With My Own Two Feet: February

FEBRUARY
Live Ultimate (Santa Monica, CA) - 6.2 miles
Ragnar Del Sol (Wittenburg, AZ - Tempe, AZ) - 4.6 miles, 5.7 miles, 5.5 miles

With the first month of my running challenge complete, I entered February with excited anticipation.  February meant that in addition to checking off the second month of my goal, it was time to tackle what seemed like the craziest of my runs: a Ragnar Relay.  But before Ragnar began, I had another finish line to cross.

In an effort to train for Ragnar, I registered for the Live Ultimate Run in Santa Monica.  We gathered at the start line by the ocean and when the buzzer sounded, we were off.  The course was fairly similar to the Christmas Run we had done in December, so with every bend in the road and slope of the course, I had an idea of what to expect.  This gave my mind time to wander.  I kept wondering where the name Live Ultimate came from, thinking that the first word was līv as in "this taping is live."  What I now know is that the word is actually lĭv, as in the opposite of die.  The idea behind the race series is to promote living your best life being passionate about health, balance and well-being.  As I crossed the finish line, I was doing just that.

Usually as the end of February nears, I am busy wondering how I will spend my birthday and what turning a year older will mean.  This year, I had an even bigger task to ponder: participating in my first Ragnar Relay.  I had first heard of Ragnar the previous fall when AJ and Anthony completed the Ragnar Napa Valley.  When they returned, they immediately said, "We have to do this!"  Anthony had already discovered that the Del Sol race was over our birthday weekend and both were convinced this is how we should celebrate.  I wasn't so sure.  Single races were one thing.  Creating a team of 12, sleeping in vans and running three legs over the course of 34 hours seemed like an insurmountable task.  At that time, I hadn't even run my first half marathon; how did we know I'd be able to do a Ragnar?  But fueled by a new confidence and knowing that I had the support of amazing friends (and truthfully excited for something to plan!), I agreed.

Creating a team.  Reserving vans.  Understanding the rules.  There was so much to do.  But if I was going on a crazy running adventure, the first thing I was sure of is that I wanted my brother by my side.  Fortunately, he's never one to turn down a good time (and maybe more fortunately, this actually sounded like a good time to him), he was easy to convince.  Quickly, the team fell in place, and I had fun creating a blog to keep us informed each step of the way.

It's hard to fully explain how much fun it is to do a Ragnar because every detail you share just makes it sound more and more crazy.  Sleeping in a van.  Running three times in 34 hours, including in the middle of the night.  Not showering.  Sharing a sweaty slap bracelet.  And you have to pay to do it?!?!  What could be more appealing?  And as I took off on my first leg, I still wasn't sure what I had gotten myself into.  Unlike other races, this isn't just about me.  If I needed to walk, it meant holding up our next runner.  If I was grumpy or tired, there was no where to hide but the next row of the van.  This was a true blend of individual and team effort.  But as I was chugging along that first leg, and I turned the corner to see my van and teammates cheering me on, my heart swelled with love.  It gave me energy.  And when I got to the exchange where I got to pass the slap bracelet on to Elyse - Elyse, with whom I had come so far - from supervisor/supervisee to friends to family; from Massachusetts to California; from two girls from Jersey unsure of their worth in the world to two women in California learning just how great we are.  As I slapped the bracelet on her wrist (and slapped her ass for good measure), off she went!  And the first person standing there to congratulate me was my brother.  The kid who spent his childhood teasing and tormenting me.  The kid who I often told that the reason mom and dad didn't have a third kid was because they had perfection, tried again and got him.  The kid who became the guy of whom I was most protective.  The guy who became the man who is one of my greatest friends.  There he was to give me a big hug and kiss.  I never felt so full of pride.

