A Marathon of Grace

My Nana is sitting beside me.  For some reason, she’s handing me my phone.  Her smile exudes the same love I remember it to be – honest and devout and unconditional.  I’m just about to take her hand in mine when I realize my phone alarm is interrupting the moment.  Oh yeah, it’s Tuesday and it’s 5 a.m.  My Nana hasn’t been with us for over 20 years.  The thought makes me want to pull the covers back over my head and find her in my dreams again.  I let out a huge sigh of resignation because I know that she is with me, encouraging me to get up and run and pray and think of her along the way.  So, I check my email to see what my Runcoach has in store for me today, this Tuesday in December.  It’s speed day.  As if Tuesdays in December in Colorado aren’t hard enough.  Speed days are my greatest challenge, but often result in my biggest feelings of accomplishment.  With that thought, I fling the covers off and stumble out of bed.

As I’m lacing up my running shoes and massaging a cranky tendon just below my right ankle bone, I think about my friend Joe.  He always seems to remember Tuesday “Speed Days” and often sends me texts of encouragement when he knows I am on the treadmill straining to catch my breath and counting down every second of every quarter-mile repeat.  Thanks to Joe, Tuesdays aren’t all that terrible these days.  Joe is the kind of friend who seems acutely aware of what people need – emotionally, physically, and spiritually.  He’s one of those people who recognizes and accepts his own suffering, which in turn makes him the same person who can understand the suffering of others – and mine.

“You’d have no light to offer me in my moments of darkness if you weren’t so acquainted with the dark yourself.”  – Tullian Tchividjian

 

Me and Joe and a Marathon of Grace

Me and Joe and a Marathon of Grace

As I start my two-mile warm-up, I am transported back to my third NYC Marathon that took place six weeks ago.  I see the most incredible moments of grace flash across the filmstrip of my mind and know that even on the treadmill, with no sunrise in sight, God is whispering to me.  Grace showed itself in the presence of Joe, taking the weekend off to meet me at the airport and shuttle me back and forth and care for every minor need.  It surrounded me in the form of old and dear friends who inconvenienced themselves to share lunch and dinners with me – making memories and enriching the entire experience. I saw grace in the hearts of the volunteers at the start line and the medics at the finish line.  But one of the most incredible moments of grace exposed itself the evening after the race when I was reunited with friends and family for a celebration dinner.

With a full belly and an overflowing heart, I floated out of the restaurant.  After saying my goodbyes to my family and friends, Joe and I were approached by a well-dressed, 25-year old man.  Although I could sense Joe’s apprehension as he took my elbow, what I found most inspiring was that Joe stopped and gave the man his complete attention.  I was intrigued, but not surprised.  Clearly nervous and ashamed, the young man said, “Excuse me.  Sorry to interrupt. I’m not here to sell you anything.  Just hoping you might take a look at my resume and maybe pass it along.  I’m a chef and I lost my job and I’ve been out of work for too long now.  I’m out of money and out of options.  My daughter is only four and I worry about how I’m going to feed her.”

I took his resume and immediately felt compelled to ask Jerard Iamunno, from the Bronx, about his daughter and his life.  He was open and honest about his current condition and his brokenness.  I was drawn to his humbled heart, as was Joe who put his hand on the man’s shoulder, looked him squarely in the eye, and said, “It’s going to be okay.” Reaching into his wallet, Joe said ever-so-gently, “Here’s everything I have and if I had more I would gladly give it to you.”  Jerard said, “I can’t take this.  It’s too much.  I just need a little to get back on my feet.  Some people just give me their leftovers from dinner.  Even if you just take my resume and pass it along, I’d be grateful.”

At that moment, I saw God’s grace in the very human person of Joe.  It wasn’t in his actions, but in his spirit – his faith and his tenderness.  “Please take it.  Sometimes we all need a little something to get us back on our feet.  I know some people in the hospitality industry and will do what I can to get a few connections lined up.” Then Joe proceeded to talk to Jerard as if he were a colleague or a friend – with enthusiasm, care, and genuine respect.

The surreal scene depicted the beauty and honesty of God’s grace flowing through us and to others in the most unlikely moments.  Well, to us, they seem like unlikely moments.  But, standing in the cold on the avenue near Times Square reminded me of the lyrics by The Fray, “I found God on the corner of First and Amistad.” Maybe that’s the song Jerard was reminded of as we said our goodbyes and wished him well.  Maybe this unlikely moment did something to his heart – or his faith.  Maybe this was the start of something amazing for this young man and his little girl Sophia.  Maybe this was not an unlikely moment after all.

The filmstrip of my mind is interrupted by heavy breathing and sweat dripping into my eye.  I look down and realize that I’ve made it through all but one of my half-mile repeats.  The memories of Joe and Jerard are so vivid and beautiful in my head today.  But, I know that for many, this wouldn’t be a beautiful story.  It would seem sad and futile and many would believe we were just naïve out there on the street getting sucked into Jerard’s “con.”  But I see beauty in the most unlikely places – in the hard, the sad, and the desperate.  God created me this way – this emotional mess who can cry with a stranger and feel myself quickly slipping into their shoes.

To me, seeing the human experience this way is a blessing.  Without this perspective, I don’t think I would see the people, like Joe, who have been placed in my path to show me love and guide me and help me see that which I may have been incapable of seeing before – like young Jerard who may have just needed someone to show him a little grace on that cold, windy November evening.

Jerard Iamunno is looking for a position in the hospitality industry in the NYC area.  His email is IamunnoJerard@yahoo.com

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The Best of Faith

I wish everyone could feel the way I feel right now.  I have been out on the road now for less than ten minutes and already I feel a certain peace.  My legs feel light and my breathing is completely relaxed and measured.  The wind is calm and my mind is clear.  I’m running alongside the sunrise on this forty-seventh Thanksgiving of my life and I feel a rare sense of serenity.  Dear Lord, I made it. One more year. Thank you, I whisper, as I pull my hands up into my sleeves to ward off the early morning chill.  I am blessed to be here today because of your grace.  I didn’t earn it and I don’t deserve it.  For the first time in my life, I can honestly say that I am loved for no other reason than because I exist.

We encounter God in the ordinariness of life...

