Pride, Prejudice, and Bravery

     It was a church service to celebrate the 4^th of July. I was reluctant to go, but my mom thought I would enjoy the music. Every now and again it seems fitting to attend church with your mother, so I relented and even looked forward to hearing the pianist. 

     The service went well at first. The patriotic music ceremony included a moving tribute to veterans. As promised, the pianist played beautifully.
     Then it came time for the pastor to preach his sermon. He walked up to the pulpit and began. I can’t remember exactly what he said, to be honest, but I certainly remember how it made me feel. He was complaining about President Obama’s calling a lesbian couple to congratulate them on their marriage.  It wasn’t even what he said that disturbed me so; it was the tone of utter disgust in his voice.  There was also a disdaining, self-righteous rumble from some of the congregation. 

     I sat stunned and mortified.
     I used to live in fear that this would happen. As a timid, shy, gay child growing up in a southern baptist church, I shouldered intolerance time and again. And I shouldered it alone. I kept myself locked in the closet, but it was anything but secure. Honestly, I can only remember a few times homosexuality was directly mentioned in sermons or sunday school or youth assemblies, but they occurred. There were plenty of jokes and slurs (not directed at me, but they hit, anyway) throughout my growing up in church, as there were everywhere back then. I can remember, specifically, one summer I was home from college, and I went to a college group sunday school class, and the speaker talked specifically about how everyone, including the church, was becoming TOO tolerant of "the gays."
     Regardless, I associated church with shame, guilt, and unworthiness. Sometimes worship services made me literally nauseous. I enjoyed the hymns, but there was something sad and weighted about the praise and worship songs. I remember thinking to myself, "This doesn't apply to me. I'm gay. I'm bad." I was a very sad little boy, and church was a huge source of that sadness. No child should ever have to feel that way. Especially not in church.
     I went through several phases of "praying the gay away" and bargaining with God growing up. I always knew I was gay even before I knew what it was. I can't explain it, but I knew. I thought when I became a Christian at eight-years-old, it would go away. It did not. I thought if I "surrendered my life to Christian ministry and service" (at a ridiculously and amusingly young age), it would go away. It did not. I can even remember having suicidal thoughts and how scary that was, even though I never would have acted on those thoughts. I resorted to rededicating my life several times. I remember once at a Disciple Now, I was so filled with shame I convinced myself that I hadn't REALLY become a Christian the first time since I was so obviously still gay as a tinseled Christmas tree. It all seems so preposterous now, but I was so scared and convinced at the time that I was bound for hell; it all seemed only natural.
     I would even go out to Lake Brownwood during my first year of college (of course I went to Howard Payne University -- baptist) to pray -- no -- beg God to make me "normal" and straight.
     I'm so glad He didn't. It never went away. God, instead, convinced me that She loved me as is. I am a whole human being. I am a compassionate, funny, quirky, musical, literary, gay person, and that is absolutely fantastic. I wonder how my childhood, adolescence, and even adulthood would be different if I had realized that decades ago.
     I should emphasize that there are many people in that church who were angels through all the years I went there. My family could not have survived and thrived after my father's death if it wasn't for our church family. I especially remember Joe Browder taking me aside at church camp when I was little. He saw that I was in turmoil. I will never forget his looking me straight in the eye and telling me that Jesus loved me, Rusty Weeks, no matter what. NO. MATTER. WHAT. I believe that now more than ever. I believe that God loves every last one of us equally and wonderfully. Why would there be a God otherwise?

     As soon as I realized the topic of this pastor's rant, I shut down and stopped listening. This was the same man who had shaken my hand and welcomed me to this church numerous times. This was the man who stood at the altar and proclaimed to the congregation once before that "all are welcomed and loved here!" I looked over at my mother, who looked like she'd been slapped as she mouthed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You should go.” How could she have known? I know she wanted to get up and leave with me. 

