Poetry in Motion

Posted on May 31, 2014 by Callie Skokos

I’m lacing up my running shoes and finishing the last sip of my coffee when I give my Twitter account one more glance before I start to close the lid on my laptop.  But, then something catches my eye and I stop to read a common headline that is scrolling in from different people by the minute.  “Maya Angelou, writer and poet, dies at age 86.”  As if we’re old acquaintances, I pause and take a deep breath – thinking about how we met and how she influenced me without her even knowing the impact.

A heart can be found in this poetry book I wrote for my Nana in 1987.

A heart can be found in this poetry book I wrote for my Nana in 1987.

Maya Angelou and I met in college.  It was in Poetry 101.  I met her through the eyes of my wonderfully-eccentric professor who, I’m quite sure, idolized Angelou for her strength and raw authenticity.  At the time, I had not yet developed a genuine appreciation for Maya Angelou – still so enamored with beatnik poet Jack Kérouac. But, I had yet to take a real poetry course and was naive to the self-awareness journey I was about to embark upon.  My professor, however, was excited to share what she already knew – that Angelou was a fearless warrior for equality and peace.  Her gift, buried within her angst, was the rare ability to express her message of renewal and hope in rhythm and prose.

As I select my music playlist and take my first steps down the driveway and into the dawning day, I recall how Maya Angelou and my poetry professor helped me see the world in a different way.  As I run, I am reminded of the new perspective I gained as a college freshman – it’s poetry in motion of sorts.  Like writing poetry, sometimes when I’m on the road, it really does feel as if God spreads out His canvas in front of me and together we paint it into life with each footfall.  I remember how hard the first year of school was for me and how lost I felt in an endless sea of people.  But, when I received my poetry assignment each week, it was as if I saw everything with more intensity – as if I had gained a supernatural ability to see through the cacophony of life and focus in on details that were brighter, more vibrant, and beautifully magnified.

There is warm breeze this morning as I head up my first hill and look to the East where the sun is merely an orange glow along the horizon reaching up ever-so-slowly to kiss the low-lying cloud cover.  I had forgotten most of Maya Angelou’s words from college, but this quote shared by one of my Twitter followers reminded me of how the Hound of Heaven tracked me down on my Thanksgiving run less than eight months ago.

“Listen to yourself and in that quietude you might hear the voice of God.”

Yes, in the quiet of the run, I do pray.  And, on that peaceful Thanksgiving morning I finally heard the voice of God.  He had never left me – even though I was sure I didn’t deserve Him and ran to escape the pain of being unwanted.  I think back on what God looked like to me when I was so in love with the idea of being a Catholic.  Then, I remember one specific poetry assignment that allowed me to dig deep into my heart and use imagery to explain what I saw there.  This was what I wrote after sitting near the lake on the Rutgers Campus one early spring afternoon in 1986.

The Innocent Sinner

Up the marble steps
Through the massive doors
The boy enters
With apprehension.

He is alone and inside
The smell stifles him.
It is musty like the attic.
Looking up, he shivers.

Glass, blood, death, suffering.
His knees are weak as he creeps
Farther into the darkness
Is this his punishment?
Is this the journey to Hell?

A dead man hangs
There is no escape.
He slips into complete isolation
He is trapped
Within four walls of guilt.
And then a voice
“Bless me Father for I have sinned.”

I wrote this poem at a time when I believed that being a Catholic and following all the rules and doing all the good works would bring me closer to a loving God.  But, the poem reveals that – deep down – I knew I could never be good enough.  I would always be a sinner who could never earn the grace of God on my own.  It was a revelation for me that, sadly, was the beginning of the end – the realization that religion was not for the girl who was unable to feel the love of God.

But, buried in the poem was a self-awareness that would serve me well in the long journey ahead.  I never stopped looking – looking for something that would free me from the bondage of this oh-so hopeless world and help me find peace.  Living life through the eyes of a poet was the gift I needed to soften my heart and open my mind to a new understanding of Christianity – believing that God loves me by grace alone through faith alone.  He does not love because of my works; He loves because of His love.  All because Christ died for us and took away our sins so we could be perfect in the eyes of the Lord. Thanks to the poetry of Maya Angelou I now understand the poetry of the Gospel.

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Commencement Speech for One

Posted on May 19, 2014 by Callie Skokos

Getting started this morning is oddly comforting as I slowly click up the speed on the treadmill.  It’s the second week of May, but an unexpected weather pattern released a blanket of snow across Littleton and welcomed us with about six inches of wet, slushy snow.   Instead of running outside admiring God’s handiwork, today I’m inside staring at the gym wall.  But, running today is an absolute necessity – the kind of day that, for me, calls for a bit of extra headspace and reflection.  You see, today is Keegan’s last day of high school.  It is a milestone for both of us.  But mostly, right now, it means that it is the last morning that I will ever make breakfast for him and hug him goodbye before he heads off for school.

These are the moments where I say, “Where did the time go?”  But, I do know where the time goes and I have no control over it.  When Keegan was born, I promised myself that I wouldn’t forget anything.  I swore that I would be absolutely present in every day.  I would never wish the days away and I would welcome the difficulties as part of this beautiful new experience.  After the second week of motherhood, however, I realized that I was a ridiculously imperfect mother.  I not only wished the days away, but I cursed my new life.  I was beside myself thinking that I was a first-rate parental failure.

Keegan, thank you for living a real life and inviting me in.