We encounter God in the ordinariness of life…

Often when I run, the tears will fight to flow.  This morning, I feel unusually vulnerable as I stride down my first hill and feel my throat closing slightly while my lip starts to quiver.  I’ve been a runner for a long time, but I never really know why the sobs sneak out.  I always thought it had something to do with my mind finally allowing my heart the freedom to speak.  But then, last Thanksgiving on this same running route, I was greeted by a sunrise that revealed to me what I was looking for all along.  Ever since I was a young girl, I had been looking for God.  Waiting for Him to appear and show me His strength and protection.  For 20 years, I searched and prayed and “did all the right things” so that He would take notice. But, He never came.  As a result of this absence, my heart hardened.  For ten years, He did not exist. I proclaimed that I was the only one who could protect me.  I was strong.  I would save myself.

But, it was a lonely way to live. In this life I had built, there was no calm, no peace, no comfort, no hope.  I needed help.  So, running became my therapy.  It seemed to be the only thing that generated some form of freedom and peace. It was, however, only a temporary fix.  Like that of a drug addict, I would count the hours before the next sunrise so I could get my fix again.  Often, people would learn about my running and with a look of pity, ask me what would happen if I didn’t run.  I wasn’t sure how to answer them.  I usually just joked that if I didn’t get out and get my mind straight, they probably wouldn’t like me very much.  Then, last Thanksgiving as I was running up the Titan Road Hills and the sun was peeking over my right shoulder, I was presented with the answer.  Yes, running was like a drug – but more like a prescription that allowed my heart to soften and my thoughts to transform into prayer.

That’s it.  I was praying.  It became so clear that day.  When I run, I see with my soul and not with my eyes.  The world looks different on the run – brighter and more hopeful and more generous.  And so, it has been out on the road that I run and smile and weep and show thanks for it all.  My drug-of-choice opened my eyes to finally accept that I was praying to God.  Alone on the road, I wasn’t really alone at all.  I was alone with God.  The revelation that He had been beside me all those years was overwhelming.  It was the noise and confusion of life that clouded my view – the belief that I could control it all.  I had been so busy trying to prove to myself that I was loved, that I never heard Him.

“We encounter God in the ordinariness of life:  not in the search for spiritual highs and extraordinary mystical experiences, but in our simple presence in life.”  Brennan Manning

As I head back home to a messy house and groggy children just waking up, I pick up my pace.  It’s no surprise that I feel lighter and warmer now.  Last year at this same time on this same run, I finally found the truth.  During all those years when I felt lost and alone – working so hard to win God’s love – I already had it.  I didn’t earn it and I will never earn it.  The grace of God is a gift – with no strings attached – that I will humbly accept knowing that there is no way to ever thank Him for it.

“Faith is what someone knows to be true, whether they believe it or not.”  Flannery O’Connor

Having faith in His gift has allowed me to be gentler with myself and others, have more patience with myself and others, and be more generous with myself and others.  Having faith in God has changed the way I see things.  When my faith is strong, I am more compassionate, I fear less, I love more, and I live with greater conviction. We are all broken and frail and fighting something – but God loves us anyway.  Accepting this has set me free.

My run ends at my doorstep.  I listen carefully outside the door and hear muted little voices inside.  I sigh.  No, I cannot explain my faith, I only know that it has helped me find peace, finally believe that I am lovable, and be grateful for every day I am blessed to experience it all.

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Seeing the Perfect in the Imperfect

Nothing about this race feels right, I think as I hug my knees and wrestle with the massive trash bag that is serving more as a sail than a blanket in the 30 mile per hour wind.  It’s November 2 and it’s my third NYC Marathon, but oddly, this one doesn’t feel familiar.  I feel like I don’t belong here – so insignificant and small down here on the cold, damp ground as a sea of athletes rises up above me.  I cannot explain why, but I already feel defeated.  I wanted this race – of all my 14 marathons – to be the best, the most memorable, the most meaningful.  I wanted today to be the perfect celebration of 25 weeks and 950 miles of hard work and dedication.  Perfect.

As I shrink closer into myself to generate body warmth, I get deeper into my own head but the gentle voices are nowhere to be found – drowned out by the voices determined to remind me of why I don’t matter and why none of this matters.  I squinch my eyes tightly in an attempt to blot out the thoughts and I rest my forehead on my knees.  I feel just a bit warmer, but I sense it has nothing to do with my huddling techniques.  I look up above the runners’ heads and see that the sun is urgently trying to push through the thick Staten Island cloud cover as if the rays have something to say.  “Good morning,” I say out loud in the same wondrous way I greet God on every early morning run.  “Thank you for reminding me that you are here.”  Perfect.

The perfect 'good morning' in the imperfect sky

The perfect ‘good morning’ in the imperfect sky

Then, it felt like someone hit my brain’s hard reboot, and I see a different world.  I now see beyond myself.  Oh, thank God for His otherworldly greeting from the heavens to remind me of why I do this – why I run.  I run because it’s the only way I know how to put this hard, crazy, sad, incredible, joyous, confusing, beautiful life into perspective.  It’s the only time I really see the world in true, living color and can express my gratitude for being chosen to play even the tiniest role in it.  Out on the road, in the quiet of the morning and from the stillness of my heart, I can accept life as it is presented – wanting nothing more and nothing less than exactly what it is.  So now, sitting here in Athlete’s Village with all its confusion and its chaos and its discomfort, I realize this is all simply a microcosm for life – and what do I do when I cannot make sense of life?  I run.  Perfect.

The cannons rudely announce the start of the 2014 TCS NYC Marathon with ground-shaking booms that instantaneously transport me back to the horrific aftermath of the 2013 Boston Marathon bombings.  But within a few minutes, I’m immersed in the sounds and scenes of the race as I wrestle the gale-force winds on the iconic Verrazano Narrows Bridge, so I focus my energy and my thoughts on the real fighter here – a special 9-year-old girl named Rebekah.  You see, when I was accepted to run with the “Miles for Miracles” team to benefit Boston Children’s Hospital, I had no idea that I was about to fall in love.  Rebekah is my patient partner being treated at Boston Children’s Hospital – a little girl with a half-smile and tiny hands who stole my heart the minute I saw her face.  Hers is the face I see on every tempo run, during every speed workout, and on my long 20-milers.  Her bravery fuels mine because I know that that my struggles – my hardest days – are nothing compared to the ones she faces.  Perfect.