     I shrugged my shoulders and looked over at my 8 and 11-year-old nieces who were also there with us. “I have to leave; I’ll see you at lunch.” They just looked up at me blankly -- confused. Looking back on it, I wish I had asked them if they wanted to leave with me, but it all happened so fast. 
     I have felt blatantly marginalized for being gay, since I came out, a total of three times. The first time I was tutoring a group of students that weren't actually in my class. I went over to redirect a seventh grade girl who wasn't working. As I walked away from her desk, I heard her whisper, "gay motherfucker," under her breath. The second time I was at the House of Blues to hear Joshua Radin perform. There were some drunk girls behind my group, and we couldn't hear Josh over their inebriated rambling. I turned around and asked them to be quiet. A guy next to them said, "You fucking faggot." My friend Latoya heard him say it, too. As harmful as these instances were, they paled in comparison to the indignity I suffered that day last summer in church. 
     I was PISSED.
     The angry part of me wasn't angry for myself. I was angry for all of the little kids sitting in that church who were gay. I was angry for the ones who were questioning, too. I was angry that any child in that service was hearing it. And I was angry at the people in the congregation who were encouraging the hurt that spewed from the pulpit with their rumbling grunts. How could this be happening in 2013?! In a holiday service? I do not need anyone to feel sorry for me, but I am asking you to feel for those kids. 
     The church had stadium-like seating, and we were seated to the right side of the auditorium and just a few rows back. In order to make my most graceful exit of the auditorium (“sanctuary” doesn’t seem appropriate for me, here), I walked down the steps towards the pulpit and made my way around the corner. So when I rounded the corner, I was facing the entire congregation seated on the ground floor. This was a long, lonely, awkward, but empowering walk. I have no idea how a human being can feel completely annihilated and liberated at the same time, but I did. I walked proudly with my head held high out of that giant red room. I tried to look people in the eye as I was marching out, but no one seemed to return my gaze. I did not look back.
     I do not plan on going back unless I go to pay respects to someone who passes, like Joe Browder. That church is filled with Christ-like, wonderful people. I'm convinced of that. But how could I go back into that building with a shred of dignity and self-respect? I probably should have gone back one last time and given that pastor a piece of my mind or just sat down calmly and talked to him about my concerns regarding his sermon. I have no idea if he has a clue that his words hurt anyone.
     It's time to let this one go. Gay people aren't going anywhere. And some of us are getting married. Let go of the "Love the sinner, hate the gay sin" BS, too. I'm not even going to justify that with words and the justification of my disgust over it. I'm also fed up with people's assertions that their right to vote against a gay person's right to marry is religious freedom. That's my freedom you're trying to take away.
     So much going through my head as I kept walking out of that church and through the enormous, hot parking lot to my car. When I sat in my car, I put in a mix cd and played "All I Ever Have to Be" by Amy Grant (Written by Gary Chapman -- See YouTube link below), and the words meant more to me than ever. I wish I could have hugged every kid in that service and played them that song. It pretty much got me through childhood and adolescence.
     I also posted something on Facebook that still resonates with me and hopefully many of you, as well. "I'm glad my faith is stronger than the words and walls of man." Then I drove to the Chili's parking lot in Casa Linda and waited on my family and friends for lunch. When we were finally seated, my oldest niece sat down next to me and reached over and squeezed my hand.
     I have made it my life's mission to do my best to pour light on others and the world instead of casting shadows. My being gay has only given me even more lenses to see the world through and enabled me to shed and share more light. Peace to all.

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, they will forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel." -- Maya Angelou

   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ohkdMXx_JlQ

When the weight of all my dreams
Is resting heavy on my head
And the thoughtful words of help and hope
Have all been nicely said
But I'm still hurting wondering if I'll ever be the one
I think I am -- I think I am

Then You gently re-remind me
That You've made me from the first
And the more I try to be the best
The more I get the worst
And I realized the good in me is only there because of who You are
Who You are…

And all I ever have to be is what You've made me
Any more or less would be a step out of your plan
As you daily re-create me help me always keep in mind
That I only have to do what I can find
And all I ever have to be
All I have to be
All I ever have to be is what You've made me.

