passed since the Disciples left everything they knew- their homes, their families, their professions- in order to follow Jesus. Within these few weeks, the disciples have seen Jesus perform miracles and inspire great crowds with his preaching. But they have also seen him questioned and criticized by religious authorities, hounded by crowds demanding his attention, and rejected by the people of his hometown. I can’t help but think that at least a few of the disciples were wondering what they had gotten themselves into.

You might think that Jesus would take it easy on these guys- after all, they’ve been through a lot in a short period of time. But instead, Jesus actually ups the ante. In Matthew 10, Jesus gives the disciples their commission. He takes these twelve ex-fisherman and ex- tax collectors, puts them into pairs, and sends them off to do the same things he has been doing. He tells them that they too will preach, they too will cure the sick, they too will drive out demons. He doesn’t even let them take anything- no food, no bag, no money- literally nothing but the shoes on their feet and the clothes on their backs. They must depend entirely on faith and the hospitality of strangers.

As if the Disciples’ mission weren’t daunting enough, Jesus also tells them to expect persecution. They can expect to be harassed, arrested, maybe even beaten or killed. When this happens, Jesus tells them not to fight back. They should simply trust God to provide for them, to punish those who persecute them, and to reward those who welcome them. Today’s reading is about those rewards. Jesus promises that anyone who welcomes one of his disciples- even with something as small as a cup of water- is welcoming him. And anyone who welcomes him is also welcoming the God who sent him.

A cup of water may not sound like much to offer one of God’s messengers. But think about the position the Disciples were in. They were ordinary, everyday people called out of their regular lives to go on a dangerous and difficult mission. I imagine that they approached every new town with fear and apprehension, tired and hungry, wondering if they would be greeted with welcome or violence. A kind stranger offering a drink of water must have seemed like an angel from Heaven.

Some of the Freedom Riders met just such an angel on their journey. Her name is Jaime Forsyth McKinney, and she was 12 years old at the time of the Freedom Rides. On Mother’s Day, 1961, one of the busses carrying the Freedom Riders arrived in Jaime’s hometown of Anniston, Alabama. Up to that point, they had not faced any violence on their trip, but they had been warned that Alabama would be dangerous. Jaime’s father was a well-known white businessman in the town, the owner of a grocery store. Speaking to Oprah Winfrey, Jaime recalled her father coming to her that day, telling her about the Freedom Riders, and bragging that he and some of his friends had a “special welcome” planned for the bus.

When the Freedom Rider’s bus pulled into Anniston, Jaime watched in horror as her father and an angry mob began attacking the bus, screaming racial slurs and death threats. People slashed at the tires and threw rocks at the windows. The driver tried to steer the bus away, but was blocked by the mob. Right in front of the Forsyth family grocery store, the driver stopped and got off the bus. When he saw that the tires were flat, he just walked away, leaving the passengers in the hands of the mob. As Jaime watched, mob members blocked the bus doors and threw a home-made bomb into an open window, setting the bus on fire. The mob intended to keep all of the passengers trapped inside, but they were forced to retreat when they thought the bus might explode.

As soon as the mob backed away from the bus, the passengers ran out, coughing and gasping for air. Many collapsed on the ground. With tears in her eyes, the adult Jaime remembered the scene as “like a scene from Hell, the worst suffering I’d ever heard.” Despite the fact that her own father was part of the mob, 12 year-old Jaime could not stand by and do nothing. She recalled setting her eyes on one woman in particular, who was lying on the ground. She ran over to that women and got down with her, washing her face, comforting her, and giving her water from her family store. As soon as she was sure the woman would be okay, she took water to another person, and then another, and another. For Jaime, bringing water to the Freedom Riders was an act of unimaginable mercy and courage. She had no idea what her family and neighbors might do to her afterward, or what trouble her actions might cause for the people she loved.

In the story of the Freedom Riders, we find example after example of amazing courage on the part of the Riders themselves, and on the part of the people, like Jaime, who welcomed them. The same was true in Jesus’ time. Everywhere he went, Jesus was regarded by the religious and political leaders as a radical and a heretic. He and his followers were seen as a dangerous threat to the hierarchies of the time. Welcoming one of Jesus’ disciples meant being associated with a fringe movement. It could mean getting expelled from the synagogue or rejected by one’s family. Opening the door to Jesus’ disciples meant closing the door on one’s former life.

As we’ve seen from both the Disciples and the Freedom Riders, welcome can be a risky business. But so far, we’ve only talked about obvious, dramatic risks: harassment, violence, alienation from friends and neighbors. But I think that showing welcome has a more subtle risk too. When I read today’s text, I’m struck by the way that Jesus calls his Disciples “little ones.” That term makes me think of a child, or of someone frail and small. In order to welcome a little one, we have to kneel down and put ourselves at their level. The experience is humbling, and it causes us to see the world from a different perspective. When we reach down to welcome one of the “little ones” of the world, we risk being changed ourselves.

