Body: Act and React

About a month ago, a 20 year old in our congregation died.  He was remotely connected...grew up in the church...but as most young adults do (heck, as most older adults do), he found his respite and wholeness in places outside of the church.  But still.  It took the breath out of me. 

It made my body ache for the mother and the father, nodding and smiling, eyes glazed, as 100's and 100's of kids...kids...filed by, to pay their respects at the funeral home.  It made my teeth hurt, to watch this young mans little sister - eight years old - play with her "funeral toys," seemingly unfazed by her surroundings. And my heart ached for the grandmother and grandfather who sat in the pew, just in front of the pulpit, that very next Sunday.

Grief is a full experience.  There are stages.  Sure.  But when grief hits you...it hurts everywhere.  And there are no "stages."  It just hurts.

Unfortunately, as image after image of Boston and Iran and Pakistan and North Korea and South Korea and West and Iraq is flashed before our eyes, we forget to feel.  We forget to feel the sting of death in ways that propel us to be and act and react differently in the world.  And we shut down.  We let congress handle it, with their bombs and their politicized statements of regret.  We let the news media tell us what is sad (a 20 year old, Boston, West) and what is not sad (Iraq, North Korea).  We let our ministers and our priests pray for us because somewhere in the back of our minds, we assume God must be behind this, and that gives us pause.  We let the anonymity of Facebook and Twitter teach us what we should believe, if we love Jesus... or are good Americans... or support our troops... or love babies and puppies.  We let those around us "tsk" and say "what a shame" in hushed tones, because words escape even the most talkative. 

We shut down. 

It's too much.  The body aches.  The mind short circuits.  The soul weeps. 

Here me say: This is normal.  Let it happen.  Really.  I know it's hard.  But really, let it happen.  And then...be changed by it, be propelled by the pain, act and react differently today.

Give blood. Practice patience. Really listen to another. Extend a hand, when it would be easier to walk away. Love deeply and tell someone the reasons why. Live peace. Recycle.  Dance with a child.  Pray even when you're not sure how to believe.

And let your body ache.  Feel.

Then maybe, we'll begin to see the world differently. 

Running: Boston

I ran for two minutes today.  Not because I needed the exercise (even though I do), or because it's part of my routine (even though it should be), or because I'm super fit (even though the "two minute" proclamation assumes great fitness *sarcasm*)...but because for me, it hurts.

I am not a runner.  I've never been a runner...even when I was super fit and super skinny...my body just doesn't like to function at speeds greater than 3 miles per hour. 

But I've been and am, passionate about certain things.  Like the church (though it infuriates me).  And ice cream (even though it's the reason I should be running).  And photography (even though I don't have the proper tools).  I love to travel (even though we don't get to do much of it).  And I love animals (even though the one laying on my foot right now, is snoring so loud I can't concentrate).

And so I get it.  A little.

I get what it means to love something so much, that you're willing to wake up at 4:00 in the morning to participate...to put your money into your gear, rather than your house or your car or your stuff.  I get what it means to find joy beyond description when you've gone a little farther or done something a little different, one day.  And I understand what it means to set goals and enter contests that you know you'll never win.  I know what it's like to call strangers "friends" simply because your hearts beat for the same passion.  I get it.

And that's why our hearts ache for those in Boston today.  And will, for some time.  As those who found their passion on the streets, urged their limbs to do the unimaginable, matching each breath with the pounding of rubber on concrete...now find themselves wracked with new fear and find themselves with limbs that don't work the way they used to and find themselves clinging for breath, period. 

And so today, I ran for two minutes.  Not because I should (even though it's probably a good idea). Or because I love it (because I really don't). 

But because today, there are those who can't.