Amy Grant Gary Chapman Copyright New Spring Publishing

   

Blessed Are the Peacemakers

When I was in high school , I read I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD sings. It was so raw and disturbing, yet hopeful. I still remember the way it made me feel. So much power in that. 

I didn't realize when I sent this short paragraph in an e-mail to a dear friend today that it was so indicative of Dr. Maya Angelou herself. Her quote:

"People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

She did that. I had the option to choose an autobiography in a high school english class, and I chose Dr. Maya Angelou's I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS. I must admit, I don't remember numerous details about the book. I do remember it was very raw and HONEST and disturbing, yet HOPEFUL. And it made me FEEL.

Maya Angelou survived a LOT. She survived abuse and many other horrors. She was mute for a time. BUT she lived and survived and wrote and spoke and thrived. These are things I remember about the book. It made me feel like I could survive whatever life brought my way, too. Not only could I survive, I could thrive. 

"You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them." -- Maya Angelou 

I've been a fan of Dr. Angelou's since I read that book. I've admired and read her poetry throughout the years. I've been moved when she read things aloud…just the sound of her voice…so calming, smooth and slow. I've been amazed that she was revered by three very different American Presidents, G.W. Bush, Clinton, and Obama. She has been greatly celebrated by each of them and so many others. I, too, celebrate her. I've even been the guy who follows her on Facebook and shares her posts.

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." -- Maya Angelou

I celebrate her ability and her courage to tell her truth and to celebrate all our truths. She inspires me and encourages me to tell my story.

Something else I admire most about her life and legacy is that she didn't preach AT anyone. She talked to us and taught us with her words and her spirit. She was a spiritual, Christian person, but she didn't say, "I'm a spiritual, Christian person!" She just lived and loved and wrote and spoke her truth and shared what she believed could help others. 

I share the next part because it is part of my truth. A Facebook friend posted an amazing clip on Facebook today from Oprah's Super Soul Sunday show. In it, Maya Angelou was talking about how God loves her, and she was overcome with emotion. Oprah asked Dr. Angelou where she goes for comfort and solace. Dr. Angelou literally buckled forward in tears. Here is an excerpt from her response (google "Maya Angelou Oprah God Loves Me"…you need to hear her say it):

"God loves me! It still humbles me that this force which made leaves and fleas and stars and rivers and YOU…loves ME…Maya Angelou. It's AMAZING! I can do anything. And do it well! Any GOOD thing, I can do it. That's why I am who I am. YES! Because God loves me, and I'm amazed at it and grateful for it!"

Today, when I read the news of Maya Angelou's death, I was overcome with emotion. I decided to walk to the front of the school where my office is housed and check the mail. As I walked, I felt peace. I felt riveting, comforting chill bumps on my arms. I felt like I was witnessing the birth of an angel. And I was reminded of a phenomenal poem, and a particular passage sticks with me:

"A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
til the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky…" -- Maya Angelou

There she goes...

Snow

I have loved snow for as long as I can remember. Maybe love isn't the right word. I have revered it with a sacred obsession. I'm not sure why. I know there are parts of the world that encounter it daily as routine. I realize there are places that are devastated by it (especially this winter, and yes, I'm tired of the cold, dreary weather presently…how do people do this every winter?)

But for me and my experience, snow has always been a divine gift. I've revisited this topic far too many times, I'm sure.

As a little boy growing up in Mesquite, Texas, I can remember my mom waking me and leading me to the sliding glass door to see our back yard blanketed in white wonder. I could count on one hand these  moments. Snow made the world look different…softer and much more peaceful. As a little boy who worried too much about everything, peacefulness was always welcomed.

Each snow (or in some cases ice) connects concretely to profound memories over the years: I can remember building snowmen with my family and sliding on these plastic, circular "sleds" and being overwhelmed by all of the white. I remember making my sister take pictures of me in the snow as a teenager. I remember that feeling of realizing school was cancelled. As I grew older I remember having stolen days with roommates and friends and savoring each moment. Walking down the street or to the park was a magical adventure. I remember braving a drive to see RENT at the movies with a group of friends. The "snow" made it all the better, of course.