Many people who encountered the Freedom Riders came away humbled, and with their perspectives forever changed. One such person was John Seigenthaler, who worked as a special assistant to Attorney General Robert Kennedy. Looking back on his life prior to the Freedom Rides, Sigenthaler recalled growing you in a privileged white family in Tennessee. He remembered being surrounded by decent, good-hearted people, who never challenged the racism all around them. He described himself and his childhood community as “blind to the reality of racism and afraid of change.”

After the mob attack in Anniston, the Kennedys sent Seigenthaler to Alabama. He was given two jobs to do: First, to convince the Riders to give up their mission and fly out of the state. Second, to convince Alabama’s governor to protect the Riders until they could leave. Seigenthaler achieved these original objectives, but then he got a surprise:

Just a few days after the first Freedom Riders left Alabama, a second group decided to continue the bus trips. This group was led by a young Fisk University student named Diane Nash. Siegenthaler remembered calling Nash on the phone and demanding that she call off the Freedom Rides. He chastised her, saying that she was just a child who didn’t know what she was getting into. He warned her that she was going to get someone killed. Calmly and quietly, Diane Nash told him that all of the Freedom Riders had signed their wills and knew exactly what they were facing. She also told him that she could not allow violence to triumph over non-violence. Siegenthaler had no answer to these statements, and remembers the conversation as the day he “got schooled by a little child.”

Talking to Diane Nash changed John Siegenthaler’s perspective. He was a privileged, high-ranking official in the most powerful nation in the world, but he opened his heart and mind to a group of young students from an oppressed minority group. From that day forward, he had a different perspective on the Freedom Riders. He saw the hatred and violence they faced with new eyes, and fought hard for their protection. He was even knocked unconscious trying to defend two Freedom Riders at a bus station in Alabama. Once he allowed himself to see the world from the Freedom Riders’ perspective, John Siegenthaler could never look at it the same way again.

Having our perspective changed is one of the risks of welcoming a disciple. Once we open our eyes to the “little ones” Jesus sends as his messengers, we can’t help but think and act differently. This kind of change can be difficult, but I think it is also one of the rewards that Jesus promises. Throughout the Gospels, people take tremendous risks and suffer terrible consequences for Jesus and the church, but their risks do not go unrewarded. Those who choose to follow Jesus often give up their homes, families, and livelihoods, but they find a calling and new relationships with God and other people. They get to be part of a movement they believe in, and they are remembered as forefathers and mothers of our church to this day.

When Oprah interviewed the Freedom Riders and their supporters, many shared about the consequences and rewards of participating in the Freedom Rides. Some suffered life-long damage to their physical and emotional health. Many were psychologically scarred by bearing witness to such intense prejudice and hatred. Some never repaired relationships with loved ones who did not support the movement. Still, not one person expressed regret about being part of the Freedom Rides. On the contrary, they expressed pride at their role in American history. They are proud that they helped make the United States a more welcoming and just place for future generations. White Riders and supporters talked about having their eyes opened to important issues of justice. African-American riders and supporters talked about learning that not all white people are racist. Nearly every person interviewed talked about lifelong friendships built on the Freedom Rides.

In Matthew 10, Jesus is talking specifically about the mission of his disciples, and the people who will greet them. Yet, I don’t believe that Jesus’ message is only for Jesus’ time. I believe that Jesus still sends “little ones” to do his work, and he still calls us to welcome them. A few weeks ago, Harold Camping and his prediction about the rapture got a lot of people talking about the end of the world and the second coming of Jesus. Personally, I don’t like the phrase “second coming” because I think it distracts from the reality that Jesus comes to us every single day. In texts like the one we heard this morning, Jesus tells us that we have countless opportunities to meet him in the “little ones” of our communities, our churches, and our world. If we want to meet Jesus, all we have to do is look for his messengers. When we welcome them, we welcome him.

I believe that, as Christians, one of the most important questions we should ask ourselves everyday is who are the little ones Jesus is sending, and how can we welcome them?

Who are the little ones of our churches, the ones on the margins who take great risks even coming to church? What can we do to see things from their perspective? How can we make them feel welcome? How can we humble ourselves to learn what they have to teach us?

Who are the little ones of our communities and our world? Who are the people on the margins of our society, and how can we extend welcome to them? Who are the people held down because they threaten those at the top? How can we extend our friendship and solidarity to them?