Keegan, thank you for living a real life and inviting me in.

Then, after a long night of rocking him to sleep and finally placing him back in his crib, it hit me.  Baby Keegan did not expect perfection from me.  His eyes told me that his only need was my unconditional love.  His only expectation was to see my face when he cried, to hear my voice when he felt alone, and to feel my touch when he was afraid.  So, I decided to just do what came naturally.  I just loved him.  It was simple.  It was just a matter of giving him what I already had – my heart.  Baby Keegan knew no perfection.  He would take only what I was capable of giving him. Oh how freeing it was to know that I could just be myself and that’s all he expected and needed.

Just be myself – be real.  It was an incredible concept – a very simple, yet very foreign concept to this over-achieving stressed out 29-year old new mom.  And, it was a lesson from a one-month old baby that I will never forget.  This moment of quiet peace marked the beginning of an 18-year course in humanity with Keegan as my devoted instructor.  It’s strange how the human mind works.  You see, before I started running today, my plan was to write Keegan a letter for graduation.  It was to be a commencement speech of sorts where I would provide him with some gold nuggets of wisdom that I’ve collected over my 46 years.  But when my mind started in motion with the whirring of the treadmill belt, I realized that anything I could possibly share in the form of worldly advice he’s already experienced – because it was the result of him.  His existence and his love formed the moments that shaped us both.

The pictures in my mind are flying by with every minute that ticks off on the LCD screen and I feel myself falling deeper into the recesses of my memory.  As the miles fly by beneath me, I’m unearthing life lessons and precious moments that I’ve almost completely forgotten.  These are the moments that Anna Quindlen shares in her book, “A Short Guide to a Happy Life.”

“Life is made of moments, small pieces of glittering mica in a long stretch of gray cement…”

These are the moments that matter – the ones you reflect on when you think that nothing in your life has added up to anything or that you’ve never made any type of real contribution.  They do add up.  They do matter.  They are the moments that give you peace when you’re still so alone in a room full of people.  In fact, those moments are all we really have. And they are moments that no one can ever take away.  I learned all this from living a real life with Keegan.  As mother and son, we live a life where we are given permission to be ourselves.  To share how amazing it feels when we get to take a long run and watch God’s world awaken or when we land a three-sixty into two feet of fresh powder on a brand new ‘epic’ snowboard.  Like Anna Quidlen, I believe we all need to experience a real life.  A real life with real emotion and real fears – and share that life with others. It’s taken me up to this point to really get it, but I think I finally do.

Without Keegan in my life, I doubt I would see life with so much clarity or live it with so much passion.  He is a blessing.  And today I can say that I fully and wholly love and thank God for bringing me this blessing.  I can remember so vividly one day in the fall of 2007.  I was in the midst of my divorce and as I was driving home from work, I realized that all the leaves had fallen from the trees – they were bare and the sky was grey and it was cold.  I remember feeling so sad.  How could I have completely missed the changing of the season and the beautiful leaves as they transformed from green to red to gold?  How had I had been so absent from this life that I missed this incredible gift from God?  When did I become a cardboard cutout of a person?

The day I told Keegan about this moment is etched in my memory.  As I increase the incline on the treadmill, my mind goes back to the day we were driving in the car and passed by the spot where I realized that fall had come and gone without my notice.  I told him the story.  He didn’t say much at the time, but every autumn since that day, he has subtly pointed out the changing of the leaves and how much he loves Colorado in the fall.   By just being himself, Keegan has taught me more beautiful life lessons than anyone else alive – and has helped me see grace manifested in him and in so many others.

Truthfully, I have no advice for Keegan – only this.  Thank you for being you.  Thank you for giving me permission to be me.  Thank you for showing me the real meaning of unconditional love – for that is what makes me free to love and help others.  Thank you for allowing me to be an imperfect mom – the mom who is terrible with math homework, whose house is not always organized and neat, whose laugh can be a little loud, or whose tears can flow without warning.  Thank you for living a real life and inviting me in.  For being present.  For crafting a spirit.  Without you, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.  And that’s a pretty amazing legacy for a kid just graduating high school.

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The Faces of Blessed Boston

Posted on May 2, 2014 by Callie Skokos

I can feel my heart beating out of my chest and I’m quite sure my silent giggle won’t remain inside me for long.  Oh, this must be the best life ever.  I am giddy as I feel the gentle sea-level sunshine on my face and walk quickly among hundreds down Grove Street in the small Hopkinton neighborhood.  We are all on our way to find our starting wave and corral.   This is the seventh year I’ve been privileged to run this historic race and every year this same walk to the start is one of the most memorable parts of the race.  It’s the faces of the spectators and the children and the police and the volunteers that transform the race from an event into an experience.

The spirit of the Boston Marathon is in these faces – their expressions, their smiles, their wide-eyed wonder.  These faces make me realize that this is so much less about a foot race and so much more about the human race.   And this year, the human race will take back the Boston Marathon from the malicious men who planted two bombs at the finish line killing three people, injuring hundreds, and forever changing the lives of millions.  They stole this race from the world.  But, this year, we all run the Boston Marathon.  This is our redemption race.   All of us.  Together.