Last Thursday, as I drove to work, tiny crystal flurries began to fall onto my windshield. I grinned and recalled hubbubs about the flurries we might receive and didn't think much of it. The farther I drove, the bigger and bolder the snow became. I was absolutely struck by the way it moved across the pavement on the highway. I'd never seen it do that before. It looked like some potion was spilling out of the sky and gracefully dancing for us. 

When I got out of the car at work, the world had been transformed. Not visually, but the sound and feel of everything was different. It has always fascinated me that the "sound" of snowfall makes the rest of the world fall more silent. I could already feel the difference in the ground and anticipated the "thwa, thwa" sound of my shoes crunching the snow on the way to my car later. 

Throughout work/school that day, I found myself lingering by doors and windows repeatedly. I'm worse than the kids. At one point, I snuck into a friend's empty classroom at lunch and just stared out the window and watched it fall for a few minutes.

For the past year, I've been thinking about, reading about, and writing about a topic for my ABYDOS Literacy Writing Trainer Recertification. I started the project after a series of heartbreaking, devastating, and disturbing events took place in our nation and world. School and movie shootings, explosions, and bombings to name a few. The purpose of my topic is my belief that writing helps us cope and grow more brave in a very scary world. 

I can be a bit of a romantic cheese ball, but I'm also a realist. I am very aware of the horrors we face in life, and I've experienced some personally.  BUT I don't believe those dark demons have to destroy us.

I've talked about this with some of my closest friends, but my favorite books and movies aren't action packed or fast-paced. Most of them have very similar themes. Life is hard, and we have to work daily to make our way in it, but there are these brilliant, profound, joy-filled moments that fall like a dusting of snow in our lives every now and then, and they can outweigh those dark times. They make it all worthwhile.

I was watching Downton Abbey recently (some of you smile; some of you roll your eyes… I know). Three of the central characters who had experienced raw, unimaginable grief were sitting in a room together talking. It was just a simple conversation where they each recalled a moment filled with vivid love and joy in their lives. Even though those moments had passed, they stayed with each of them. They still brought them joy and made it all worth it in the midst of great sorrow. 

I hope you find peace and joy. I hope there's something, for you, that makes the world softer and more than just bearable. I guess snow symbolizes that for me. And while I am BEYOND ready for some sunshine and warmer weather after this extraordinarily cold winter we've had in the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex, I'm sure I'll be waiting impatiently next winter if I haven't seen any snowfall by February.

January 5…30 Years Later

Disclaimer: ironically, this is a blog about resilience, faith, hope, and beauty in the world.

30 years ago today, my dad died of cancer. I cannot put into words how dizzyingly mind-boggling this fact is to my mom, my sister, and me. It's not fair that we've lived much more of our lives without him than we had with him (my sister gets credit for that thought). And the last two years we had with him he was battling the cancer.

I was eight years old when he died. I can still remember the physical discomfort of it… the feeling of weights pulling on my stomach and heart. That feeling stayed with me for years afterwards. I was pretty introverted as a child (even when I pretended not to be). I always felt different than other kids; I was different than most kids, and I was trying to come to terms with that throughout childhood and adolescence. My father's death was just another issue added to my already tumultuous growing pains. Some days were unbearably, nauseatingly dark.

I could have wallowed in those dark places. I could have let my situation be an excuse to give up and quit trying (and those thoughts crossed my mind many times).

But I didn't.

I kept trying. I kept getting up every day along with the sun (hehehe…later than the sun, but I got up) and giving it a go. Eventually, it got easier. It got better. Life was more than worth it. I decided to quit dwelling on the fact that my dad was gone. Of course it was unfair and horrible and unimaginable. But it WAS. God and/or the universe "allowed" my dad to die very young or however you want to label it or look at it. I'll be the first to admit that I spent too much time dwelling on it, but I quit. There were plenty of blessings in my world to keep dwelling on. My mom had the strength,  humor, and will of two parents. She never ceased to amaze me. My sister was as "big sister" as they come, but she was also my rock and my common sense compass (and still is). I have an extended family support system and friends that grow and astound me to this day.