It takes courage to reach out to the “little ones” in our lives. Like Jaime Forsyth with her cup of water, we take a great risk when we turn away from what we know and reach out to strangers in need. Yet, when we reach down to lift a brother or sister up, we touch the hand of Jesus.

Amen.

Not just a clever name: the Dreaded Druid Hills 10K

This is someone's elevation chart from DDH '09. Looks about right to me!

Greetings from the night before preaching, in which I am procrastinating writing with more writing. Tomorrow's sermon is proving to be a challenge to write, which seems appropriate as I started the day with a very challenging race: the Dreaded Druid Hills 10K.

I never heard of "DDH" before this year, but it is apparently an annual institution for hardcore Baltimore runners. The idea is simple: the officials map out the hilliest possible course through Baltimore's notoriously hilly Druid Hill park. Then, as an added bonus, they hold the race at a time of year when it can easily be 90 degrees with 100% humidity. I signed up for this race as soon as I heard about it, partially out of an addiction to challenge (thanks, Bryn Mawr and Yale!) and partially because I enjoy the "misery loves company" camaraderie of especially difficult races.

As the race grew closer, though, I started to question the wisdom of my decision. I kept thinking back to the last deliberately hard race I ran: the Riley's Rumble Half Marathon , otherwise known as the longest three hours of my life. That race started out as challenging and rapidly descended to borderline-impossible. It came fairly early in last year's marathon training and did nothing to build my confidence. Given that my 2011 marathon training starts this week, I was worried about  having a similarly demoralizing race.

Thankfully, DDH was just hard enough to live up to its name, but just do-able enough to still be fun. I met my friends Erin and Amir before the race, and we were joined by a friend of theirs who happened to be a DDH veteran. She explained that the course would start out flat, then transition to a few rolling hills before we hit the "real hills" beginning in mile 2. She warned us not to feel smug when we got over the rolling hills because they would be just a warmup. Her final words of wisdom were "When you hit the real hills, you'll know."

Over the course of the race, I lost track of how many times I mentally thanked Erin and Amir's friend for that advice. The first of the rolling hills was pretty serious, but I took it easy and mentally shook it off, knowing that the real challenge would come later. As promised, I knew when we hit the big hills. I lost count, but I'm told there were 7, and they were all a wicked combination of steep and loooong. These were the kind of hills where you huff and puff up and around a corner, only to look ahead and see runners winding upward for another half a mile. Each was followed by an equally steep downhill. Some racers used the downhills as a way to make up speed and pass people. I focused on bringing down my heart rate, calming my breathing, and not tumbling end-over-end.

I had no time goal in mind for this race, but I did hope to finish it without walking. Sadly, that goal proved unattainable. I walked three separate times, though only the first time was intentional. On what felt like the longest hill, from midway through mile 2 into mile 3, I reached a point where my heart was just going too fast and my breakfast was threatening to jump ship. At that point, I chose to walk to the top and start running again on the downhill. I reached similar spots twice more and found myself slowing to a walk without any conscious decision. The whole time, I was continuously thanking God for the relatively mild day. A few more degrees might have equaled a lot more walking.

The good news is that, despite these walk breaks, I still finished in 1:05, which is only 4 minutes off last week's PR time of 1:01. To me, this says that I need to set a loftier PR goal. If I can run 1:05 on the DDH course, I can certainly come in under an hour on a normal course.

All in all, this was a fun race and one I would recommend for more experienced runners. It certainly made the Rt. 450 hill, which our marathon group loves to hate, look like a piece of cake!

Suitcase Adventures, pt. 1

Hello, readers! This is the longest I have ever gone without posting, mainly because I have travelled almost every weekend since early May. A brief review of recent happenings:

May 5: My last day of classes at Loyola.

May 7-9: I was in Houston for my friends' wedding.

May 13-15: I was home, trying to train through a sinus infection.

May 20-22: Loyola graduation festivities.

May 24-26: Romero Center Conference in NJ and food poisoning.

May 27-29: 10th Bryn Mawr Reunion in PA and residual effects of food poisoning.

June 3-4: VA Wine Country Half-Marathon and vineyards trip.

June 5: Practice tri and birthday.

June 10-12: Volunteering at the Wendt Center for Loss and Healing's annual grief camp.

June 16-18: Trip to NY to visit YDS classmates.

June 19: Father's Day, including a Father's Day 10K.

As you can see from the links, I have blogged my way through the May and early June events, but I started getting behind after my birthday week. So, now that my suitcase is unpacked, its time for some catch-up posts! I'll start with this past weekend:

From Thursday-Saturday, I was in Irvington, NY for an annual reunion with some of my YDS (Yale Divinity School) classmates. These reunions (for which much credit is owed to my friend Mindy) are always a highlight of my year, and this year was no exception.