Hours later, the entire team stood at the finish line waiting for our 12th and final runner: Steffie.  As she turned the corner to come over the bridge, less than half a mile from where we were waiting for her, I broke into a smile thinking about how lucky I was to be running not only with my brother, but with one of my cousins.  Steffie and I are far enough apart in age that growing up, we didn't spend a lot of time with each other.  I was working at UMass full-time before she and I even had our first Briana/Steffie-only memory.  I had driven up to Vermont to join the family for a weekend, and finding ourselves stuck at the top of a mountain with over an hour wait to take the tram back down, somehow Steffie convinced me to hike down with her.  I was in flip flops; she was in fashion sneakers.  Neither of us were truly prepared for the adventure.  In a true Steffie stroke of genius, she decided our best effort was to each wear one sneaker so that we had proper traction on the way down.  And each time one of us slipped or slid down part of the mountain, we laughed that we ever thought those shoes had any traction whatsoever.  And when we made it to the bottom, I remember thinking that this was the first time I had ever spent any alone time with her.  And now here we were, ten years later, both living in California and having already piled up many memories that were just ours.  And we were more than cousins, we were friends.  The team formed a tunnel for her to run through before we followed her over the finish line, and again I was overwhelmed by the love.  How lucky was I to be able to share this memory with so many people I loved?  We spent that night celebrating with food, drinks, laughter and games.  We shared all of the new memories we had made along the way: the kills, the spills, the songs, the legs, the sounds that haunted our night runs, the moments we thought we might not finish.  We were already planning when we could Ragnar again.

 

Obstacles

This weekend, I served as an adult leader on a student retreat for spiritual formation and discernment.  I was asked to give the talk on Obstacles.  The entire retreat was extremely rewarding.  I was moved by the stories shared by the student leaders.  I was touched by the kind words and affirmation given by the participants.  I was humbled to be a part of such an incredible experience.  It was one of the many times for which I was grateful to have such an incredible job.

Each talk by the leaders started by playing a song and ended by playing a song.  Here is the story I shared, with links to the songs I chose to accompany the talk:

Opening Song: Forgiveness

Like many of you, this is my first Kairos.  So when I was approached to attend this retreat, I looked up the meaning of the word.  I found endless definitions, and regardless of specific wording, they all pointed to the same thing:  Kairos means the sense of the right moment; of God's time; of God's action; the moment at which God moves, acts and intervenes in our lives.  The definition gave me pause.  Who am I to talk about the moments in which God intervenes in my life?  As a childhood CCD dropout and an adult who has struggled with the meaning that faith and spirituality play in my life, who am I to try to articulate such times and actions?  But as I sat and reflected, a voice inside of me reminded me that the answer to these questions; the answer to "Who am I?" is "I am me."

So I am here, present with all of you, to talk about obstacles...to reflect upon both extending and accepting forgiveness...and to think about relationships in your lives that may be in need of healing.  Forgiveness has been a major theme in my life.  As a young child, I suffered heavily from low self-esteem and a lack of self-worth.  If someone treated me poorly, I was quick to forgive, less so because I had mastered the meaning and value of forgiveness, but because forgiving meant avoiding more negative attention or conflict.  In junior high school, one of my closest friends began to tease and torment me on a daily basis.  Day in and day out, I felt anxiety about what cruel words or deeds he would do to me at school and which people would join in on laughing at me.  His bullying came out of nowhere, as does most childhood cruelty, and it ended as quickly as it started.  One day, as we were leaving the classroom, he tapped me on the shoulder to ask me a question, and just like that, we were friends again.  In that moment, I forgave him for his actions, not because I could comprehend the deeper issues behind them, but because I didn't value myself enough to cause a stir.  Though I don't think this is a stellar example of forgiveness, it did pave the road for future obstacles that I would need to overcome.

Years later, I would experience a strangely similar situation with another friend.  As an adult, you hope that maturity has set in and unexplained cruelty becomes a thing of the past, but sadly, that isn't always true.  I am fortunate that I have a strong circle of friends with whom I grew up.  These are the people who were by my side for formative milestones, such as driving tests, broken hearts, proms, graduations, college acceptances and career choices.  In May of 2000, we toured the east coast visiting each other's college graduations - celebrating another milestone.  And two months later, one of us was killed by a drunk driver on his way back to Jersey so that we could celebrate as a group before we all set off to our post-graduate adventures.  In this moment, my world stopped.  And without the support of this tight circle, I'm not sure any of us would've survived.

So you can imagine my surprise when a year later, one of my friends stopped returning my calls.  And when we were back home for the holidays, he ignored me at group gatherings.  I had been shunned.  And I was stunned.  I reached out to him in a letter asking to talk and to make amends for whatever had happened, and I was met with more silence.  This silence lasted for years.  And I felt a lot of pain and hurt.  One day, on a dance floor at a friend's wedding, years after I had given up hope that we would ever connect again, again I was tapped on the shoulder to turn around to come face-to-face with a friend who had caused me pain.  He said, "Can I hug you?  I miss you and I'm sorry."  I said, "Yes.  I miss you too, and thank you."  And I forgave him.  Unlike 20 years earlier when my forgiveness was based on a worry of continued teasing, this forgiveness was about something more; something deeper.  It was about knowing that this is a person who I love and care about, and who had clearly been dealing with his own baggage and issues that would cause so many years of silence.  And while I could punish him for this, I could also accept the genuineness of his apology, and allow his love and friendship to reenter my life.  The choice was mine, and I chose opening myself to love over holding on to anger.