Most importantly, I realized I had a lot to offer this world. I could sing and write. I could be kind and generous to a fault. I was FUNNY. I'm not a big talker, but when I say something, it's usually worth hearing.

I've been reminded of all of this over the past several days. A former coworker of mine lost her husband to cancer. They have two young daughters. My heart breaks for them. A friend of mine from college lost her father just this week unexpectedly, and I cannot imagine how that feels to have your world snatched from under you in an instant.

This world can be a devastatingly dark place. Life can knock you down and kick you repeatedly. In my lifetime, we have seen atrocities in our nation and beyond: tsunamis, bombings, shootings, and so on. We can chose to live in the shadow of those dark places, or we can live in the light. Light shines all around us. Even better, we can create the light and be the light. That remains my life's goal, and I plan to keep it that way until my last breath.

I still have sad moments, and I'm glad I do. That means I haven't forgotten my father, and he still matters to me. What I wouldn't give to have a cup of coffee with his 69-year old self. What I wouldn't give to know what he thinks of me and my life and my strengths and flaws. This year at my Turtle Creek Chorale Christmas concerts, we sold poinsettia ornaments to honor our memorialize loved ones. I bought one for my dad (his name was Roger Dale Weeks by the way). I wish he could have seen one of our shows. I'm sure he sees them in his own way, but that's another blog post.


The point I'm trying to make with all of my rambling is that it DOES get better. It gets much easier, and the joy of living returns. At least it has for me. 30 years later, and I'm a happy, thriving 38-year old man. Light is all around.

Sometimes you just have to crawl out of the shadows and find beauty in this world. Or create it yourself.

The Possibility of Hope

The Possibility of Hope

“These are the words I want on my gravestone: that I was a helper, and that I danced.” – Anne Lamott

In January, my roommate, Teresa, and I went to see THE IMPOSSIBLE, a movie about a family’s survival of the Tsunami in Indonesia. We had seen the preview several months earlier. I remembered it vividly because the strapping man sitting next to me was moved to tears just by the preview. He was audibly crying, and it prompted him to reach for his wife’s hand.  It was one of those “pull-out-all-the stops” trailers that sucked you in and made you want to see the movie instantly.

While we knew it would be a difficult movie to watch, the preview assured us it would ultimately be inspiring and uplifting.  We headed to the Angelika at Mockingbird Station on a crisp January afternoon. We had been waiting for this movie for MONTHS, so We. Were. Excited!

As the credits opened, we sat in a crowded theatre and took in the beautiful scene.  Ewan McGreggor, Naomi Watts, and their precious movie children lit up the screen as they headed to an Indonesian resort for a family vacation. It didn’t take long for the chaos to ensue. One moment the family was at the resort pool having the time of their life, and in an instant, the Tsunami hit.

From the offset of the demonic storm, it was obvious that the director of the film wanted the audience to FEEL like they were in the eye of the Tsunami. He succeeded. You felt every blow from the mother’s perspective. We were thrust under the crashing, swirling, violent water with the mother (Naomi Watt’s character). We were tossed around with her and bludgeoned by the debris as it tore around her.  There were many moments where Teresa and I both had our hands splayed over our eyes, peaking through fingers to soften the blows. This went on for about an hour, both during the storm, and during the exhausting aftermath. There was a moment when Teresa and I looked at each other and said, “What have we gotten ourselves into?” with our eyes.

Fast forward several scenes. The mother and oldest son are separated from the father and the youngest two children. The mother can barely walk, and yes, it shows a gaping, bloody wound on her leg as seen through her son’s eyes.  Place hands over eyes...

Fast forward again. The mother and son are found by a native Indonesian and taken to a small village. I was touched and awed by how several women in that village circled around her to wash her and take care of her. They were practically fighting to help her. It was an amazing scene. They eventually transport her to a makeshift “hospital” so she can receive the care she needs. It was a horrific scene.