We chose Irvington because my friend Nora is a pastor there and her parsonage is so enormous one can get lost going to the bathroom. It has a huge kitchen (ideal for a weekend of snacking and gossiping), 5 bedrooms, and 4 living rooms which can serve as extra bedrooms. Irvington has an additional appeal for me: great running routes, including one truly stunning quarter-mile hill.

See that white truck? Right about there, the hill suddenly becomes an almost sheer drop.

The picture does not do it justice. Starting from the top, its so steep that you really can't run down it, and even walking makes you feel like you're going to fall end-over-end any second. As a little bonus, the final .10-.15mi stretch drops off even more sharply. Running up this thing is like climbing wall.

When I visited Irvington last summer, I did not even think about running this hill. This year, though, I had the upcoming Dreaded Druid Hills 10K to think about. That race is June 25th, and I have not done nearly as much hill training as I should have done by now. So, I decided to make up for some lost time with the Irvington hill. Both Friday and Saturday, I warmed up with a 3-ish mile trail run, walked to the bottom of the hill, and headed back up. It was brutal. It only took about 5 minutes to run from the bottom of the hill to the top, but my heart was pounding by about 20 seconds in both times. In fact, my pounding heart and shortness of breath were actually bigger issues than my legs. San Francisco runners, I tip my hat to you!

I got home from NY late Saturday night and got up early Sunday to run the Annapolis Striders' Dawson's Father's Day 10K. I had moderate expectations going into this race. Thanks to all the travel and eating away from home, I am currently up about 5 pounds, which is enough to slow me down a bit. Also, I was tired and I had consumed a decent amount of wine and beer in NY. Despite all of this, I actually had a really good race! I finished in 1:01:37, 3 minutes faster than my previous best 10K. I think I probably could have shaved another minute if I had started further up in the pack. Many runners have a problem with going out too fast. I have the opposite problem: I start too slow. So, the next time I am looking to run a fast race (not the Druid Hills), I will start closer to the front. 

I've had many wonderful adventures over the past few weeks, but I am so happy to be home for awhile! Coming soon: a report on my second time volunteering for the Wendt Center grief camp.

Best Week Ever, pt. 3: Passages.

This is part one of another trilogy. See below.

And now, for the conclusion of my birthday week trilogy, allow me to take you back to the beginning of that awesome week. Unlike Part 1 and Part 2, this installment will involve no feats of athletic endurance, but I hope it will be still be exciting.

As you may recall, I spent the last week of May attending a conference and my college reunion, all while battling food poisoning. I got home May 30th and spent Memorial Day catching up on errands and sleep. On June 1st, I returned to work for a bit of a special event:

I work at the Saint Vincent Pallotti Center, an organization that promotes long-term volunteer service through Catholic programs. One of the ways we promote long-term service is by meeting with people who have recently completed short-term service and helping them process their experiences. If they had a good/meaningful experience doing short-term service, we hope they might consider long-term service.

So, on June 1st, we spent the day working with two groups of college students who had just completed a 2-week service trip in Latin America. Of all the things they saw and did, what seemed to impress them the most was the experience of being unplugged. They had all spent 2 weeks away from cell phones and the internet, and they had been shocked at how much they enjoyed just being with other people for a change. They talked about long conversations, playing cards late into the night, and how people in their host countries seemed to place more value on human connection than we do in the US. We spent a good deal of our processing time discussing how they could bring more of this connection into their lives back home. 

After work, I headed to the awesome bookstore Politics and Prose for another special event: a reading by Justin Cronin, author of The Passage. The Passage was a bit of a hit last summer. I bought it as soon as it came out, having read some advanced reviews which described it as great summer reading about the end of the world. I was on a bit of an end-of-the-world kick, having started with The Stand, and proceeded through I Am Legend, The Road, Ender's Game, World War Z, the Hunger Games books, Boneshaker by Cherie Priest, and a few other apocalyptic titles. The Passage did not dissapoint. I plowed through all 750+ pages in a couple of days and then, as I often do with books I love, turned back to page one and read it all again. I've read it a couple more times since. In fact, I learned about the P&P event because I was stalking Cronin's website, trying to find a release date for the forthcoming sequal (alas, 2012).

What do service trips and the end of the world have in common? More than you might think. I recently had a conversation with a friend, speculating about why end-of-the-world books seem to be so popular right now. We had a lot of ideas, and one of them was that they portray a world where all modern communication has been stripped away. In a situation common to many apocalyptic stories, the people in The Passage have no phones or internet, and no idea what might be going on in the rest of the world. Heck, they don't even have mail! Its a situation I can't even imagine anymore, but I think its something many of us long for to some degree, sometimes. Case in point: the kids from the service trip.