Fueling my strength

Fueling my strength

I’m now seven miles into the race and I still feel anxious – even with Rebekah’s strength fueling me. I’m still struggling to believe that any of this really matters as the wind shakes me like a ragdoll, the cold seizes my lungs, and the other competitors jostle, bump and push me out of the way.  Then, I see Edward up ahead.  I ‘met’ Edward Lychik through Twitter when he was seeking votes for the 2014 Runners World Cover Contest.  He is an Afghan war veteran who lost his leg at the hip and was told he would never run again. I was immediately fascinated with his faith.  What drives a young man of 23 to be so accepting of what most would see as a curse?  What beliefs cause him to strive to become an even stronger version of his former self?   What has gripped his heart and his mind so strongly that he sees himself as one who’s blessed not broken?  Perfect.

I run up next to Edward and breathlessly introduce myself, tell him I’m proud of him and that I know he will finish strong.  I’m pretty sure he has no idea who I am, but he politely says hello and asks me to find him at the finish.  I tell him I will and then I disappear back into the pack to hide from the wind.  As I maneuver through the crowded course, I remember what Edward wrote in his nomination and it makes me run just a bit faster.  He wrote, “I run to challenge the status quo. I run to ignite the hearts of those who are yet to discover their untapped potential.  Losing my leg isn’t a burden, it’s the greatest gift I have ever been given.” I don’t know anything about his faith, but clearly Edward believes in something bigger than himself – that he was chosen to show us all that what is wrong can be made right, that fear can be overcome, and that goodness will always prevail.  Perfect.

As I make the glorious right turn into Central Park for the final two miles, everything is a blur and I feel like I’m running through a sun-drenched fog.  Apparently, my eyes are as tired as the rest of my body.  My optometrist always jests that I have beautiful, yet very imperfect eyes.  This seems quite fitting actually.  You see, there’s nothing perfect about this life, but I guess that’s what makes it all seem so beautiful.  Rebekah has had a lifetime of chronic health issues and is fragile and frail, but to me, she’s the strongest, most fearless child I’ve ever set these imperfect eyes upon.  The doctors told Edward his broken body would never run another step.  But in Edward, I see a spirit that cannot be broken – a faith that proves that there is One who protected and prepared him for this imperfect life.  Perfect.

With virtually nothing left in me, I cross the finish line feeling acutely aware of everyone and everything around me.  I sigh and think, no, nothing about this race was perfect.  But, I guess I’m different than most.  I don’t see beauty in the perfect – the perfect painting, the perfect photograph, the perfect story, the perfect race.  I see beauty in the broken, the messed up, the ragamuffins.  And, I no longer fear my own imperfections or hide my messiness from the world.  In fact, I’m really okay with it because I now know that everything wrong with me is absolutely perfect to God and that’s because a perfect Jesus made the ultimate sacrifice on my imperfect behalf.  Perfect.

If you want to truly see the perfect in the imperfect, please consider a donation to my personal fundraiser here at the Boston Children’s Hospital.

 

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A Long Run Prayer for Rebekah

I look up at the night’s sky and I’m breathless.  While it’s only 42 degrees on this first weekend of October, I feel wrapped in a blanket woven with tiny lights.  The stars seem so close to the Earth and I realize it’s been so long since I’ve experienced this amazing sight.  Today is Sunday and it’s not actually nighttime – it’s 5:20 a.m. but the sun has yet to awaken leaving my suburban neighborhood as dark as midnight.  The vastness of the sky bursting with stars is a stark reminder of the massiveness of the Universe and the smallness of the human race.

I’m one month out from racing the NYC Marathon with “Miles for Miracles” and my Runcoach has me scheduled for 22 miles today.  I know that the only way I am guaranteed to make this happen is to get started before the rest of the world wakes up – before I’m tempted by a hundred other obligations or can find a hundred other excuses not to put in the miles.  The rhythmic motion of my headlamp beam begins to hypnotize me as I run up and out of my neighborhood, and it doesn’t take long before the movie of my mind clicks on and starts streaming.  I’m thrilled that this morning’s special guest is Rebekah.

Rebekah's smile follows me on every run

Rebekah’s smile follows me on every run

Rebekah is my nine-year-old patient partner who has spent her entire young life in and out of the Boston Children’s Hospital – struggling with a number of genetic diseases and disorders that hurt, haunt, and hijack her childhood and her memories.  While I’ve only met Rebekah through her parents via email and Facebook, her spirit shines through in her photos and in the obvious devotion of her mother and father.

Every time I think about Rebekah with her half-smile and her tiny hands, I have to choke back the tears for I know that my struggles – my hardest days – are nothing compared to the ones she faces.  Alone now in the quiet darkness, I start reciting a quote that I read recently from a modern-day poet named Christopher Poindexter:

The problem with love these days is that society has taught the human race to stare at people with their eyes rather than their souls.

Oh, how I wish the human race could look at everyone the way I see this little girl – not with their eyes but with their heart, with their soul, with their hope.  Those standing right in front of us become mirrors of ourselves.  They reflect back to us what Rebekah reflects back to me.  I see her strength, which fuels mine.  I see her playfulness, which revives mine.   I see her fears, which remind me of my own.  Her spirit found its way into my heart moments after seeing her picture and she is one of the primary reasons I’m out here today in the cold and dark attempting a run that will take me more than three hours.  It’s not three hours of the physical that scares me, but three hours of the mental.

It was here, out on the road one year ago, where I was finally tracked down by the Hound of Heaven and wrestled to the ground.  It was here, in the quietness of the day as the sun was finding its way to the horizon, where I finally opened my eyes and ears to see and hear God – the One who’d been running beside me for my whole life.  It was here, between the foothills and the eastern plains on one glorious Thanksgiving run, where I realized that every run was simply an excuse to show my gratitude, my appreciation, and my love for this life – or, as some might say – to pray.

So today, in this moment, I pray for this little lamb.  I thank Rebekah for being my inspiration and giving me perspective.  I ask God to protect her and keep her safe – to wrap her in comfort when she is in pain, to bathe her in joy when she feels like weeping, to cover her in warmth when she is frightened.  While I realize the very small part that I play in her very big and complicated life, I am honored to have these small moments – moments that we can choose to just pass us by or choose to stare at in wonder.  I choose to stop and stare – and I’m so thankful that in this moment I get to stare at a little girl like Rebekah.