I was suddenly pulled out of the movie by reality when I began to hear a commotion on the row directly in front of me. A man was yelling at his wife to his left and shaking her gently. As I looked directly in front of me, I saw the woman’s head turned awkwardly upward towards the ceiling. Her eyes and mouth were wide open, but she appeared to be unconscious. It was horrifying.  Her husband was yelling, “Honey! HONEY! Wake up! Wake up! Is there a doctor?! Someone get a doctor!!!! PLEASE!” Imagine any cliché from movies or television, and it took place over the next few moments. The lights came up in the theater. The movie stopped, and the screen went white. All eyes were on the couple right in front of me. The man got on his knees and looked up at the woman sitting to my right and pleaded, “She’s my wife!” with tears in his eyes and anguish in his voice. It’s like we were all witnessing the worst moment in his life.

There were now people approaching the couple and offering assistance, and a nurse who happened to be in the theatre stepped in. The woman having the seizure (or whatever it was) came to and began to make a low howling sound. They laid her out, and the nurse put the woman’s head in her lap and tried to soothe her. I cannot even count how many people were calling 911.

“What’s the address? What’s the address?” a woman shouted repeatedly.

Someone else proclaimed, “It’s Mockingbird Station! I think they can find it!”

At this point, I realized I was standing and alternating on each foot, as if awkwardly  dancing. I wanted to do something to help, but I felt trapped. My roommate looked up at me and calmly said, “Russ…just sit down.” As I sat down, I realized I had apparently, involuntarily unbuttoned my shirt entirely while I was standing distressed. Thank God for cold weather and layers. Teresa and I giggled at that point out of necessity.

The manager of the theatre came in with bottled water for the victim and her husband. Both denied it. A doctor, I assume from the lobby or another theatre came in and talked to the husband and the victim. Everyone in the theatre had a unified look of grave concern on their faces. I looked at the woman to my right, and we had a moment.

“This is insane,” I said.

“I know,” she replied, “the movie was stressful enough.”

After what seemed like forever (actually about 15-20 minutes, I think), the paramedics arrived and gingerly placed the woman on a stretcher. A woman down the row began to ask, almost chanting, “Did someone get her purse? Did they get her jacket? Huh? Did someone get her purse and jacket?”

Someone finally responded, “Yes! See! Her husband has her things.”

We all began to try to get settled.  Some movie goers went out to the bar for drinks. The manager came back into the theater and announced, “OK. If it’s alright with everyone, we will now play the rest of the movie.” You heard a collective sigh as if we were all saying, “Here we go…we’d better brace ourselves.”

Then someone yelled out, “Could you rewind it about five minutes?!”

I’m pretty sure I whispered a four-letter word in reply, but the manager agreed.

We continued to watch the movie. There were many more rough scenes, but there were some profoundly touching ones, as well.

The scene that stood out to me the most was when the mother was lying on the cot in the makeshift hospital, and she looked over at her son. “You should go help people,” she said to him lovingly, “You’re so good at it.”

And he did.

When we left the Angelika that day, we were absolutely spent by the traumatic experience. I prayed for days that the woman in the audience was OK. The movie and the surrounding situation reminded me of life’s fragility, and how powerless we can be, but it also reminded me that as long as humanity maintains its drive to help each other in the face of adversity, this world still has some hope.

My First Marathon

My First Marathon

            I lost my chip. I’ve been training for over six months for this moment, and I won’t have official documentation of my run. I have no idea when it happened, but my chip fell off somewhere between my apartment and the starting line at the American Airlines Center.

            I see my coach and run over to her like a lost first grader. “Jen, my chip fell off! What can I do!?”

            In her usual gruff but positive way, she responds, “Nothin’. No time now, and they couldn’t program a new chip for you anyway. Remember, you’re doing this for you! You are gonna be awesome. You’re ready!”

            Half smiling, I fall into my favorite stretch. I bend at the waist and let my arms dangle to the ground like pendulums. OK. This is it. There’s nothing I can do about it now. Walking toward the starting line, my heart races with anticipation. I cannot believe I’m about to run 26.2 miles.