Also, during his reading, Cronin told a story that made me think more about human connection. Apparently, he started The Passage as a game with his then 9 year-old daughter. They would go out together, he running and she on her bike, and toss ideas for a story back and forth. He set two rules: it had to be interesting and one of the characters had to have red hair (like his daughter's). I was touched to hear that such a successful and widely-loved book had come out of some quality time between a father and daughter.

(I was also reminded of a game I once played with a little boy I worked with one summer in Philadelphia. I was co-leading a summer day camp, working with 8-10 year-olds. A few weeks in, we got a new camper: a shy and somewhat awkward boy who told me he liked to write stories. For some reason that is still mysterious to me, I responded to this pronouncement by saying "Oh good, because I like stories. Not interesting stories, though. I prefer boring stories. Can you tell me a boring story?" He asked how you tell a boring story, and I explained that you have to tell a story where nothing happens, like "Yesterday, I drove to school and I went neither fast nor slow." Naturally, the more I asked for boring stories, the more the boy told me stories about getting kidnapped, attacked by bears, etc. We both found this game hilarious and played it pretty much every day. Its one of my best memories of that summer.)

The connection theme of the day continued after the reading when I approached Cronin to get a couple of books signed. Writers are like rock stars to me, and I often have trouble acting even semi-normal in front of them. My book signing experiences range from the totally humiliating (Sherman Alexie, in front of whom I could not utter a word) to the utterly amazing (David Sedaris, who was so gracious that I wrote a sermon about our encounter). On balance, though, they tend to be more humiliating.

Fortunately, this one went fairly well. I was getting one book signed for my niece, who happened to be graduating from high school the next day. So, I had an opening line ready: "This is for my niece, who is graduating from high school tomorrow. Feel free to write any words of wisdom you might have." He wrote "Enjoy your life," which I think is sound advice. Then, things almost ran off the rails. He saw my name, looked up, and said "Alicia!" I think I stared blankly for about 20 seconds before the gears of my brain clicked back into place and I recalled that Alicia is one of the main characters in the book. In fact, she is the girl with red hair, and a bit of a badass/warrior type. He looked at my hair and said "Its a little red, maybe," at which point I seized my opportunity to stop seeming like I had never read a book which I had in fact just read for the fourth time. I said "I don't know about the hair, but I like to think I'm a bit of a badass. Maybe that's the connection." This comment was rewarded with the following inscription:

The next day, I presented the signed book to my niece, Summer, who is also a badass and just happens to have red hair. Then, in one of the prouder moments of my life, I got to watch her graduate.

One of the best people I know, off to take on the world. Sigh.

Best. Week. Ever. Bring it, 32!

Best Week Ever, pt. 2: Wonder Women.

The Spring 2011 Wonder Women (I'm in the back, wearing blue).
Photo by Ellen Ormsby.

Welcome to the second installment of my 32nd birthday week adventures: my practice tri and party with the Wonder Women training group.

Before I tell you about the tri, though, an update on the Wine Country Race: Last night, I checked the official results and learned that Katie and I clocked in at 2:17:16. That means I beat my previous PR (2:18:55) by over a minute, and Katie beat hers by 5 minutes! I was really susprised and pleased to see that time. What makes it even better is the fact that my 2:18 half felt really hard and this one felt relatively easy. I would say the courses were equivalent in difficulty, which means I am getting fitter and faster!

"Fitter and faster" is a good segue back to tri-training, because tri-training deserves much of the credit for my improvement. As many of you know, I have been training with the Wonder Women group (through Annapolis Parks and Rec) since April. Our session lasted from April 3-June 5th, meeting for two hours every Sunday. Even though we only met once per week, the prospect of those weekly workouts provided plenty of incentive to step it up during the rest of the week.

Despite the fact that everyone in the group was super-nice and our coaches encouraged us to work at our own pace, I never got past a certain intimidation factor. Every time I glanced at our training schedule I would be gripped by thoughts like "Bike ride next Sunday- I better get pedaling if I don't want to make an a** of myself," or "Open water swim- I better get to the pool if I don't want to drown." Some might argue that intimidation and fear are not the best motivators, but I can point to a whole slew of improvements made since April (faster run times, ability to stay upright on my bike, marked decrease in flailing in the water) which suggest otherwise.

This Sunday, I faced the culmination of all the fear, intimidation and improvements made during this Wonder Woman session: the practice tri. Our coaches set up a transition area near a local community beach and mapped out our course: an open water swim of undetermined distance (it took people 10-15 minutes), a 10.1-mile bike ride, and a 3.37-mile run.