If you want to share my little moments with Rebekah, please consider a donation to my personal fundraiser here at the Boston Children’s Hospital.

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To Be Known, Loved, and Wanted As I Really Am

Maybe it’s because I’m running on a cold early-September morning, but my legs feel like lead weights completely incapable of propelling the rest of my body forward.  I’m trying to get into a rhythm when it occurs to me that I’m holding my breath.  I’ve somehow become so lost in replaying the morning’s events that I have forgotten to breathe normally.   My inner dialogue, which is usually harsh and unrelenting, is today quite gentle – reminding me that being a mom isn’t easy and never has been.  So, start letting it all go – exhale with every stride and relax your shoulders.   Inhale slowly.

“I am so tired mommy.  So, so tired. I just can’t go to school!  I can’t. I hate it! I’m too tired.”  He takes a big breath and continues in a flurry.  “It’s so hard.  It’s so stressful.  It’s so tiring.  I’m so exhausted!”  Exhausted.   This last word is now the first word that escapes from my sobbing, shaking son.  This is Jack.  He’s 12 and he’s incredible.  Yes, even at 5:30 a.m. as I stroke his Dutch-boy blonde hair and ask him to take one, big deep breath, he is incredible to me.  He breathes in feebly.  It’s a valiant attempt but still does nothing to quell his sobs.  Jack is my challenge, but he’s the most incredible challenge I’ve ever experienced.

Born Jackson Collins, he is a twin – entering this world 9 minutes earlier than his sister and about 6 years after his big brother.  If you ask Jack, he’ll tell you he’s the middle child, “…dealing with severe middle child trauma.”  But the reality has nothing to do with his birth order – Jack has Asperger Syndrome, which is considered a high functioning form of autism. When he was born until about the age of 18 months, we used to joke in frustration that Jack had two gears – sleeping or screaming.  When he had refused to walk by 20 months, we knew something was wrong with him aside from just being an abnormally colicky, temperamental, sensitive child.

To be fully known and fully loved

To be fully known and fully loved

At around mile two, I decide to stop and retie my shoes thinking that it may offer me just enough time to re-engage and possibly salvage this run.  I’ve often said that running is a great release for me when I have thoughts that need processing and emotions that need compartmentalizing.  But, I’m having trouble this morning with thoughts about Jack bombarding me from all angles.  He struggles.  His whole life has been a struggle and I believe it always will be a struggle – but I am thankful that God provided him with some astounding coping skills.  He’s overcome debilitating social anxiety, manages his obsessive compulsive behavior in the most mysterious ways, and has even nurtured some long-term, close friends.  He’s finally learned how to acknowledge others’ feelings and to even show empathy – with what I believe may even be real emotion.

When I have quiet moments to think only about Jack and his life, my tears flow readily.  I think this is why I was so drawn in by Brennan Manning’s parable, “Patched Together:  A Story of My Story.”  The main character is a little boy named Willie Juan, a lonely boy who finds belonging in the eyes of the mysterious “Man of Sorrows.”  Willie Juan is different – physically and emotionally – and these differences cause him to question who he is and why he exists.  Much like Willie Juan, Jack may not know why he feels and reacts the way he does, but he does understand that he feels and reacts differently than other people.  He is just different.

I’m thinking about how Willie Juan falls into a deep sleep in this grandmother’s arms as she’s tenderly comforting him and retelling him the story of how he came into this world. Deep in thought, I realize that I’m on mile five already.  My run feels much warmer and the wind has calmed down.  I breathe in and notice I’m much more relaxed, probably because the movie of my mind is replaying all the things that make Jack so incredible – his intelligence, quick wit, musical talent, his memory, and his ability to recall even the most minute details about a moment or event.  Oh, yes, and he is unedited.  You see, Aspie kids don’t often employ a filter – they say exactly what they think, whenever they want and wherever they are.  Some days it’s refreshing and funny.  Some days it’s simply embarrassing.  And then there are days when his words just take your breath away.  One night as I was putting the twins to bed and closing their bedroom door, Jack called out, “Mommy, you know what?  I’m pretty sure if you weren’t my mom, I’d be dead by now.”  This stopped my beating heart, but I never forgot his words.  In his “Aspie-Jack” way, he was telling me he loved me and that he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I loved him.

The tiny baby who writhed in pain when I held him, rejected my touch when he was a toddler, and stood stiff as a board when I hugged him, now proclaims that he loves me before I even have a chance to tell him first and squeezes me tightly with every hug.  So when I started reading the story of Willie Juan, I was devastated thinking that Jack suffered in the same way – being different and uncertain and alone.  Then, as I read on to see how Willie Juan experiences the incredible, one-way love of the “Man of Sorrows” and transforms into a boy who is capable of not only loving others, but of also loving himself, I was wrecked.  Willie Juan is saved because he is fully known and fully loved as he really is.  And, I believe that this is what saves Jack.  How strange that my eyes weren’t open to any of this until a friend gave me Manning’s innocent little tale about a fictional boy and his life’s journey with Abba?  I’m thinking, you know, it isn’t so strange after all.

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Running on Heart, Saved by Grace

The changing of the seasons is chasing me down this morning as I breathe in the cool air and run my first mile in near darkness.  It’s so quiet and still in the neighborhood, and I can actually hear my breathing over my music and my footfalls.  My heavy breathing disturbs the peace and reminds me that I’m starting out too fast, but I know why.  I am energized by gratitude – blessed that by the grace of God I’m running outside watching the sun rise another day, for yesterday was a stark reminder of how quickly life can change.

Yesterday was a huge day for my friend Tim, who at age 47, was running his first marathon in 20 years.  But this was not just any marathon, this was a Boston Qualifier.  If he finished within a certain time, this would be his ticket to race in the world-famous Boston Marathon.  Tim was bound and determined to cross this item off his bucket list and I was bound and determined to watch him do it.  One of the things I love about Tim is his spirit, his heart.  When he asked if I thought he was prepared for this all-downhill race that started at 10,000 feet above sea level in the Colorado Rockies and finished at 5,000 feet, I said I knew he was – well, actually, I knew he was prepared to race his heart out no matter what his body had to say about it.