As I squeeze myself into my crowded corral, I realize that there are only three minutes until the gun will go off and the 118th Boston Marathon will be underway.  At this moment, I am lost in a sea of people, but oddly, I feel closely connected to them all. I am acutely aware of everything around me – the fragrance of cherry blossoms,  the tweeting of hundreds of watches, and the vibrant blue sky streaked with delicate wisps of white.  This is the first time I’ve waited at the starting line feeling completely at peace.  As I check my watch and double knot  my laces, I know that this race is not about me.  This is our recovery race – a tribute to all those who spent the last year suffering, mourning, rehabbing and rebuilding.  I saw many of them – at the Expo, drinking coffee at Starbucks, at the hotel, walking on Boylston Street.  They are not just a main character in a human interest story.  These are real people.  And now they have faces.

BostonMemorial20142This will be a race of the heart.  And, with the crack of the gun my wave starts slowly moving forward until we cross the start line and the beep of hundreds of watches notify the world that “We’re off.”  I love the start as we head downhill to the sounds of screaming on-lookers who make us feel like we are running rock stars. There’s no better feeling than high-fiving rows of kids as I feel weightless  gliding downhill.  This year, the marathon feels more intimate.  The faces on the spectators are a combination of strength, faith, and a sense of renewal.  And, I really see them.

At mile 21, I realize I’ve been so deep in thought and contemplation that I’ve already run up and over  the infamous Heartbreak Hill.  I’m debating whether I should stop at the upcoming water station when I see two young men  who have each lost a leg and are running with prostheses.  The crowd is going wild for them.  Not just cheering, but screaming.  I see their faces and feel their presence as I respectfully pass by and acknowledge their courage with an unworthy wave.   These men are not just a headline story now.  They are real people.  I feel a lump rising in my throat as the movie of my mind transitions from their faces to the two nights earlier when I was alone in my hotel room.

It was the Saturday night before Easter Sunday and I had just placed a room service order.  I’m  flipping through the television channels when I  hear the knock on the door.  When I return to channel surfing with my dinner in hand, I stop.  I’m captivated by the show selection I’ve inadvertently made.  On the screen I see Jesus.  I don’t move.  I can’t eat.  I just watch.  I watch how his devotion and compassion and his unconditional love is portrayed by the actor.  I am drawn in by his expression, his voice, his peace. Within 30 minutes, I’ve been reacquainted with the story of Jesus and the betrayal.  But within one hour, the tears are streaming and I’m crying. For the first time in my life, I realize what it all means. “Oh, God, I understand,”  I say out loud to the empty room,  “Jesus was a person.  Jesus was a real person. I’m so sad for him.  Oh God!”

The story of Jesus is etched in my mind as I try to focus on getting my cramped legs and feet to the finish line.  I will never forget that moment.  Ever.  I cannot get the image of Jesus – bloody and frightened and dirty and ridiculed – out of my head. What I saw in front of me was a man.  A pure and innocent man who, without words, said, “I accept all of this.  I will carry all of your burdens.  I will be the one and only who will love you and take everything you can throw at me. I will be your blame.  I will be your shame. Let me take that from you.”   Now I see what it means so clearly when Pastor Tullian says, “Jesus meets our sin with his righteousness, our human propensity to mess things up with his dedication to clean things up, and our faithlessness with his faithfulness. He is big enough. He is wide enough. And, today, he is alive and keeping his promises.”  Jesus was a person.  And I love him.

As I cross the finish line, I walk a few paces and start to cry.  This happens after every marathon, but this time the emotions are deeper.  As I accept my finisher’s medal from quite possibly the sweetest woman on the planet, I am convinced that every day is an opportunity to see life differently.  It wasn’t until I landed at Boston Logan Airport and saw how many people were affected by the bombings that I really understood.  My experience alone in the Holiday Inn on Easter-eve showed me that we cannot really understand anything until we have compassion.  Until we see people as real people – we see their faces and suffer for them.  This entire experience changed me forever.  Now I truly understand, “It is finished.”

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When Running Cannot Save Me

Posted on April 5, 2014 by Callie Skokos

All my body wants to do is stop – stop running, stop moving, stop caring.  I am less than a half mile into my run and the treadmill feels like it’s dragging me down into the depths of a cold abyss.  There is no light at the end of this tunnel today.  My marathon schedule calls for a four-mile run at race pace.  That’s it?  Four miles and I cannot even get past the first three minutes.  This is essentially the first day of “The Taper” – easing off my training during the last two weeks before the Boston marathon.  The taper is hard for a lot of people and apparently, I’m one of them.  It’s hard because you have to give up control and believe that the 18 weeks of training prior to the taper will be enough.  I feel a deep ache.  I stop the belt and lean over trying to take deeper breaths and feebly stretch my screaming hamstrings.  I know what this is and this is not overtraining.

So today I will not try to save myself.

So today I will not try to save myself.

This is the feeling I get when I know running cannot help – when four miles feels like forty.  When my body wants no part of 4:45 a.m. and my heart wants no part of the human race.  The irony is that these are the days when I need running the most.  If you know me, you know that running is my therapy.  I’ve never been diagnosed with any type of mental disorder or depression or bipolar or PTSD, but I’m here to tell you that I know what it feels like to suffer just like everyone else – even though I cannot really explain why the feeling has gripped me so tightly today.  I decide to slow my pace but that inner voice is haranguing me.  “Girl, this is four miles!  What the hell is your problem?  You’ve got Boston in two weeks – do you realize how far you have to run in that race.  Get a grip.”  I try to ignore the voice.  I need to figure out what is wrong with me and that voice is only making things worse.