Surviving last week's open water swim helped me approach the practice tri with more excitement than dread, but I was still nervous. Among our group, I am one of the slowest on the swim and the absolute slowest on the bike. Given the fact that the bike is the longest leg of the event, I knew I would finish last. I was okay with that, but I didn't want to get so far behind that I had to cut off some part of the course or make everyone stand around forever waiting for me. In many ways, I approached this event like I used to approach races: with no goal other than finishing without humiliating myself.  

Of course, I made even this low-bar goal a challenge by running the wine country race the day before the practice tri. When I woke up Sunday morning, I was relieved to find that I had only minor stiffness and soreness and (miracle or miracles) no noticeable hangover from all the wine. That afternoon, I took a couple of Advil and some Alka-Seltzer just to be on the safe side, packed up my gear, and headed to our makeshift course hoping for the best.

The swim was not my finest hour. We started out swimming to the left of a barrier, but within a few strokes, the water got too shallow to continue. Everyone starting bumping into the bottom and standing up, laughing. We moved to the other side of the barrier, where the water was much deeper. I could still touch the bottom, but just barely. The deeper water freaked me out a bit and made it harder to get into a swimming groove. In the end, I gave in to to fatigue and nerves sooner than I needed to, and walked along the bottom more than I should have.

Things got better on the bike. Once I started pedaling, I could definitely feel the accumulated fatigue in my legs, but it wan't too bad. The course was beautiful, with plenty of downhills and flats and no super-steep heels. Even better, our coach Andrea joined me on my second of three loops and rode with me to the end, keeping up a running conversation about counseling and wellness. It was just the distraction I needed, and the time passed quickly.

After the bike, I headed off on my own for the run. At this point, I am not steady enough on my bike to grab my water bottle while riding. Thus, I completed the whole bike leg without taking a drink. In the transition area, I quickly gulped down some Gatorade, and then headed out, leaving the bottle behind. I realized pretty quickly that this was a mistake. It was hot, and I was tired and dehydrated. The first few minutes of the run were miserable, and I wondered if I would be able to finish without walking. Then, I looked down and saw "1-mile" chalked onto the road by our coaches. I glanced at my watch and saw that I had only been running for a little over 8 minutes. So, despite feeling lousy, I was making good time and already 1/3 of the way there. I rallied and finished the 3.37 mile run in just over 30 minutes, just a bit off my recent 5K pace.

After the practice tri and a group photo (see above), I invited the rest of the group back to my house to celebrate the end of our session and the birthdays of myself and our coach Ellen. My wonderful friends Nancy, Jessie and Liz had volunteered to get my house ready during the practice tri, so I returned home to find the grill lit, chairs set up, and all the yummy food laid out. (FYI- I have awesome friends.) We had a great, low-key party, which was the ideal end to my action-packed birthday weekend.

The next morning, I logged on to Facebook and saw this great article about our group. Its wonderful to see our coaches getting the recognition they deserve, and I hope it motivates more women to join!

Stay tuned for the final installment of Best Week Ever, in which I will tell the stories of everything else that happened during my birthday week, including my niece's high school graduation and my first non-humiliating encounter with a favorite writer.

Best Week Ever, pt. 1: The Virginia Wine Country Half-Marathon

As many of you know, I am a huge fan of birthdays, particularly my own. As far as birthdays are concerned, my philosophy is "You're going to get older anyway, so you might as well celebrate." (Feel free to adopt this for yourselves.) I also believe in planning one's own birthday celebration rather than waiting for others to do it. This avoids the unpleasant relationship strain that occurs when one's family, friends and/or significant others fail to provide a satisfactory celebration. Does anyone really need another special occasion on which to be mad at people? Don't we have Valentine's Day for that?

This year, I started my birthday planning super-early. December, in fact. I was thumbing through that month's Runner's World when I spotted an ad for the first-ever Virginia Wine Country Half-Marathon. I love going to vineyards, but I had never been to any in Virginia. I also love half-marathons, and the race just happened to be the day before my birthday. I was sold. I signed up right away, deciding that it was a sign of maturity that I would make a birthday plan without knowing if anyone else would go along with me. I told myself that, if I could not recruit anyone else to run the race, I would go alone and still have a great time. Secretly, I was hoping desperately that someone would go along. Thus, I was happy and relieved when Katie C. decided to join me.

All weekend long, Katie and I kept up a running ranking of this inaugural race, giving "thumbs up" and "thumbs down" to the various components. So, here are our rankings, in chronological order:

1. Cost of the race: Thumbs down. The race cost $95, which would be reasonable for a full marathon, but is a lot for a half. In addition, most of the events which participants could add to their race weekends involved additional fees. So, you didn't feel like you were getting much for your nearly $100.