As I let gravity pull me down the first hill on my Titan Road run, I remember my Runcoach advising me not to run this race with Tim because there was not enough time left to properly train for this type of rigorous downhill race.  “A course like that will chew up your quads, Callie.  You cannot run this race the same way you run NYC or Boston – and we need you to be injury-free for those two.” So, I heeded his advice and broke the news to Tim.  “But, I will be at the finish line for sure and I will cheer for you along the course – wherever I can.  No matter what happens, I’ll be there.”  As I walked a quarter mile past the finish line, I watched and cheered and yelled for the runners coming in who were only minutes away from celebrating their victory.  I kept checking my watch – knowing that if Tim was on BQ pace, he would be crossing the finish line around 9:25.  But, 9:25 passed.  Then, 9:30, then around 9:45 I saw him in the distance.

“Go Tim, you got this!” I screamed with all my lung capacity.  I knew, and I could tell by his expression that he knew, he hadn’t qualified.  It didn’t matter, though, because I was so thrilled that his pain would soon be behind him and that we was not sick or hurt, which was my fear during the 20 minutes off-pace that I waited and wondered and worried.  I ran the last 200 yards with him and met him at the finishing corral.  As soon as I saw him, I knew something was wrong.  He was unable to hold himself up, he was disoriented, and he was complaining about bright flashes of light before his eyes.  After 30 minutes of fluids, an attempt to feed him a banana, and icing his quads, his condition hadn’t changed – at least in my unprofessional medical opinion.

Someone was watching over him.

Someone was watching over him.

“I’m just going to head home, Callie.  I just really need to sleep – like for a few days,” he said weakly.  In my world, there is always the fine line between being an annoying, overly-mothering friend and one that has a sixth sense.  But, regardless, there was no way I was going to let him drive home – at least not now.  “Hey, let’s head over to the med tent and see if they can give you anything to replenish your electrolytes.  Or maybe we can get you some salt tabs,” I said even though I was pretty sure his condition would require much more than a little Gatorade.  All he kept saying over and over was that he was sorry.  He felt bad that I was wasting so much of my Sunday when he knew how busy I was.  My broken friend had no idea that this broken friend was going nowhere, was thinking about nothing else but helping him.  Not one thing.  At that moment, he was all I saw, or heard, or thought about.

It’s weird when you are faced with those moments – when you see things so clearly in situations where you might otherwise falter.  It’s like the path you’re supposed to follow is illuminated with bright lights and breadcrumbs – and you just feel guided from above.  The ethereal path took us directly to the medical tent where a seat was waiting for Tim.  After a series of questions about his medical history, his current symptoms, blood pressure tests, pulse readings, and Gatorade, the paramedics were ready to release him.  But when Tim stood up, the flashing lights covered his eyes and he was unable to stay vertical.  Electrical leads were attached to his chest and the EKG printed a pattern of waves that raised eyebrows.  Immediately, the head paramedic looked at me and said.  “Something is not right here.  I don’t feel good about this at all.  He needs to go to the hospital and I’m going to take him.”  Within two minutes, Tim was loaded into the ambulance, the doors closed in my face, and I was left wondering if I would ever see my friend alive again.

The sequence of events is replaying in my mind as I push myself up the second big hill on Titan Road.  I look to the East and I feel the tears rising up as I thank God, who today is hiding behind a glowing, cumulus cloud.  “Thank you, thank you for guiding me.  You were there the whole time.  You have no idea how thankful I am that Tim is going to be okay.”  If I know Tim, he said the same prayer dozens of times yesterday.  You see, Tim is one of the only friends I know who will admit to being a ragamuffin – a messy, broken, imperfect version of the man who was made in the image of God.

I heard this recently and know it to be true in my life:  “One of the greatest ways to see the glory of God’s grace is by being friends with people who know how much they need it.”  

Minutes after the ambulance sped away, I collected Tim’s things, jumped in my car and found my way to the hospital knowing nothing about his condition other than that he was en route to the emergency room with a crash cart at arm’s reach.  Driving alone, I felt so small and yet so acutely aware of how much I need this relationship with God.  Through Jesus, I am now able to relinquish control of that which I cannot control and accept grace that I don’t deserve and haven’t earned.

Like a scene straight from the movies, I burst into Tim’s intensive care room hoping I’d made it in time and that I wouldn’t hear the dramatic steady buzz of the flat-lining heart monitor.  “Hey, look who it is.  It’s Elaine!  Did you stop for a box of Jujyfruits on the way?”  Oh how I smiled – bigger and brighter than anyone has the right to.  Tim was in stable condition surrounded by heart specialists who knew how to fix him.  God was good.  My new-found faith had never wavered.  What a blessing this day had been, I thought as I stood watching Tim’s heart miraculously pumping on the ultrasound.  Yes, indeed we are all ragamuffins in need of God’s grace.  No matter how hard we train, or work, or strive, we will never be prepared for life without grace.  If you believe, it really is all downhill from here.

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The Teddy Bear, the Unbeliever, and the Holy Spirit

McKenna kisses the fabric heart and whispers, “I know this bear will help you heal. We all just need a little love.” Then, she tucks the heart into the stuffing of the teddy bear’s body and looks at me with hope.  I smile at my 12-year old daughter and think, “She’s praying and she doesn’t even really know what it means to pray.” This is the scene that hijacks my memory as I stare at the handcrafted bear sitting on the kitchen table this Tuesday morning – “speed day” according to my Runcoach training schedule.  My cyber-trainer has assigned me seven total miles –a two-mile warm up, ten strides, eight 400s, followed by a two-mile cool down.  I’ve never been a fast runner and with every passing year, getting faster seems more futile and more painful. Yes, Tuesday is the one day I dread.

Delaying the physical suffering as long as possible, I slowly drink my second cup of coffee and tie my laces yet again.  I glance over at the teddy bear with the golden fur.  It’s simply adorable.  I hold the bear close to my face, breathe deeply, set it down carefully, and head out the front door with my music on my arm and my thoughts streaming through my head.  I’m supposed to jog the first two miles, so I try to maintain the pace as I make my way to the fitness center where the treadmill awaits. It’s cloudy today, but I sense the sun straining to come out and greet me the way it does on most Colorado mornings.  I find myself already praying that the prism-like rays will break through and shine down upon the earth so the aloneness I feel will fade in His comforting presence.

An old pattern book, some fur, and a whole heart full of love.

An old pattern book, some fur, and a whole heart full of love.