What’s wrong? I ask myself.  I can’t even answer the question.  I don’t know exactly.  I don’t know if it’s fear or worry or fatigue or loneliness or helplessness.  Maybe it’s all of it – the pressures of everyday life finally crashing down on me when all I want to do is run from it.  What I do know is that we all suffer.  Ours is a complex mind that does a terrible job of reassuring us that we are good enough, strong enough, smart enough, pretty enough.  Enough.  Enough. We suffer because we are human beings who need to feel valued.  And, to feel valued and worthy, we feel we must earn everything we have.  To compound this futility, when we fail – even if it’s only in our mind – we hide the suffering.  We suffer in silence because showing our weaknesses is just one more crack in the foundation of a perfect life we so desperately feel we need to build and showcase.

My inner dialogue is starting to create a havoc in my head that’s traveling into my heart when I realize I’ve run exactly 1.98 miles and I’m soaked in sweat.  That’s it, I think.  I’m stopping.  Done. Finished.  This run is over.  This run will not save me today.  But, I know what will.  What will save me is accepting my own desperation and the pain that is as much a part of living as is the pleasure.  That without moments of suffering we would never recognize the moments of joy.   What will save me today is knowing that if we all accept ourselves as we are – no perfection required – and allow ourselves to grieve and mourn we will discover who we really are and what we really need.  Maybe then, we will all feel more understood.  What will save me today is faith that God loves me at my weakest and at my strongest.  He is the One and only who requires nothing of me.  I can rest now.

As I step off the treadmill, I feel at bit more at peace.  But I still fear that this lame effort and poorly-timed emotional hiccup is simply a sign that I’m unprepared for the biggest race of my life.  I still feel discouraged that I let my heavy heart control me and change my direction.   But then I think, maybe God has bigger plans for me.  Maybe I just need to give up control and trust that there is a reason for everything – that I’m protected and safe.  I do believe that things happen exactly the way they’re supposed to happen.  So today I will not try to save myself.  I’m pretty sure that’s already been done for me.

[The Boston Marathon is April 21, 2014 and I’m running to raise money for Boston Children’s Hospital.  If you would like to be with me in spirit, please click here to donate.]

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Grace and the Candy Cabinet

Posted on March 24, 2014 by Callie Skokos

Finally it’s getting a little lighter I think as I take the first sip from my beloved coffee and stare out the kitchen window that faces today’s pink-hued glowing mountains.  I love daylight savings time – and the hope that the longer days bring – but the darker mornings make time management a challenge when I only have a few hours to run before the kids wake up and our busy day begins.  On the fridge next to my marathon training program – the one that’s almost entirely highlighted pink now as I start on my 15th week of an 18 week program – is a circa-1977 picture of my Nana and Grampy.  Although I glance at this picture dozens of times every day, this morning the picture somehow looks different.

I see her every day, but today I see her differently.

I see her every day, but today I see her differently.

As I step out the front door, the sky is about a dozen hues of pink as the sun yawns awake and shoos the clouds away.  It’s only 28 degrees, but there is no wind and I am grateful that I can finally take a run outside where I can take part in the day’s glorious new beginning.  My mind returns to the picture of my Nana on the fridge when it occurs to me that for some reason I am seeing her in a new light – through different lenses.  Everyone that knows me knows that my grandmother was the most influential and unconditionally loving person in my life.  Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her, or recount some wonderful memory of her to my children, or share something of her spirit with my friends.

It was almost impossible to pinpoint what made her so special – from the time I could actually remember her as a very young child to the time she passed away when I was only 22.  But, as I try not to trip over myself as I’m being hypnotized by the transformation of the sky into the dawning day, it’s all becoming very clear.  In the words of Pastor Tullian Tchividjian via Twitter, she was the “human embodiment of the way God loves.”  She was grace.  Her love was one-way love – unconditional, always abundant, and incredibly pure.  She shared a kind of love that made you always want to love her back.  Hers was a love that never pressured me to be better, or do more, or to hide my failures, or to try to be perfect.

As I’m heading up my first hill on the long and narrow Titan Road, I think about why I run.  I used to tell my friends that running gives me the ability to think and compartmentalize my life and start each day with a clear head and a lighter heart.  But, it was on my Thanksgiving run less than five months ago that I learned the most profound thing about myself.  On that run, as the sun was shyly waking up in the east and the moon was bidding adieu in the west, I was embraced by God’s presence.  The scene was surreal, but my mind was completely clear.  How was it that I never realized that on every run, I pray?  But, how could it be? Who was I praying to?  I had never really had a relationship with God.  What I knew of God was only what I learned from my Nana and a distant understanding of Him in Catholic High School where the ritual and the works clouded and confused my understanding of His amazing grace and unconditional love.

I may have never known who I was talking to on these runs, but God did.  He never let me out of his sight – and every run was our time.  I sigh as I notice the busyness of the day starting as cars rush past me on the way to school and work, and my mind returns to Nana and the story I recently shared with a friend about the Candy Cabinet.  From the time I can remember, my Nana had a beautiful, antique buffet as part of her dining room set.  In the right side of the cabinet, she kept two kinds of candies – York Peppermint Paddies and Hershey’s Miniature Chocolate bars.  In my parents’ home, a cabinet like that would have been off limits – the law would ring in our heads that we could never take from the Candy Cabinet without asking.  And we knew, honestly, that asking would reap no reward anyway.  But at Nana’s, this Candy Cabinet was always open.  We were free to take from the Candy Cabinet at any time.  No reason. No questions.

