Sitting Ovation

I was raised in a house where you finished your homework before playing outside, picked up your room before watching TV, made your bed before eating breakfast, and cleaned your plate before getting dessert. Work, then play. Chores and then fun. Now that I am an adult (or pretending to be one at any rate) I find there is always work to be done and this confuses my work/play understanding something terrible.

How can I take a nap when there are dust bunnies under my bed? How can I enjoy after-dinner conversation when there are dirty dishes in the sink? How can I spend time blogging when there are e-mails to send and programs to plan? You would think that such a mindset makes me uber-productive, but it really just makes me resentful of people who go for walks and read for pleasure and watch movies on weeknights. And then there is the card that trumps all forms of play - people who sit. Not sit while talking to someone else. Not sit and listen to an iPod or sit and surf the Internet. Not sit and read a book, pen a letter, or write in a journal. Just sit. For hours.

At one point I developed the notion that people who sat were either old, tired, or both. Children did not sit. Children played. Parents did not sit. Parents picked up after and chased down children who play. Adults did not sit. Adults worked. They were productive. They did things. They moved. And if they did not do things, if they did work, or run, or build, or clean, then they were lazy. This mindset (much like the one that believed unemployment was the result of a poor work ethic) stuck with me for a long time. Too long. So long, in fact, that I now find myself rather incapable of sitting for more than five minutes without getting anxious. I have to move, or eat, or read, or clean, or at least get my hands on a piece of paper and a pen so that I can write down what I'm thinking, lest I be left along with my thoughts. And this, I believe, is not a good thing.

At some point in my Christian education I think I learned too much about idleness being the devil's workshop and not enough about the holy rest of Sabbath. When I read in Exodus 34:21 "Six days you shall labor, but on the seventh day you shall rest; even during the plowing season and harvest you must rest," it sort of upsets me. Even during the plowing season? Are you crazy? Do you expect the fields to take care of themselves? This is my instinctual response. If the fields were done, perhaps rest would be deserved, but in the middle of the season? I think not. I grew up with what I thought was a pretty solid Christian education. I learned the commandments. I knew that Sunday was the Sabbath. But what that really meant to me was that you shouldn't play baseball or go to soccer games or schedule yourself to work on Sunday morning because that was sin. Sunday was the day you went to church. And then after you went to church you were free to garden and do homework and send e-mails and play sports. To this extent even my Sabbath-keeping became a form of work for me.


My freshman year of college I took a class called "Introduction to Christian Ministry" or something of that nature. And in that class I read a book called "The God-bearing Life" by Kenda Creasy Dean. I found Dean's concept of Sabbath-keeping to be revolutionary. Sabbath, she points out, is made for rest, for play, for regeneration. "It dislodges [us] from the relentless onward march of linear (chronos) time and attunes us to God's unhurried time instead (chairos)." My professor put it this way, "Sabbath is a humbling recognition that the world will continue to go on without you." I like to be needed and necessary. Though it ultimately stresses me out, I like to think that without me things won't get done, or won't get done "correctly." It makes me feel important. It gives me value. But our value does not lie in how much we do or how quickly we get it done. Our value lies in who we are.

Shortly after I moved to Derby to intern at the International Community Church (ICC) I went camping with a church community in southern England. During the trip someone asked me what I would be doing during my time at ICC. I answered, "I don't really know. I'm not entirely sure why I'm here, but I really want to contribute something. To do something." Her response took me by surprise. "Maybe," she said, "the reason that you're here isn't to do anything. Maybe you're here just to be." That thought stuck with me during my next four months in the UK. It's something I still haven't learned - how to be still.


When I look through the Bible I see stories of action - of fighting battles, and marching around walls, and traveling to far-off countries. But there are also so so many stories of sitting - in the city square (Judges 19), under a bush (1 Kings 19), at the gates of the temple (Psalms), under trees (Judges 6), and in the presence of God (1 Samuel 17). And when you get to the prophets - Ezra, Nehemiah, Job, Ezekiel - they sit for days and weeks and months, seeking the ear and the heart of the Lord.

And so I have begun to sit. Each morning I take my breakfast tray outside, sit on the front porch and try to be still, which is no small task for me. I shovel in my cereal, gulp down my tea, and get strong urges to check my phone and send e-mail reminders. I have since developed a strong respect for the sitters of the world - the people who are able to rest in the solitary presence of God. It isn't easy, and often it doesn't feel very rewarding for me. But it's in the little changes and sacred spaces that I believe God begins to enter our lives. If I make space He is sure to find it and fill it. And that is enough for me to keep trying.

Stuck in a Route

I started this entry back in April - early April - so nearly two months ago. It was close to publishing when I lost half of my changes and at the time I didn't have the heart to re-create my attempts at witty narration. But yesterday I skimmed the entry in which I committed to regularly updating my blog (which I have done three times in as many months) and now I feel guilty. So without further explanation...

Early April 2012

They say that variety is the spice of life. Changing things up keeps you from getting bored, lazy, apathetic. For the most part agree with that. I enjoy variation in the weather and my clothing, the type of tea I drink in the afternoon and the flavor of jelly I spread on my toast. But there's also something very good about things that are consistent, familiar, routine. (I may like to change up the kind of sandwich I have for lunch, but don't mess with my Kashi Go Lean and sliced banana breakfast - you get the idea).