As I run, my mind drifts back to McKenna and her devotion to the bears.  Why did she want so badly to learn how to make the bears?  Last summer, she heard me telling a friend about how I began making the teddy bears in my 20s when my Nana passed away and left me with a hole in my heart and a 45-pound cast iron Singer sewing machine.  After weeks of darkness and asking, “What in the world am I going to do now?” I just started sewing – anything and everything.  Then, I found an old teddy bear pattern book and knew what I was going to do next.  Bear-making became my outlet – helping me heal from my loss and providing great comfort to many who were sick and suffering.

The whirring of the treadmill belt reminds me of the rhythm of the Singer and how quickly McKenna learned to maneuver the fickle machine.  Even in the most frustrating moments, when the bobbin jams or the thread tangles, McKenna remains determined and enthusiastic.  “We just have to treat the machine with care, Mommy, because the bears wouldn’t have the healing power without Nana’s sewing machine.”  It amazes me that she believes that the spirit of my Nana is with us.  She could be hanging out with her girlfriends, but instead she spends hours attentively crafting the bears.  “McKenna, why do you toil over the bears, primp them, kiss them, and then joyfully give them away?”  With a little hesitation she says, “I don’t really know.  I just like that I’m doing something for someone else and then I imagine them smiling and feeling good because of it.”

I envision McKenna’s little hands working the sewing machine as I slow to a jog after my second quarter-mile repeat.  McKenna believes in something bigger than herself, yet she is considered an unbeliever in the Christian faith.  She is an unbaptized child.  She doesn’t really know God.  She hasn’t heard preachers talk about the things we must do to please God.  She has no knowledge about God’s scorekeeping or those who believe we must be perfect in the eyes of the Lord.  She doesn’t understand grace.  So what compels her to act with such selflessness and compassion?

As a new Christian, I spend a lot of time and a lot of running miles trying to make sense of my relationship with God and what Jesus has done on our behalf.  I read and reflect – and then try to see God’s love and power in the most ordinary moments and common everyday events.  So today, when I look back upon my relationship with my Nana, who taught me how to sew, and to forgive, and to find joy in the simplest things, I feel His love.  She loved me unconditionally – no strings attached.  She received God’s grace and in turn, she bestowed it upon others – wholly and generously.  With my new perspective, I can now see how God works through us and others.  My Nana was truly the human embodiment of God’s love.  And it is glorious to see this same spirit in my daughter.

I’m determined to finish the last interval faster than the first.  I feel unusually strong as I think about God’s grace.   When we first started making the Healing Bears, I didn’t know God myself.  As I run home today, I realize how far I’ve come on my journey of faith.  It’s incredible to see how God is working within and through my little McKenna as she sews love and care into each bear – with only the hope that it will transcend into the heart of the recipient.

She may not yet know God, but I am certain He knows her. “We love because He first loved us.” From the Bible, I believe this is true more than anything else.  And, oh how beautiful it is that everyone who knows McKenna or receives her teddy bears will feel that love – a love that has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with God and the Holy Spirit.

[If you know anyone who could benefit from the love and compassion that goes into making these Healing Bears, please send me a comment below.]

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This Mess

The howling wind through my open window found its way into my dreams this morning.  I awoke with the harsh realization that what I thought were crashing waves on a Tahitian beach was merely an obnoxious vortex of fast moving air – the kind of wind we encounter all too often here in my Roxborough neighborhood.  I open one eye and look at the clock with the hopes that it’s still the middle of the night, but the clock reads 4:59 a.m.  I have one minute left before my alarm bells cheerfully and incessantly ring to remind me that “It is time to run.”

I grab my phone and check my email.  I open the one from Runcoach while the blissful beach dream quickly fades from my memory.  I’m actually satisfied with what my cybercoach has prepared for me on this Thursday.  Today, I will run a long, slow run which will be nice considering that this wind will surely push me around a bit.   As I stand on my driveway cueing my music and setting my Runcoach app, I am saddened by the mess the wind has made.  There is trash whirling around the cul-de-sac – paper that has been deposited in bushes, cardboard boxes that are pinned against my fence, and aluminum cans that are rolling into the storm drain.  It’s a mess.  Then, I look at the house across the street and remember that sad mess while the memories of Galina come rushing at me like the fast-food wrappers flying past my ankles.

The house across the street is no longer occupied by Galina and her husband.  They moved out a month ago without even so much as a wave.  At first, I was hurt, but it only took me a few moments of self-reflection to remember their devastation and why they had to move.  You see, in October, their son who was also my son’s friend, was found dead in his dorm room.  He had decided that this life was too hard to bear.  In a breath, his parents, my neighbors who I hardly knew, had to try to make sense of the senseless.  My heart ached for them – I was wrecked and undone and the crazy part was that I didn’t even know them.  But, I know me.  And, because I know me, I think I know most humans – we are all pretty much wired the same way.  If we are all honest with ourselves, we are all a mess.

As I run out of the neighborhood, I think about the messiness of life and watch the wind flex its muscles – gates blown open, potted plants tipped over, and patio furniture uprooted.   I recall how, even while navigating my own messy life, I thought I could help Galina. At first, I didn’t think I did anything to help her except impose my mess on her.  On many separate occasions, I visited with a card, a teddy bear, cookies, and then a book.  I said virtually nothing every time – uttering “I’m sorry…I wish…I hope…please let me know…”  And every time the tears would flow.  As I would step off her doorstep, I would chastise myself.  “You are incapable of being a support, a rock, a shoulder to lean on.  You are a mess.  How can you help anyone?”

Around mile three, I’m trying to shift my thoughts about Galina and my failure to help her.  It’s then that a song comes on that hasn’t hit my playlist in months.  It’s called “Mess” by Ben Folds Five.  The irony is too hard to comprehend as I remember how symbolic this song was for me just prior to and during my divorce.   I played this song over and over as I drove to and from the courthouse filing documents and statements – each time hoping that maybe I would hear something  new in the words.  Back then, I didn’t believe in God, but I think I believed in something – I needed something.  Sadly, this was the evangelism I heard in the vocals of Ben Folds Five:

“And I don’t believe in God
So I can’t be saved
All alone as I’ve learned to be
In this mess I have made.

But I don’t believe in love
And I can’t be changed
All alone as I’ve learned to be
In this mess
I have made… the same mistakes
Over and over again.”