Having free access to the Candy Cabinet, however, produced some very interesting behavior. Because “the law” was not in play with Nana, I was never even tempted to steal from the Candy Cabinet, nor did I ever take more than I really needed or wanted.  I knew she was not obligated to give me any candy and I never felt like I had to do anything to earn the candy. The Candy Cabinet represented my Nana’s love and how she manifested the grace of God.  Hers, like His, was one-way love – the unconditional acceptance given to an undeserving person by an unobligated giver.  And that was the kind of love I had longed to receive ever since her passing over 23 years ago.

I’m almost back home when I glance at my watch.  This run took me a little farther than I actually had time for, which means I will probably be late for work today.  I look up, smile slyly, and think, “I got this.”  With the understanding of grace, I am now free to continue being the person I am with the comfort that it’s only human to be imperfect and I will be loved no matter what. When I fall, I will have a safe place to land. I now run, not to set myself free, but rather because I’ve been set free—set free by a God who loves us in our weaknesses and failures, who doesn’t require strength or success prior to loving us.  A God who loves me like my Nana did: a love with no strings attached.

I open my front door and hear the kids chattering, but before I do anything else, I walk straight into my dining room and open the right hand cabinet of my Nana’s buffet.  I inhale deeply – something I’ve done hundreds of times since I inherited this beautiful piece that no one else wanted.  It may be just a vivid memory or my imagination or hope, but I’m certain I can still smell peppermint and chocolate and my Nana.  Kneeling down with my head in the Candy Cabinet, I feel the grace of the most loving woman ever to put her hands on my face, kiss the tip of my nose and tell me that she loves me just because I’m hers – something I now hear on every run, with every prayer, watching every sunrise.

 

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The Unintended Consequence

Posted on March 8, 2014 by Callie Skokos

“No matter what, you have to be real,” said my good friend and triathlete Erin when I asked for her advice on starting a blog.  “No one will read your writing if they don’t believe you are giving them all you have – showing them your heart.” Her words echo through my mind as my left foot touches down right smack in the deepest part of a slush puddle as icy water splashes up and hits me in the face.  I sigh and think, leave it to Erin to somehow emphasize her point even when she’s not running with me.

Less than two hours ago, the world was covered by a white, heavy snowfall that came out of nowhere in the dark of night – departing just as quickly as it developed.  I awoke to a picture-postcard view that would entice even the most warm-blooded Florida natives to visit Colorado.  As I’m splashing along, I can feel the intense Colorado sunshine bullying the beautiful snowflakes until they have been reduced to crystal-clear snow melt rushing past my feet as I jump up onto the sidewalk.

Because it’s Wednesday, I’m scheduled to run a moderately-paced five miler.  The bright and cool midday escape makes this the perfect meditation run – the type of run that enlivens me instead of exhausts me.  So, true to form, my mind rewinds a bit and I resume my thought-track with Erin as the main character.  I remember telling Erin that I really just wanted to write a blog to promote RunningPretty – to show how it was born, the power it could have on women, and what I’m struggling to do to breathe life into it before I put it to rest.  In fact, I told her I was quite uncomfortable with the idea of sharing my soft underbelly with the world.  But then, something happened and I realize it now – especially after I happened to catch this Tweet passing ever-so-quietly through my Twitter feed.

“It is our hearts that we long for others to hear, and we long to hear the heart of another. Speaking mind to mind never truly convinces anyone.”

Yes, it is all about the heart. I never really saw it coming until the day I cried reading one of my own stories to my then 9-year old daughter.  I had stopped the emotional editing and began ‘writing real.’   Now, it’s virtually impossible to squeeze myself back into the armor that protected my heart ever since I was a child.  The unintended consequence is that now I write for me.  About me.  For you.  And for every other human heart that may need a little perspective and maybe a small glimmer of hope.  We are not living this life alone. We cannot.

JennAndCallie

One of the best unintended consequences – meeting Jenn.

While my theme is about the power of running, I realize that I’m often not actually writing about running at all.  It’s about who we are, and what we need, and how we cope – all of which becomes much clearer on the road as the sun is rising or on the treadmill as I am being entranced by the whirring motor.  Every day that I am blessed to wake up and lace up gives me a way to connect with even just one person.  People suffer. Children grow up.  Love is possible. God is good.  Hearts break.  Pure joy is a gift. Who are we if we’re not experiencing every exhilarating moment of it?

My feet are completely soaked as I’m striding down the small hill that leads to my front door.  Puddle-jumping on runs like these is actually quite liberating.  Much like giving up the fight to stay dry, I’ve given up the fight to build a brand.  Maybe, just maybe, the unintended consequence of all this is that I actually did build one.  But, no matter what, running, reflecting and writing has opened up a new world for me – allowing me to look much deeper into my own self.  Surprisingly, what I’ve uncovered on the road hasn’t been as frightening as I imagined. At the same time, I’ve been blessed that my writing has reached the hearts of others who are also trying to find their way and appreciate knowing they are not alone.  Then there are those who help me by sharing their insight, their care and their support through comments – both online and real time.   The most surprising result is that there are also those who just instinctively know that the heart is the only thing that really makes us whole and keeps us alive. That is why they read.