See, what I knew about this situation...something that I now understand about my childhood situation that I couldn't possibly comprehend then...is that there was more to the story than I was experiencing.  My friend had his own baggage...his own issues with which he was dealing that manifested itself into how he treated me.  And yes, I wanted to know why.  I wanted explanations for what happened, but I knew that sometimes we don't get to know why.  And likely he didn't have an answer to explain his actions.  And while I don't condone those actions, I do forgive them.  Because haven't I been guilty of allowing my issues to negatively impact others?  And during those times, haven't I deserved forgiveness?

In my professional career, I have supervised countless staff members throughout the years.  A number of years ago, my supervisor sat me down and told me that some of my staff members were upset that I hadn't been present at a series of meetings and trainings that they were required to attend.  I knew that the reason I wasn't there was because I was working on a different project, but regardless of what I knew, they were upset.  So I swallowed my pride and sat down during our next group meeting and apologized.  I explained to them why I wasn't there and apologized for upsetting them.  I also encouraged them to come speak with me if they had other feedback.  As we left the meeting, one of my staff members pulled me aside and asked if we could talk.  She explained that recently she felt as though I was not present to her during her 1:1 meetings or when she needed guidance.  She said she knew that I had other things going on, but that it had been difficult to get support and be successful without the presence of her supervisor.  Her words shot through my heart.  I immediately wanted to defend my actions and explain why I had appeared not present.  But I realized that that defense would just feel like empty words to her and would only serve to assuage my guilt, not heal her hurt.  So I looked her in the eyes, and I apologized.  I apologized for how my actions were impacting her, and I vowed to work harder to meet her needs.  And I thanked her.  I thanked her for being open with me and trusting me enough to hear her concerns.  And trusting me enough to attempt to make up for my actions.  I apologized, and she forgave me.  She did not punish me for the baggage that I carried.  She did not focus on why.  She forgave.

Forgiveness.  The song that I opened with is one of my favorites.  And one of the lines that I find particularly haunting...particularly poignant...is when she says, "It's hard to give.  It's hard to get.  But everybody needs a little forgiveness."  There is so much to say about the power of forgiveness and the obstacles you can overcome if you can truly embrace the notion of forgiving.  Because when you are unable to forgive, it is typically a barrier to something else.  Two years ago, I watched my mother pass away from cancer.  For over a year, we were given hope from doctors about her health.  First, the news: she has breast cancer.  Don't worry; we are confident about her chances.  Then, the treatment: chemo was a success, let's do a mastectomy just in case.  Now we think radiation would be helpful, more of an insurance, really.  Then the good news: She's in remission; let's move forward with reconstruction.  Then the setback: it appears the cancer has spread to the lungs.  Time for more chemo.  Then the day it all changed: the cancer is in the brain.  I was sitting at my desk at LMU when I got that news.  My world stopped.  Everything around me stopped.  I vaguely remember how the next few hours unfolded, but I do remember crying hysterically in my supervisor's office and frantically talking with an airline agent all before jumping on a flight back to New Jersey.  I had a backpack.  I had no idea how long I'd be gone.  Maybe the weekend.  Maybe the week.  I was gone four months.

In that time, I became the caretaker of my family: A nurse to my mother; an aide to my father; a consultant to my brother.  We were all in new roles, and as things unfolded very quickly, it became clear that time was of the essence.  We were angry.  We were devastated.  We were numb.  She was so young.  She was so alive.  She was all of our rocks.  How could this be happening?  My father's anger increased the more he thought about moments - arguments - opportunities for forgiveness that he missed.  My brother's and my regret increased the more we thought about moments - missed phone calls or skipped family holidays - opportunities for connections that we missed.  Amidst these emotions, a voice inside of me reminded me that this wasn't important.  We had more important things to focus on.  We had to forgive ourselves for these moments because I was sure that mom had forgiven us.  And if we didn't, we would miss so much during such a precious time.