 

"Mess"

“Mess”

At the time, I thought my life was falling apart.  I was certain nothing could save me.  I had no faith. I had no hope.  I had no loving God to turn to.  I could not be saved.  It was the most desperate I’d ever felt.  But, after my divorce, I played the “brave soldier.”  I was the perfect, pulled together single-mom-of-three.  I had it together.  Thank God no one knew what a mess I was underneath.  Yes, I had fooled them all, but I was exhausted.

Around mile five of my windy run, the filmstrip of my mind focuses on that day I was standing in Galina’s threshold asking her if she’d like to take a walk with me. “We don’t have to talk.  We can just walk.  Just get out in the fresh air.” I’ll never forget what she said in her Eastern European accent, “I’m a mess. I cannot even leave the house without medication.  I don’t think I’m ready to go for a walk.” Oddly, I felt validated.  She wasn’t the only one that was a mess – but she had no problem admitting it.  It endeared me to her even more.  Her admission of being a mess allowed me to feel okay with my mess.  I felt like her honesty allowed me to be honest.  We finally had a bond.  Our bond was our mess.

I ran into Galina at the grocery store a month before she moved out of the neighborhood.  This was the first time she’d actually approached me.  She was smiling.  She was walking with her head up.  “Callie, I wanted to tell you that I read the book you gave me from the pastor.  I didn’t think it would help me but I read it anyway.  And now, I cannot stop reading.  I read everything I can.  And, you know what?  I feel better.  Every day, I feel a little better.”  I couldn’t utter a word.  I just let the tears flow.  That day, Galina saved me “from this mess I have made.”  Hers will always be the voice I hear when I hide my messiness from the world.   Our story is living proof that we are so much more lovable when we admit that we are broken – when we can embrace our mess and find peace in the imperfect.

 

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Last Rites and Hill Repeats

It’s Friday.  Friday is supposed to be my rest day from running and training.  It’s supposed to be the day I sleep a little longer and spend a bit more time with my coffee and my laptop before the kids wake up and chaos ensues.  But today, I wake up at 5:03 a.m. and think, “I really don’t want to take today off.  I feel like running.”  I just want to go.  Move. Think.  Pray.  So, I head out with no particular route in mind – simply thankful that it’s Friday, that the kids are happy, that the sun is yawning awake, and that God has granted me the opportunity to do this one more day.

I run up and out of the neighborhood and find myself across the street heading toward the little community park.  While I’m not sure exactly why, I detour from the main path and stride up the steep hill toward the playground.  As I’m running up the hill, a flood of memories hit me so hard I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me.  This was the same hill that I walked up every day for at least four years pushing a double jogging stroller – and I remember that every day, the hill seemed to get steeper as the two little passengers, my boy/girl twins, began to grow up.

When I crest the top of the steep incline, I’m out of breath, walking the last few feet thinking about the twins – McKenna and Jack.  These two decided to come into the world in 2002 with a flourish – six weeks early with their own agenda about who is in charge and who will prove to be the weakest of the three of us.  It took me only a few moments to realize that, indeed, I was the weaker.  Then, it took me only a few more days to realize that these two bundles of joy might possibly be the death of me.  In fact, four days after their birth and four days as their vigilant watchman in the neonatal ICU, I was admitted to the hospital with streptococcus pneumonia.

I was now quarantined from my babies even though they were only two floors below me.  I was quarantined from anyone with a weakened immune system, but quite frankly, most people quarantined themselves from me.  I was grossly sick – from how I looked to how I sounded.  My lungs were only working at about 50 percent capacity because they were filled with fluid from the bacteria and I had sepsis which literally caused my skin to boil.  On the first night, in my semi-lucid state, I remember waking up to “Touched by an Angel” on the TV with a nurse by my bedside helping rouse me awake so he could administer a breathing treatment.  The coughing fits that ensued after these treatments were so violent that an injection of some narcotic was always required.  But, the breathing treatments helped me feel like I was finally pushing myself up to the surface after a long dive underwater.  After a few minutes, I would finally feel relief from what I called ‘bubble-breathing.’

Sometimes when life gets really burdensome, I still think about bubble-breathing – it seems like a fitting way to describe the effort and strain of something that’s supposed to be so natural.

Now as I’m running back down the steep hill with full, healthy lungs and a grateful heart, the words of the doctor come back to me. He said, “You are a very sick girl.  You will get better, but you will not walk without discomfort for a year and you may never run again. The lung scarring from this type of disease will take its toll.”  The only thing I heard during that short conversation with the doctor was, “You will get better.”  I didn’t hear anything after that because at that time, in my twilight daze, my focus was to simply survive – the rest would be a bonus.  Yes, a bonus I think as I’m running so fast down the hill that little giggles are squeaking out from the rush of speed and the thoughts that my out-of-control spinning legs may not actually keep me upright.

Where the hill took us.

Where the hill took us.

At the bottom of the hill, I’m readying myself to head back up – as fast as I can.  I’ve cued my music to play “Hey Now,” by Above and Beyond (London Grammar remix), on repeat so that the ‘drop’ occurs just as I’ve hit the top of the hill and the manufactured sound of the going-crazy-crowd cheers for me as I fly back down.  As I’m pushing myself back up the hill, I recall one more thing that happened during my lengthy stay at Littleton Adventist Hospital.  On my second day, I remember waking up to an unfamiliar voice telling me that he’s here to read me my Last Rites.  With my limited Catholic school education – which succeeded in showing me only how much of a disappointment I was to God – and my drug-induced semi-consciousness, all I could think was that this priest was here to prepare me for my death – God’s final plan for the girl who was of no value to Him.

Eased by high doses of intravenous antibiotics and Dilaudid, with pure oxygen flowing through a tube into my nose, I tried to focus on the foggy image leaning up against the window sill.  I may never know exactly what I said to the priest that day, but this is what I remember – even if it was pure delirium.  “Please go away and leave me.  I’m scared.  And you’re scaring me more.  If God wants me to die, I will die without his prayers.”  As I drifted back to sleep, I was certain that what happened to me from that point on would simply be up to fate.  Then, I dreamed about Heaven and angels and God.  When I was gently awoken for my 2 a.m. breathing treatment, “Touched by an Angel” was again on the TV.  Strangely, like last time, I had no idea where the TV remote was nor was I in any condition to try to use one.  I honestly didn’t know how the TV even got turned on.