Two years ago, my hope was to use this blog to reach Elisabeth Hasselbeck.  To me, she epitomized RunningPretty and a brand that was so much less about looking perfect outside than it was about feeling pretty inside – pretty confident, pretty determined, pretty comfortable.  So much has changed, I think as I jump in just one more puddle before heading inside.  Who knows, I may meet Elisabeth one of these days after all.  And, well, if I don’t, I’m quite sure I will meet someone else.

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Run to Me

Posted on February 25, 2014 by Callie Skokos

I was overwhelmed with emotion as I left behind the sanctuary of the Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church and stepped into the February Ft. Lauderdale sunshine.  Today’s service with Pastor Tullian Tchividjian brought closure to Liberate Weekend and a conference designed around sharing the message of grace and God’s one way love.  But for this girl, the one who’d only recently become reacquainted with God, it was so much more than listening to devoted, authentic speakers talk about how grace will change everything about us – and everything about how we view Christianity.  On this warm Sunday, I was bathed in hope and comfort as the mild breeze brushed against my cheek and whispered in my ear like a long, lost love. “There is so much we need to talk about.” Indeed, there is, I thought.  We’ll just have to take all this on the run.

An hour later, I’m heading up the A1A drawbridge – looking out across the Intracoastal Waterway – and the movie of my mind immediately switches on. At this moment, there is only the music of Evanescence streaming through my headphones, but the images in my mind’s eye are more vivid than usual.  I’m slightly giddy as I think about how I got here – physically and spiritually.  How I found just what I needed, right when I needed it.  My memory rewinds to the Friday morning in October when I was first introduced to Pastor Tullian – his image hovering above me on the television monitor as I ran on the treadmill.  He was being interviewed on Morning Joe in their “Faith on Fridays” series about his book, One Way Love:  Inexhaustible Grace for an Exhausted World.  His words rang out like a closed-captioned beacon of hope.  Oh, how desperately I needed to find peace in this unbelievably exhausting world.

I came by myself and left with life-long friends

I came by myself and left with life-long friends

I’ve run about a mile and a half now and I know I’m getting closer to the beach as the volume of traffic increases in direct correlation to the smell of sea water in the air. I feel light on my feet – and in my heart – as I recall the events that played out after sending Pastor Tullian a single Tweet about the show and the book and my hope.  I was desperate to learn his secret about grace. But, what happened over the course of four months was something so much bigger – something so much more life-changing than what I anticipated would be yet another self-help book on improving my life. I learned how to trust.  I learned how to accept.  I learned how to believe.

I cross over A1A and I feel like I’m running at record pace as I effortlessly glide along the sidewalk adjacent to the beach. The Atlantic Ocean seems bluer than I remember.  And brighter.  And more alluring. I guess this is how life looks when you have faith – that liberating feeling of knowing there’s something much bigger than you out there.  That belief that you are loved no matter your weaknesses and imperfections and brokenness.   It’s freeing.  Running becomes easier.   The view becomes more beautiful.  People seem kinder.  I’m heading down the over-crowded sidewalk but it feels like everyone is instinctively slipping out of my way.  I giggle as I think about this experience in the context of the Bible and the story of the parting the Red Sea – which would have never crossed my mind before embarking on this journey.

Whether real or perceived, everyone I see on the run smiles at me.  I smile too because I am completely at peace. Since opening my heart to grace and the possibilities it brings, my runs feel different.  Now, when I lace up my running shoes, I feel as if I’m no longer running away from that which I fear or from the war that’s waging in heart.  I’m now running towards real love.  In my heart, I can now admit that when I run, I pray – I pray for my children, and my family, and my friends and my world.  I thank God for loving me unconditionally. With this revelation, I’ve unlocked a certain strength that I cannot begin to describe.  “Because Jesus won for you, you are free to lose,” says Tullian.  There is no feeling like knowing I no longer have to prove myself. I am imperfect and that’s perfectly okay.

I look down at my running watch and realize I’ve run much farther and much faster than I had set out to do.  I am drenched in sweat and I feel a little dizzy as I bend down to unlace my running shoes, peel off my wet socks and walk down to the water’s edge.  I’ve got a lighter heart today because “Grace says that though I am flawed I am cherished.”  And, I’ve got a fuller heart today.  When I arrived, I met my assigned companion Jenn, who was hand-picked by Tullian to ensure I wouldn’t be alone at the conference.  Within four hours, we were friends.  Within 24 hours, we had the bond of sisters.

I do not believe that any of this has been coincidence. I learned about God’s unconditional love at a time when I thought real love was no longer meant for me.  I received Tullian’s friendship and counsel at a time when I felt desperate and alone. I met Jenn at a time when I was trying to make sense of all of this – especially grace and what it really looks like.  She is a beautiful picture of grace.

When I board my flight tonight, I will leave convinced that I’ve been guided by something much bigger than me.  I’ve been presented with signs and events that cannot be ignored or written off as serendipity.  Finally I have faith.  But, no matter what you believe, know that if you truly love this life it is worth opening your eyes to all its grandeur.  It’s worth taking a chance.  Have no expectations.  Simply revel in the surprises.