In elementary school, I couldn’t even do a chin-up on the physical fitness test. I couldn’t run a lap without my side hurting. I wore husky jeans! And now, at 32, I’m taking my fitness to the highest level.

            The signal blows, and we’re off. A chilly dampness fills the air as rainclouds loom, and I feel validated for wearing my water-proof toboggan and windbreaker. I’m relieved as the crowd scatters, and I have room to breathe and run more freely. For the first several miles, I try to occupy my thoughts with anything other than the regret of losing my chip. We run across Dallas, through uptown from the AAC and then cross 75 into the M Streets and Lakewood neighborhoods. It drizzles on and off, but I’m no longer cold. My body temperature has adjusted. Each time I pass a photo stop, I lift my windbreaker, so the photographers can see my bib number. If my mileage cannot be documented, I will have as many pictures as possible…proof that I ran a marathon.

            As I approach White Rock Lake, I have a disturbing realization. Without a chip, my friends and family cannot check my progress and know where I am. For all they know, I passed out where my chip fell off and never made it past the starting line. I start to get panicky, so I slow to a halt at a water stop to call. I ask a random but friendly-looking woman if I can borrow her cell phone. She immediately hands the phone over, and I call my friend Teresa, whose phone is like her sixth sense, so I know she’ll answer. “My chip fell off somewhere! I’m running around the lake. I’m about halfway, so it should be a couple of more hours.”

            I don’t even wait for a reply as I hand the lady her phone with a grateful sigh. Turning around, I notice a long table full of beer shots. They offer beer shots on marathons because beer is loaded with carbs. I shrug my shoulders and down the Dixie cup full of beer as I return to my run on the trail. Who am I kidding? I take a second shot before returning to my run.

            As I continue rounding the lake, I remember my coach’s words. “You’re doing this for you…” but that’s not entirely true. I was doing this for myself, but a part of me was doing it for my father. When he was alive, I was never athletic. My sister was the athletic one, and I was the artistic, musical child. This is another one of those milestones where I want my dad here, like graduation or awards or my promotion. It’s still so difficult not to have a relationship with him, even as an adult. I wish I could see him cheering me on.

            As I continue to feel sorry for myself, I see a towering, middle-aged man holding a fluorescent pink poster board with the words, “Have you seen my daughter? She’s one in a million!” in huge capital letters. Tears immediately sprout from my eyes and mingle with my rain-soaked face. Thank GOD for the rain. After reading those precious words, I am filled with a menagerie of emotions and memories. I am reminded that I take my father with me wherever I go. He is with me, beamingly proud of his son the way that man is of his daughter. As I round the lake, I am smiling and misting and inspired as I begin the last leg of the race.

            The last mile is the most difficult. When I begin to see the AAC in the distance, I feel hopeful but drag at the same time. It can’t be more than a mile away, but my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti that will soon detach from my body. Flailing along, I keep telling myself to hold on. A woman probably 20 years older than me appears on my right with a smile. “Almost there… You can do it! Lookin’ good!” I want to hug her and push her down at the same time, but I give her a pseudo-smile and say, “thanks,” lumbering on.

            Almost there, I remind myself. I hear the crowd cheering. When I get to the big finish, some energetic miracle pushes me to sprint the last few yards. As I near the finish line, I see friends and family cheering to my right side. My mom and Teresa are jumping up and down, and my sister is taking pictures. They are probably freezing but not showing any signs of discomfort.

            I cross the finish line, and someone wraps me in an aluminum-looking tarp and leads me to pictures. A volunteer places a medal over my head. I stand in front of the camera, dizzy with pride and exhaustion.

            I walk back towards my family and friends. I see them in the distance, smiling and proud themselves. In my mind’s eye, I see my dad with a fluorescent orange poster that reads, “Have you seen my son? He’s one in a million.”