2. Official hotel selection: Thumbs up. The race organizers made deals with what seemed to be every hotel within a 30-mile radius of the race course. People with money to burn could stay at resorts or B&Bs close to the course. Cheap people (like Katie and I) could get more modest and inexpensive rooms near Dulles airport. We paid only $75 for a suite at one of the Marriot-brand hotels, and it was lovely.

3. Race expo: Thumbs down. For such an expensive race tied to such a luxurious idea (wine country), I expected a pretty good race expo. Instead the expo was a disorganized mess, held at what seemed to be the poolhouse of a large resort. Also, we got no race goodie bags and the shirts were just okay. There was a free wine tasting at the expo, but Katie and I were too tired and hot to enjoy it.

4. Pre-race dinner: Thumbs way up! When we signed up for the race, Katie and I both paid $55 for an official pre-race dinner at a local vineyard. After the expo, we got worried that we might have wasted our money. Thankfully, our fears were unfounded. The dinner was hosted at Bluemont Vineyard, a very elegant, somewhat off-the-beaten-path winery. The scenery was spectacular (see below), the food and wine were excellent, and the event was small enough that we were able to have great conversations with several fellow racers. Katie had never really been to a vineyard before, and she declared Bluemont her new favorite place about 5 minutes after we arrived.

Sunset over the grapes.





Happy pre-racers!

5. The race start: Thumbs way down! The race start was, by far, the least successful part of the whole weekend. This was a point-to-point race, meaning that it started at one place (a vineyard) and ended at another (another vineyard). Thus, depending on where they parked, racers would need transportation either from finish to start before the race, or from finish back to start after the race. The race organizers put together an elaborate shuttle scheme, involving multiple pick-ups spots and departure times, starting at 5am and scheduled to end at 6:10am (the race was supposed to start at 7).

Katie and I decided to park at the finish because we needed to make a quick exit after the race. We left our hotel before 5am, which should have given us plenty of time to park and catch a shuttle before 6:10. Unfortunately, we got lost finding the finish vineyard and did not arrive until about 6:15. When we got there, we saw a line of more than 100 people waiting for shuttles, and a steady stream of cars still arriving. Over the next hour (which we spent standing in line outside with no port-a-potties), we learned that the shuttles were getting caught in the police barricades already guarding the course. As a result, people were stranded at pretty much every pickup location, and the race start had to be pushed back, first to 7:15 and then to 7:30. So, the organizers wound up with grumpy people waiting at the pickup locations wondering if we would ever get to the start, and grumpy people waiting at the start line wondering if they were ever going to run. Not good.

6. The race: Thumbs up. Once the race got going, the drama of the start was basically forgotten. Virginia wine country is a beautiful place, and that makes for a very scenic race. Also, a large portion of the course (especially in the beginning) was flat or downhill, making for a fast and relatively easy course. Three highlights from the race itself:

At mile 10, a local vineyard set up a station distributing 1.5oz samples of their apple wine. Katie and I both said "what the heck" and drank. Terrible idea. I felt the alcohol hit my stomach about two seconds after I drank and was nauseous for the next mile and a half. Katie had the same experience. So, take my advice: no drinking on the race course!

During mile 11, we reached a stretch of about .2 miles where the organizers could not arrange for a necessary road closure. The solution: we ran through a cemetery! That's right- we ran along a paved path that took us on a little tour of the local cemetery. This was amusing for about two seconds, until we saw that the cemetery was full of hills. It turned out to be one of the toughest points in the race. Still, this did not keep Katie and I from making jokes like "This crowd is dead!" and "Look alive, people!" and laughing so hard we almost threw up our apple wine.

Just before mile 12, I looked at my watch and saw that we were at 2:06. My half-marathon PR is 2:18 and Katie's was 2:22. Thus, I knew that we could beat Katie's PR easily and we might even beat mine. We gave each other high-fives and kicked it up a notch. Naturally, mile 12 turned out to be a relentless series of hills. We realized pretty quickly that we were too beat to really push it on the hills, but we still came in somewhere in the 2:18 range (still waiting on official results). So, a PR for Katie and a possible PR for me! Not bad for a race neither of us really trained for.

7. Post-race activities: Thumbs way up! Katie and I did not participate in the official post-race activities, many of which involved additional fees (thumbs down).  Instead, we raced back to our hotel, did a quick change, and then met my friends Julia and Elizabeth for an afternoon of wine-tasting and dinner. We visited three vineyards: Doukenie, Hillsbourough, and Notaviva. We had three totally different tasting experiences, but it was all lovely. Its hard to go wrong spending a beautiful day in beautiful places with great friends!