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Rescue Thee, Rescue Me

Posted on February 14, 2014 by Callie Skokos

I discovered Lana Del Rey at a time when my heart needed a safe place to hide.  I had run until my blistered toes could take no more.  Now, I needed another release.  At the last mile of my 17-mile Sunday run, her song “Young and Beautiful” randomly found its way onto my Pandora station that was certainly not meant for her.  I took this as a sign that she and I were meant to work through a few things together.  Her songs are as intense and as hauntingly beautiful as she.  It’s poetry put to harmony – lyrics so raw that her suffering becomes your own.  In her ten-minute song called, “Ride,” Lana breathes these words at the end:

“I believe in the person I want to become. I believe in the freedom of the open road. And my motto is the same as ever:  I believe in the kindness of strangers. And when I’m at war with myself I ride, I just ride.”

She rides, I run.  Our connection was clear.  And, I was mesmerized by her.  For days, her

And when I’m at war with myself I ride, I just ride.

And when I’m at war with myself I ride, I just ride.

music flowed through my speakers and my headphones, and with each artful phrase and melody, I slowly emerged from my emotional hiding place.  But, it took less than a week to realize just why I had found Lana Del Rey exactly when I found her.  My suffering became infinitely less important as I stand at the front of the lunch line at the Denver Rescue Mission waiting for the first shift of homeless to come through the door.

I came to the Denver Rescue Mission with my selfish head spinning with selfish thoughts about my own sad and difficult life.  I convinced myself that the busyness of doing something for someone else would quiet things. But as soon as I stepped in the door, I was disgusted with myself.  “My sad and difficult life?”  Oh, you are pathetic.  No, I’m changing my mind about this.  Today I’m going to be Lana Del Rey.

Without knowing exactly how, I am going to change one thing for one person.  I want just one person who walks through this door to feel loved.  To feel God’s Grace and to be comforted by the kindness of strangers.  To leave with a full belly and fuller heart.  Only God knew just what would happen next, but as I’m holding out my first lunch tray, I remember Lana’s words:

“When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing, how I’d been living, they asked me why – but there’s no use in talking to people who have a home.  They have no idea what it’s like to seek safety in other people – for home to be wherever you lay your head.”

They slowly walk in, heads down in seemingly silent prayer.  With layers of mismatched and dirty clothing, they glance away as they see the line of food trays before them.  Oh God, I think, these people could have been you, or me, or my child, or my mom.  They are someone’s children – children who had lost their way in adulthood.  Maybe they lost their job.  Depression strangled whatever they had left.  Maybe drugs were their only comfort from all the judges in this cynical world.  Maybe they gave up because they were given up on. All I know is that they have no home and nowhere to lay their head.

But on this day, they are not going to be the invisible people we walk past on our way to the ballgame or the theater.  They will be seen. I know that if I can make eye contact – the way I do with my Asperger’s child Jack – we can connect.  “Hello,” I say as I find each person’s eyes.  Some are vacant, but some brighten.  Some say “Hello” back and some say “Thank you.”  After the first dozen people come through, an elderly man with a cane takes the tray from my hands and says, “Thank you little one.  God bless you.”  He smiles.  And it’s genuine.  Oh, what the power of a smile can do for our hearts.

After that, more and more of the men and women look at me.  They look into my eyes and try to connect.  I look back and tell them that I hope things get better for them – even if they see it only in the form of an extra-big piece of pie or a second helping.  When I quietly say goodbye with a light touch on the arm, I see a little more life even in the eyes of some of the very lifeless.  Like Lana Del Rey, I believe in the kindness of strangers.  You see, it was the kindness of these strangers that saved me from myself today and gave me yet another glimpse of God’s Grace.

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The Runner, the Son, and Grace

Posted on February 6, 2014 by Callie Skokos

My iPhone’s weather app reports that it’s negative 11 degrees and snowy today at 5:02 a.m.  My phone, however, has not revealed anything I don’t already know.  I awoke with an unshakable chill and my coffee doesn’t even feel hot as I sip it as I’m lacing up my running shoes and reviewing my training schedule.  Today is Wednesday.  I’ve got Hal Higdon’s marathon-winning plan posted on my fridge along with the infamous pink marker I use to highlight my daily victories.  But, I glance down and just beneath the training schedule are the half-dozen college acceptance letters Keegan has received in the last two months.  I stare at the salutation on the most recent CSU acceptance – “Congratulations Keegan” – and I feel my breathing get shallow and my heart begin to pulse in my ears.  My baby is all grown up.

“Focus Skokos.  You’re tough.  Just get your jacket on and get moving.  You always put things in their proper place when you run.”  This inner monologue is always there, always shifting the tenor and tone of my mind. It’s impossible to quiet the voice, but this is probably a good thing – for today, I welcome the reminder.  Get moving or those emotions will find you and shake you down.  Wednesdays are usually easy runs complemented with strength training – but I’ll admit – I don’t always feel very satisfied with these workouts.  Depending on the day’s challenges, running hard is the only way to get balanced and back in control.  Those are the days that my inner voice cheers me on.  “Go girl.  You’ve got this.  Nothing is tougher than you right now.”

A day in the life...

A day in the life…

Running hard makes everything else seem easier.  It also makes it more difficult for my mind to drift to the dark side – the place in my mind that houses everything I question about myself.  Today, as the wet footprints begin to dry on the treadmill belt beneath my feet, my thoughts are riveted on Keegan.  Not wanting to think about him being off at college – missing him, worrying about him – I change the channel in my mind.  I land on the day he was born, I see his incredible blue eyes that turned green after one year, I remember his three-year-old obsession with Legos, how he sobbed at the end of “Charlotte’s Web” when he was eight, and I see his beautiful artwork flip past.  Then, like a bolt of lightning, two things hit me at the exact same time.  Keegan and Grace.