I sometimes struggle to know which parts of my life can (or should) be routine, and when I need to add a little variety. The other day I was riding a stationary bike at the gym and reading an issue of Women's Day (which was the only magazine that was left, really,) when I came across an article by the well-renowned Dr. Oz. I'm not actually familiar with Dr. Oz and don't recall most of what he had to say, but I do recall that the article mentioned something about the benefit of "automizing" as many choices in your life as possible. Something about giving your brain a break from making decisions that don't really matter. Are you happy eating the same thing for breakfast every morning? (Well, yes, Dr. Oz, as a matter of fact I am). Then do so. Do you continue to benefit from your 7:30 Pilates class and 8:45 shower? Then you should stick with them.

That got me thinking back to the days when I used to have a running routine. Due to knee problems and a fluke foot injury I haven't been padding the pavement since November, and it's been a sad five months indoors. The past week or two I've begun venturing out again. Just short distances around the neighborhood, but it's an improvement over Dr. Oz and the stationary bike at the gym. This morning I thought I would push myself and head back toward the river. (Bodies of water continue to be my favorite destinations for runs, hikes, walks, and wanderings). I was pretty confident in my ability to get there and back without pulling or straining something. A "river run" for me averages anywhere from 8-14 miles round trip. Up to this point I hadn't done more than 6, but I was eager to return to my route.

The first two miles from KCK to the Lewis and Clark Viaduct went fairly well. I'm used to navigating the alleyways and side-stepping the curb-sitters of Minnesota Avenue. I crossed the Kansas (or Kaw) River on the elevated runway that hangs from below Interstate 70 (see photo). It might be my favorite part of the run, especially when there are trains crossing on the bridge just north of the one I scurry across. Over the water, under the interstate and beside the trains, but completely isolated from traffic on the Riverfront Bike trail.

I first ran this trail in the fall of 2010, not long after I moved from the suburbs and strip malls of Johnson County to the Little Mexico of Kansas City, Kansas. I googled "bike trails" and found the map pictured above. Portions of the trail were "unfunded" or "under construction," but even when points of the trail came to a halt (going straight from a clean square of pavement to a pile of dirt), I still managed to find my way to downtown Kansas City, Missouri (skylines are helpful that way).

I continued down the two miles of the Viaduct, taking in the familiarity of my old stomping grounds. I flashed back to memories of the countless podcasts of "This American Life" that I had listened to while covering this same stretch. (The weekend that Ira Glass featured the games sector of World's of Fun was a personal favorite.) As I did I kept waiting for the paved portion of the bike path to end. It should have happened about half way to Broadway Bridge, but it didn't. It just kept stretching on and on. "This," I told myself, "must be where that check I wrote to the Kansas Department of Revenue went." I made a mental note to take advantage of public services more often.

I ran the length of the trail, hopped on Woodswether Road, and made my way up the winding incline of the Broadway Bridge, coming out on 3rd Street, just a few blocks from the River Market - another personal favorite when it comes to running destinations. As I edged toward Main Street I thought of the numerous times that I've run this stretch of ground in the past 18 months. There's something almost sacred about revisiting a stretch of pavement. I thought of the summer that I moved to Kansas City, of the excitement and disappointment and frustration that I felt my first few months in the area. I thought of the months that I spent learning my new neighborhood by foot when I wasn't scouring the internet for job opportunities. And then training for the KC half-marathon while working as a document specialist at an animal testing facility and a part-time server in Westport. I recalled agonizing over my decision to leave that job and have a go at being a youth director at a small church in Liberty, Missouri.

I reached the edge of the Town of Kansas Bridge (which begins at 3rd and Main and juts out over the Missouri River) and I paused. Usually I would continue down two flights of stairs and onto the trail that passes the Town of Kansas wharf and leads to the two-mile stretch of the Berkeley Riverfront Park esplanade. But for now, just reaching the river was enough. I looked out across the water below and watched the murky current steadily flow. How many times had I come to this spot and spilled out the thoughts that were sloshing in my mind? Questions about my job, my purpose, my relationships, my life. Questions that the river could not answer, but also questions that it did not judge.

I continued watching the water flow by, and felt that the river and I had something in common. Always moving, always changing, filled with a life-giving flow of energy, and yet still the same from week to week and month to month and year to year. Rivers can change their course over time, but the Missouri River will remain the Missouri regardless of how high the water level is or whether or not one of its tributaries dries up. I thought of how I had changed in the past year, even the past six months. Happily settled in Kansas City, moving forward with a job that has wound its way into my heart much like the boyfriend who recently moved to San Francisco. I am no longer worried about being alone, and yet still very much afraid of missing out on what I was made to do (whatever that may be). Some of my circumstances have changed. My thoughts have changed. My feelings have changed. But I am still me. Full of emotion, full of feeling, full of uncertainty - all of which course through my being like the waters of the river.

I stood a moment longer before trudging back up the bridge and heading for home. I still had four miles of ground to cover and my legs were growing tired, though my heart felt somewhat lighter. I embraced the familiarity of the situation. Going home, to the place I have called home for 18 months now. The place that will be home for a time longer. Until change comes again. Rerouting my course, but not changing me.