But who or what was this voice inside of me that gave me such insight at such a difficult time?  At the time, the hospice worker said to me, "Briana, you clearly are the one providing strength to everyone in the family, but I have to ask you, from where do you get your strength?"  The answer came to me immediately: "From my mom.  She's always been my strength."  So, at the time, I could only assume that the voice inside of me was hers, guiding me the way she always did.  But now, I think maybe that this was a Kairos moment - a time at which God intervenes in my life.  And I'm surprised that I'm saying that.  As I mentioned, I'm a CCD dropout who has struggled with belief and spirituality always.  Growing up, religion didn't feel right to me.  I had a lot of anger and questions.  If there was a God, why did my grandfather suffer when other peoples' lived?  If there was a God, why was my best friend killed by a drunk driver when he had so much life left to live?  These were questions that plagued me; resolutions that I wasn't able to find.  So, why now do I sense God's presence in these moments?  I believe it's because of forgiveness.  Rather than punishing myself for not fitting a typical religious mold or holding on to anger at a God whose actions I don't understand, I've learned to forgive and let go of the why.  And I realize that must sound audacious to some of you.  Who am I to forgive God?  But for me, this has been part of my process.  And an important one.  Because another definition I found when looking up Kairos is, "The moment at which we 'arise from our slumber' to be attentive to God's work within us."  And at 3 a.m. on October 6, 2011, I was woken up from where I had fallen asleep next to my mother's bed.  The house was silent.  My brother was curled up in the hospital bed with my mom, my niece and dad were peacefully sleeping on the couch.  None of them nudged me awake, but make no mistake of it, I was nudged awake.  And in that moment, the second I opened my eyes, I knew it was time.  I got to my knees and grabbed my mom's hand.  Her breathing was shallow.  I kissed her.  I told her I loved her.  I assured her we'd be okay.  For a few minutes, we sat there together; just me and her.  Then she took her last breath.  Had I not literally arose from my slumber, I would've missed this moment.  Had I been focused on being angry at losing my mom at such a young age or watching the pain she was in, I would've missed this moment.  And this is a moment I will be eternally grateful that I didn't miss.

Because of forgiveness, I was able to hurdle over my obstacles and be aware of the present moment; be aware of the messages that were being sent to me.  And that awareness has carried me through some difficult times.  Since my mom passed away, I find myself sitting more peacefully in quiet moments waiting for answers that I previously would have frantically been searching for.  As I walk across campus, I let my mind clear and I listen for my mom's voice to guide me to answers.  I am now aware of the moments when she does.  Many people who have known me a long time often ask me how someone who has struggled so long with spirituality can find such peace in watching for these moments of intervention, and I am very honest with them.  I tell them that while I may have spent a lifetime questioning if a higher power existed, there's one thing I know for sure and that is that I refuse to believe in a world where my mother doesn't exist.  And my mother had a very strong faith; stronger than most people I've ever met.  Three days before she passed away, we had a priest come to the house to give her her final blessing.  And though she hadn't been able to speak a full sentence in weeks, in the presence of that priest, while praying hand-in-hand with him surrounded by her family, she perked up and prayed loudly.  There's no medical explanation for that strength.  The light was shining from within her.  It was another moment; another sense of the right time.  So I know she's here now.  She's guiding me.  She's intervening in my life.  Of that, I am fully aware.

My mother's favorite band was The Beatles.  She bought herself Beatles Rock Band and would sing along into the microphone not caring about her score, but enjoying every second of letting her favorite music wash over her.  So, I know she would want me to leave you with a Beatles song.  So this one is for my mom, Irene.  Listen for her voice and what moments she is calling you toward.

Closing Song: Let it Be

What's in a Vision?

Close your eyes.  Think about your life.  What do you see?  Where do you see yourself?  What are you doing?  Who is by your side?  How are you making a difference?

Since I was a little kid, I've done this a lot.  I used to lay in bed, dreaming of what my life would be like when I was an adult.  I had a vision.  And now, when I lay in bed as an adult, I think about that little kid.  She had a healthy worry about what the future held, but she also had hope.  She was excited.  She believed in what she saw when she closed her eyes.

Somewhere between then and now, that little girl grew up.  Along the way, she learned that time alone wouldn't just make those dreams come true.  But for whatever reason, despite her best efforts, even her actions couldn't make those visions come to fruition.  And now, as an adult, I wonder about that intersection between hope and reality.  When the two collide, what happens to those visions?