In an instance, my mind’s eye focuses on something Keegan said when he was a high school freshman.  We were in the car talking about school and he told me about some kids and the trouble they were getting into.  I asked him if he’d ever done any of the same things and he said, “Mom, I don’t want to be a bad kid.  I really like you and I always want you to like me back.”  Like it happened yesterday, I remember the tears building up and my throat closing as I managed to utter that no matter what, I would always love him – good or bad.

I stop the treadmill.  I’m not sure even why.  I’m out of breath staring down at the glowing neon clock in the realization that this must be what Pastor Tullian Tchividjian means when he preaches about Grace – the one way love of God.   Maybe it’s the way I view my relationship with God.  It’s not that Keegan doesn’t do bad things because he’s afraid of breaking the law and suffering the consequences.  No, it’s that he doesn’t do bad things because he loves me.  He loves being loved back.  He loves knowing that when he falls or falters, I will be beside him – loving him without question.  Unconditionally.  One way.

After processing this for another moment, I hit start on the control panel and when I do, the movie of my mind clicks back on.  Again, Keegan is the main character and he’s brilliant in his role as a kid who’s growing up – with incredible moral values, a remarkable and rare sense of self, and a genuine love of life.  He’s in the car with me and this time we’re talking about God and what we both believe and what we still don’t understand.  He’s in the kitchen with me while I’m cooking – sharing the latest hot YouTube snowboarding video.  Then, he’s saying goodnight – “Love you mom.”

There is no way to express how much I will miss his companionship when he leaves for college to start a new chapter in his life.  It will be hard to walk by his bedroom without thinking about our last 18 years together – years that helped me grow into a better person, a better mom, and a better friend.  But, according to my inner voice, I’m tough.  For this is why I run.

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For the Love of Running

Posted on January 24, 2014 by Callie Skokos

It’s Thursday.  Speed day according to my tried-and-true Hal Higdon training schedule ever-present on my refrigerator.  I consider myself a purist when it comes to training – non-technical and simple.  I love the feeling of crossing off the day’s training and having something so tangible right before my eyes to remind me of the accomplishment, even if it is just the uneven shading of a dried out pink highlighter.  Today’s schedule calls for a Tempo run – which is 40 minutes faster-than-marathon pace with a 5 minute warm up and 5 minute cool down.  For me, crossing off Tempo runs may just be one of the most satisfying things a girl can accomplish before 7 a.m. You see, I’d rather run 30 slow miles than one very fast mile any day of the week.

This Tempo run takes place on the treadmill at my home-away-from-home – Snap Fitness.  Training for the Boston Marathon starts in January and ends with the big day this year on April 21.  It’s a tough race for a number of reasons, one of which is that the entire training program takes place during the winter.  If you read Runner’s World cover to cover like I do, you know that most runners bound for Boston are road warriors.  They don’t let the single-digit temps and pitch-black early mornings intimidate them.  They have guts.  They’re hard core.  I think about being hard core a lot as I swipe my 24-hour keycard, yawn, and head over to my favorite treadmill.  It’s 5:15 in the morning. It’s freezing cold.  I’m crazy, but not Boston Marathon-warrior-crazy.

Boston is just one reason to get up in the morning

Boston is just one reason to get up in the morning

Still, most people cannot understand why I do this every day.  Why I sacrifice the comfort of my warm bed and pleasant dreams to sneak out before the kids wake up and run in place for hours with only the filmstrip of my mind to keep me company.  One of my good friends once said, “You get up at 4:45 every morning because you have no one keeping you in bed.” When he first said it, I’ve never been able to let this thought go – some days as I’m running I use it to push me harder, but on other days the revelation makes me feel a little sick.

As I’m tapping up the speed on the treadmill screen, a wave of anxiety sweeps over me.  Do I really use running as a replacement for the missing love of my life? Why did this thought have to creep into my head today – on Tempo Day for God’s sake?  When I’m on the road, the feeling of the run is much different.  It’s freedom manifested in my footfalls and my breath.  Out there, my thoughts move swiftly in a calming stream of consciousness as the day wakes up and I’m the first to greet the sun. I feel invincible when I’m out there – like I’m running with God as He’s proudly displaying to me His hand-crafted world.

Running inside on a treadmill evokes very different thoughts.  Staring at a wall, you have to force your thoughts into a positive place and find power in the mundane.  I’ve learned a very important thing about being a runner.  If you don’t want to learn who you are and what you’re made of, you probably shouldn’t train for a marathon.

I’m 33 minutes in, running over the sweat droplets that are whirring beneath my feet, and I realize that I’ve not really been thinking about why I have no one to keep me in bed in the morning.  I’ve actually been reflecting on what I’ve gained from not staying in bed in the morning.  I think about the energy that I get from the run – even if it’s running on the treadmill, staring at the wall.  I have learned a lot about myself over the miles.  I’ve uncovered a quiet confidence.  And I think that confidence has helped me feel more secure sharing my feelings.

Since my marriage failed and my mileage increased, I have closer relationships with my friends, with my siblings, and with my children.  That is a gift.  So, I am thankful for my iPhone alarm that beeps me awake hours before dawn.  And I know that in time, that same running energy will be what attracts the love of my life.  It may take many more miles and more early mornings, but it will happen.  And, maybe when it does, I will stay in bed just a little longer and run home just a little faster.

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