A Rare Opportunity to Pay It Forward

As my daughter would say, I live pretty close to the bone. Oftentimes my existence depends on help from family and friends. A nearly unbelievable series of events, however, has given me a rare opportunity to pay it forward.

Last night I stayed at school until after 11 p.m. trying to tie up some loose ends. Usually I check my Droid just as I leave to be sure nothing is left undone, but given the lateness of the hour and my level of exhaustion, I just grabbed my bags and left.

Upon arriving at home, I went to pull my Droid from my purse for recharging. But it wasn't there. I had last used the Droid to call up case law for discussion in torts class. Positive it was still lying beneath the lectern, knowing the doors were now locked and I had no key, I went to bed and tried to sleep without worrying. Had I only followed my normal pattern of checking the phone, it wouldn't have been left behind.

This morning I planned to leave at 7:30 a.m. so as to arrive at school at 8 a.m. sharp, when I knew the doors would first open. But I finished breakfast at 7:15 and had 15 minutes to kill. I pulled out my AAA magazine, and decided not to worry about getting to school right at 8. Since this was a Friday, odds were high that the classroom would not be in use. It was, therefore, 8:15 a.m. when I left for Harrisonburg--15 minutes later than originally planned.

The Droid was right where I thought it would be, beneath the lectern propped on the table. I grabbed that lifeline (my computer connection, scheduler, note pad, etc.) and headed for the door, only to see a train blocking the tracks on the route I usually take. So I took a right and headed home on I-81--something else I never do.

My gas tank was low (normally I fill it at the halfway point, but last weekend the gas station I usually use was full and cars were waiting in line. I didn't have the patience to wait so I left without filling up). In Mauzy, I checked the gauge and decided to fill the tank there instead of in Broadway. Again I never buy gas at Mauzy because I prefer to support my home town business owners when I can. Buying gas in Broadway today, however, because of the route change, would necessitate left turns--something else I always try to avoid. So I pulled over at Mauzy and filled my tank.

Alas! the machine did not print a receipt. Normally I would just leave and not worry about it. But because this was an unfamiliar station, I opted to go inside and request a duplicate. I didn't want to risk being accused of not paying. Another delay of a few minutes.

As I left the station, a young man sitting in a car parked next to a pump called out from the driver's seat of a car.

"Excuse me, ma'am. Do you by any chance have $4, enough to buy a gallon of gas so that I can get home?"

A quick scan gathered no threatening movements or aggressiveness, only calm. There were piercings and long hair. Nothing though that sent out any warning bells.

Now I never travel with cash in my wallet. But earlier this week, I had been paid cash for several textbooks and hadn't had the opportunity to deposit the money. So again, because of an unusual circumstance, I happened to have $4 for a gallon of gas, exactly what he had requested (later I wished I'd been more generous!). I had no qualms about giving him the money; he was parked at a gas pump after all. So I handed over the cash and headed on my way as he went inside the station requiring cash or card payment before pumping gas.

Now I have never been one to believe too much in divine appointments. People are so fickle and prone to act on whim and impulse that I find it hard to imagine a God orchestrating a set chain of events. Nonetheless I had to admit that this series of events was way too coincidental for me felt very providential.

And so it was that I soon found myself headed down Route 259 with great joy in my heart. Just maybe divine appointments do occur after all.

Community

"Grow up and stop being so self-centered! The running world does not revolve around you," I wanted to shout at a monthly columnist who writes about his experiences as a new runner. It seems that every rambling column has the same underlying refrain: what is everyone thinking as I breathe hard, try a new gadget, attempt a new performance record? In this most recent article, the author detailed his struggle to strap a heart rate monitor to his chest, a device he'd never tried before. When his first attempt ended with the device girdled around his upper shoulders instead of his chest, his first thought was to look out the door and window to see if anyone could see his gaffe.

The columnist would have saved an immense amount of effort had he just swallowed some pride and called a running buddy to show him how to use the device. The columnist is not wrong to think that runners notice him. They probably do. But the runners I know aren't watching for the purpose of belittling, embarrassing, or shaming another. They look because they care and because they want to see an encouraging face.

Unlike the columnist, I have learned to risk. When registering for my first ten-mile race, I was handed a timing chip and told that if I lost the thing I'd have to pay a huge-to-me sum to replace it (about $100 as I recall). Given the worst case alternative of paying for a replacement, the next worst case of an incorrect attachment not accurately recording my running time, or experiencing a momentary bit of embarrassment by asking another runner to show the proper way to use the thing, I swallowed my pride, held out my foot and allowed a complete stranger to invade my personal space and attach the thing. Worry-free I ran that 10-miler according to plan, smiling and waving at other runners who always returned the greeting. I was so green I didn't even know enough to wait for the awards ceremony; instead I hurried home to fix lunch for friends. And a couple weeks later I learned by e-mail that I had taken second place in my age group. Swallowing my pride was worth the engraved duffle bag I won as a prize.

As an asthmatic, I have often noticed others watch me struggle to breathe and ask me if I am okay. Even if I can't speak, I still nod and eek out a smile, grateful that they care. Their compassion keeps me running, even when I don't feel like it. Other runners' praise and comaradarie provides the gumption to push harder and faster than I'd have dared. Though I have no intention of ruining their run by going out too hard and causing an asthmatic attack, it is nonetheless comforting to know that if I do inadvertently push too hard someone will care enough to help.