Russ Weeks

Keep Singing

Keep Singing

  

As a child I worried about everything.  I worried about my self and feeling different, isolated, and alone. I worried about my family’s well-being.  I worried about school. I worried about questions I had about God and church and the world and everyone’s place in it. I worried about endangered animals. I worried about anything and everything in the world.  I could invent things to worry about. Thankfully, the older I get, the less I worry (some friends and family would beg to differ, but I swear…I’m better than I was!), and the less I fear.

When a national tragedy occurs, however, life thrusts me back into my childhood, and I feel completely helpless and worry-stricken. When the Boston Marathon terrorist explosion occurred, something in me collapsed.  As I drove around on work errands on that mid-April day, I began to hear the news reports on the radio. I remember thinking to myself, “Are you kidding me?! What now?!”

As someone who has run one marathon (yes, only one, and I’m PROUD of it), two half-marathons, and numerous 5Ks, I kind of get the joy of running. I know the exhilarating rush and joy that comes with it. That joy I feel pales in comparison to passionate runners who do so every day and run numerous marathons a year. Running permeates their lives. They get up in the morning to run. They eat, sleep, work, and breathe running. I know some of these people, and I might, at times, think they’re a bit nuts, but they inspire me deeply.  I have heard people in running groups discuss aspirations and dreams of running the New York or Boston Marathon. It is a major milestone for the passionate runner.  I know this is why my heart broke so emphatically for those affected by the bombing at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. While the runners were pushing themselves toward the end of a milestone, some of them came to the end of their lives. Some of them were maimed in such a way that their running lives would never be the same. I could not stop worrying for these passionate runners.

There is a song by Patty Griffin (I promise not to quote her in every blog) that she wrote for her father when he passed away. Her poignant lyrics remind me of an afterlife that I hope for anyone who is taken from this world unnecessarily too soon, especially those who die in pursuit of a passion or a great love. It’s entitled, “Go Wherever You Wanna Go.” We all have the human right to follow our passions and to go where we want to go in life in order to thrive and be the human beings we are destined to be. To me, it seems evil is magnified in a tragedy like Boston’s. Not only did the killers terrorize a group of people, they terrorized a group of people who were pursuing their life’s passion.

On Tuesday, April 16, right after the bombing, I was driving to rehearsal for Turtle Creek Chorale. As I drove, still worrying and thinking about Boston, something clicked. One of my life’s greatest passions is music and singing. What if I could no longer sing? What if I could no longer go to TCC on Tuesday evenings and sing with my Turtle Brothers? And worse, what if someone intentionally took that passion from me…that life force that made my place in this world so valid in my eyes.  As I parked and walked up to Sammons Center for the Arts for rehearsal, I made a promise to myself that I would embrace every moment of this rehearsal. I owed it to myself and to the victims in Boston.

We had a productive rehearsal that night. Our “Kander and Ebb” concert run was two days away, so we ran through song after song with vigor.

As the end of rehearsal neared, our artistic director, Trey Jacobs, began to speak of the bombing and how we could honor the victims. He proceeded to lead us in a song we sang at our fall concert, a recurring song in our repertoire entitled, “The Awakening,” by Joseph M. Martin. The song recounts a dream (or perhaps a nightmare) of a world devoid of music. The dreamer imagines a place where “no bird sang” and “no choir sang to change the world.” At the end of the song, the dreamer awakens and declares:

“Let music never die in me! Forever let my spirit sing! Wherever emptiness is found, let there be joy and glorious sound. Let music never die in me! Forever let my spirit sing! Let all our voices join as one to praise the Giver of the song. Awake! Awake! Let music live! Let Music live!” (Martin).

           

We live in a scary world.  Every week it seems we are bombarded with more bad news. We can all take a lesson from marathon runners. They are an ultimate symbol of passion, perseverance, and accomplishment. We should not let evil or fear keep us from pursuing and enjoying whatever it is that we are passionate about in this life. We owe it to ourselves and to those who have gone before us to thrive in this life in any way we possibly can.

“You can get up on some sunny day and run. Run a hundred miles just for fun now. Heartaches and yesterdays don’t weigh a ton now. You can get up on some sunny day and run. “ – Patty Griffin