I’m on my sixth hill repeat, and while my body is weakening, the images in my mind are strong.  Although I am working hard, this hill doesn’t seem nearly as steep and as hard as it was ten years ago.  Sure, I’m not pushing a baby jogger with two toddlers, but it’s something else.  I feel lighter – in my heart.  You see, I recovered from the pneumonia and I did get better.  I was discharged from the hospital after eight days, picked up my babies from the NICU and settled into a new routine with two infants and a 6-year-old.  It took me six weeks to walk a mile without getting out of breath and light-headed, and a year to run up this same hill.  But, each day I ran up that hill with the playground as our destination, I thought about how ‘lucky’ I was to be here.  Maybe I wasn’t exactly thinking about God in those moments, but I’m pretty sure he was thinking about me.  Unfortunately, it took me the next ten years to believe I was really worth anything in the eyes of God.

 “I gave in, and admitted that God was God.” (Author C.S. Lewis)

Today is a different story, I think as the breeze blows the tall, feathery grasses along the path.  I know what’s in my heart.  Then and now, I have been protected by a loving God.  And, doing these hill repeats creates profound perspective from which I can look back on the journey and see things with new eyes.  My softened heart and my renewed faith give me such relief as I finish the last hill.  With the drumming beat of “Hey Now” motivating my tired legs and the bright sunshine washing over my cheeks, I slowly head back home thinking about the chaotic and crazy day that’s ahead – but I’m at peace, feeling so blessed and thankful that it is.

 

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The Ragamuffin Runner

I’ve got a new running coach these days.  Now, instead of paying homage to a tattered and highlighted paper schedule hanging dutifully on my refrigerator, I’ve progressed into the twenty-first century with a cyber-coach.  “Good morning Runcoach,” I say as I open the email with today’s training plan. “What have you got for me today?”  Technically, this is my off season which sounds funny even to me since I’m not a professional runner.  For this amateur, the off season consists of the days that fall between my last marathon and the 18-weeks prior to the next one.  Essentially, it’s the time before the ‘serious’ marathon training begins.

Today’s schedule calls for a ‘Maintenance Run’ – three miles, very moderate pace.  With my new coach, I am determined to stick to the plan.  I say this every day.  And every day, I fail.  Why? Because I’m a mess.  I’m a runner who runs to clean herself up.  I run to organize all the things that are so pathetically unorganized in my life.  I run to quiet the voices.  I run to try to gain perspective by watching the sunrise again and again – and to see it with new eyes every time.  And I run to pray for it all.  So you see, running only three miles will never give me enough time to clean things up.  Not this ragamuffin.  Never.

After the first mile that feels like I’m sailing into the sunrise, the computerized voice of Runcoach interrupts the music flowing through my headphones to remind me that I’m not ‘sticking to the plan.’  I huff slightly.  Of course I’m not sticking to the plan, I’m a ragamuffin runner.  A ragamuffin like me cannot easily follow a plan or stay the course or be organized.  I am patched together, mismatched, and beat up.  But, as I turn the corner onto the first descent toward the mountains, the sweetest face appears in my mind’s eye and completely changes the entire tenor of my run.  Holding me close, it’s my Nana who used to call me her ragamuffin girl – dirty and sweaty and disheveled after playing outside in the summer heat for hours.

I was her ragamuffin girl

I was her ragamuffin girl

I loved when my Nana called me a ragamuffin because I knew exactly what it meant.  It meant that she saw me as a mess, but loved me just as much anyway.  I didn’t have to be perfect and clean and tidy for her to hold my face in her hands and kiss my forehead.  Oh, how wonderful it felt to be a ragamuffin back then.  Understanding now that nothing is a coincidence, a few months ago I stumbled across the word ragamuffin again in the title of a book by Brennan Manning. “The Ragamuffin Gospel” was recommended to me as a must-read, and when I first heard the name I was immediately transported back into my grandmother’s arms as a tired and sweaty mess of a girl.

A tired and sweaty mess of a girl, eh?  Things really haven’t changed much, I think as the Runcoach cyber-voice again lets me know that I need to ‘stick to the plan.’  I have such a clear head now as I stride up the last hill to my half-way-home mark.  I think about the book and how Manning shares the true meaning of God’s grace – grace that’s been lost under a massive pile of Christian to-do lists and overshadowed by a common belief that we must continually please God with our clean, spotless, shiny good works.  I remember this from Catholic High School and it all seemed so legit back then.  But the years have tarnished me.  Right now, I know that I am honestly and truly incapable of being perfect – doing all the right things, saying all the right things, being all the right things.

Exhausted and defeated, I finally had to admit that I am a mess.  But thankfully, my new-found relationship with God at that same time opened my eyes to something I’d never known or felt before.  It was the stunning discovery that God gives us his grace willingly, no questions asked, no score-keeping required.  I can do nothing to earn it and have done nothing to deserve it.  Like Manning, I’m “burnt-out, bedraggled, and beat-up” and now I’m finally feeling okay with that.  In fact, I was drawn in to read the “Ragamuffin Gospel” because of Manning’s powerful opening introduction.  “This book is for the wobbly and weak-kneed who know they don’t have it all together and are too proud to accept the handout of amazing grace.  It is for the inconsistent, unsteady disciples whose cheese is falling off their cracker.  It is for the sorely burdened who are still shifting the heavy suitcase from one hand to the other.”  I breathed a sigh of relief after page 13 and whispered ‘thank you’ after every page that followed.

The last mile feels effortless as I think about my Nana again.  She was truly the human embodiment of God’s grace – the horizontal, feet-on-the-ground representation of how God loves.  When I was her ragamuffin girl, she held my filthy face in her hands and saw a perfect child.  She kissed me and smiled.  I was her beautiful mess.  My relationship with this amazing woman is the closest I can come to describing our relationship with God.  If we can truly believe in God’s amazing grace, we can live a lighter life knowing that we are not required to be neat and tidy and ‘stick to the plan.’  We can veer off course, we can stumble, we can run the wrong way, or too fast or too far.  We can be patched-together ragamuffins and still sit at God’s feet knowing that we were chosen.  We can run to Him now and we will always be His – simply perfect even in our biggest mess.

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