With Julia at Doukenie.

At Hillsborough. Julia brought me some cupcakes, but they had a little accident!

The tasting room at Notaviva.

We ended our day at Grandale Farm Restaurant, a farm-to-table restaurant right in the middle of the vineyards. I found this place online a few weeks ago, and have been salivating over their ever-changing seasonal menus ever since. Everything was as good as I had expected: amazing food, a beautiful setting, and great friends!

The outdoor dining room.

Pork belly and shrimp with gnocchi, corn, and tomatoes. Yum!

(Very) full and happy!

 After the restaurant, Katie (God bless her!) drove us home. I was both completely happy and completely exhausted. I was also a little apprehensive as I anticipated the next day and the second half of my birthday weekend: completing a practice triathlon and hosting a party! More on that to come in "Best Week Ever, pt. 2." Stay tuned!

My people.

As part of my graduation from Loyola, I attended a lovely banquet just for Pastoral Counseling students, faculty, and staff. One of my classmates was asked to represent all of the graduates and speak about his experience as a PC department student. The first thing he shared was a feeling he had during his first days in the program: "Finally, I've found my people!" I have thought the same thing a few times in my life, and last week I was reminded of two of those times.

From last Tuesday-Thursday, I participated in a conference on integrating social justice into young adult ministry. The conference was hosted by Romero Center Ministries in Camden, NJ, an amazing organization that brings people to one of the poorest communities in the nation in order to learn about and participate in social justice ministries. Unfortunately, I came down with food poisoning as soon as I arrived in Camden. I got there around 3pm Tuesday, almost immediately went to my room to lie down, and spent the next 24 hours having what I will describe as the classic "first night in Mexico" experience. Food poisoning is unpleasant all by itself, but as a bonus, I was staying in a dorm and sharing a bathroom with about 25 people. Good times.

I didn't fully join the conference until Wednesday afternoon, by which point things were winding down. Yet, despite my late arrival, the other people at the conference embraced me right away. Most of them were young adults (20's-30's) doing a variety of ministries all over the country. In the workshops and presentations, they were full of insights and ideas. In the downtime, they were full of energy and eager to get to know each other. Pretty much every night of the conference, people stayed up until 1 or 2am, singing songs, talking, and dancing. Even after the conference ended Thursday morning, people didn't want to leave. We were supposed to break at 11am, but most of us chose to stay in Camden and eat lunch together. I didn't get on the road until nearly 3pm.

Being at this conference reminded me of how I felt in seminary (at Yale Divinity School). Even after I made the decision go to seminary and completed all of my applications and interviews, I was unsure if I really belonged there, or in ministry at all. Those doubts all disappeared when I arrived and got to know my fellow students. Just as my PC classmate described, I had an overwhelming feeling of "these are my people!" Obviously, a wide variety of people go into ministry, but I found that most of us had some big things in common: passion, creativity, hospitality, a love of people, and an inability to accept things as they are as opposed to as they should be. It was great to be around people like that again, especially as I discern how I want my own ministry to unfold.

After the conference, I spent one blissful night in a hotel (a new mattress! a pool! a private bathroom!) before heading to another place where I once found "my people": my 10-year college reunion. I went to Bryn Mawr College, which is a small and academically rigorous women's college in PA. When I was 18, a women's college was not an obvious choice for me. Growing up, I had mostly male friends and often had a hard time relating to other girls/women. Yet, something drew me to Bryn Mawr, and it was absolutely the right place for me. Its hard to describe what it means to spend four years surrounded by other passionate, determined, smart, and talented women. The best word I can think of is "inspiring."

One change since the 5-year Reunion: lots more babies!

A popular Reunion activity is the "Step Sing," where we gather around an old building and sing songs about our college experience. This also happens 3 times during every college year. I don't think things like this would fly at co-ed schools.


This was my second reunion, and both times I was as happy to be in the presence of the older alumnae as I was to catch up with my own friends. Every BMC reunion ends with a parade of classes, where the classes line up from youngest to oldest. The youngest classes go first, and then turn around to cheer on the older classes. By the time you get to the end- the handful of women celebrating their 70th Reunion and beyond- you can't help but think of the trails all of these older women have blazed. When some of them were born, women didn't even have the right to vote! They went to college in an era where educating women was considered radical, and many of them became leaders in formerly male-dominated fields. I always leave Bryn Mawr feeling like I owe it to these past generations of women to follow their examples and become a leader in my own field. I really needed that reminder this year.

My new favorite class- 1961- in the parade. These women knew how to have a good time!

So, now I am back and planning my post-grad school future with new energy. I need to go where my people are!