One runner I know often leads the pack. Otentimes he even wins. Almost always he turns around and runs the race in reverse until he sees the last straggler cross the finish line.

I have taken on the runners' attitude. When I see a struggler, I call out words of encouragement. If I see an awkward gait or stumble, I watch to see if help is needed. But, unlike the columnist, I choose gratitude for every runner who has ever noticed me for I know runners as a compassionate bunch.

And I fear the self-centered, lone-ranger columnist has unnecessarily deprived himself of the energy he could gain from the energy showered on by other runners.

Third Way Thinking Leads to Change in Routine

Possibly OCD, the doctor said. Obsessive thought patterns, and compulsive behaviors patched together in an effort to keep the obsessive thoughts at bay.

My symptoms? excessive list making and a need for routine. Ironically, my desire to control the obsessive, spaghettied thoughts in my head has created a rigid world that no longer works, and I wasn't even aware of it until repeated sightings of that Third Way Media sign embedded itself in my brain. As I wrote a few days ago, to run or not to run has become the wrong question. It's either-or thinking, a lack of creativity, a lack of digging down deep enough to discover the real issues warring within.

But learning a new lesson takes time and either-or thinking reigned its ugly head Sunday morning again. Weather.com promised a scorcher of a day. My running buddy would want to run in the afternoon in the hot sun on the hot track. I just knew my poor lungs would never make it. And I wanted to run, not slog or walk in the heat. That same detrimental question was doing loops in my brain again. Ignoring the limiting question, I jumped out of bed, pulled on my socks, and ran in the cool shade of Broadway Community Park--at about 7 a.m. without any breakfast, and a bit fearful I would get too hungry and weak to finish. But what if I did? I would at least learn something in the attempt. I stuck my phone in a pocket in case of a problem; somebody would come get me if need be.

Later, with wiggles out and body relaxed, I arrived at church in a calm state, better able to focus on worship than I'd been in months.

I ran two hours earlier than normal on Tuesday morning, too, but found road traffic too busy with a mix of school buses, cars, SUVs and vans. But this time I asked the right question: where else might I run, not do I run at 7 or not. So this morning I did my 7 a.m. run in the cool shade on the gravel trail at the park. My podiatrist said trail runs are really better for my feet, so that's another gain from the change in routine. And with no need to be mindful of traffic, I found my thoughts able to flow completely uninterrupted.

Running and third way thinking. It works when I remember to try it. Now to apply this concept to my career, to class preparations, to helping students learn. I should have tried it yesterday--gone to the creek for a respite sooner rather than later.

Respite

Weather.com predicted temperatures in the high-90s today. With the air conditioner running non-stop, I spent the majority of the day trying to reign in words so as to accurately depict the last couple months of Shenandoah Valley Track Club life. Amongst the text, I downloaded photos and tried to find engaging captions. As I copied, pasted and maneuvered boxes of content using PowerPoint, none of which wanted to evolve into anything resembling the newsletter I so envisioned in my head, I grew more and more frustrated.

"Once begun is half done," my gram used to say. And with this parable locked onto my brain, at 9 a.m. this a.m., I had willed myself to start. Past experience, I had thought, demonstrated that Gram was right. And though not in the mood to tackle the project, I figured I'd get into the thing once I got started. But after doggedly pursuing the project nonstop until 2:30 p.m., I decided Gram's parable was not going to work its magic today.

I tried a nap. Then, in response to a "help me" e-mail, a friend said she would take pics of Saturday's race, The Wounded 5K. Part of today's problem was a lack of material; earlier pleadings for news had netted little. I decided my friend's e-mail was my cue to give up on the project till next week, when another opportunity should present itself.

And so I took my frustrated, hot self on a respite I have promised myself often--but never fulfilled. I headed up the road to Heritage Park, hunter green folding canvas chair in a bag slung over my shoulder. Another small bag, slung over that same shoulder, held "If You Want to Walk on the Water, You Have to Get Out of the Boat" by John Ortlund, my Camelbak water bottle, and cell phone.

There was very little foot traffic on the paved 1/4 mile path--a race walker and a runner. I hurried creek side, then slowed as I took up the pursuit for a quiet spot. Near the bridge, I spied a large tree on the creek's edge. There the bank drops a foot or two and then spreads another six feet to the water's edge. There, a slightly hollowed out sandy spot formed the perfect spot for my folding chair. As I sat, my feet rested on a nature-made footstool formed by the rim of the hollow.

The scent of fishy river air merged with the scent of freshly mowed grass every time the air stirred. Not enough breeze to rustle my arm hairs and chill me, just enough to caress, comfort and calm. Down toward my right, a shimmer formed where cool water evaporated into the day's heat. And across from me, a bank of trees reflected on the water. In the center of that mosaic of green swirls, a gnarled tree trunk snaked its way to the top of the canopy. On my left, high water, caused by the spring's over abundant rains, bubbled and gurgled as it raced across stones and boulders on the creek floor.

I read the last three chapters of Ortlund's book, rested my head on the back of my chair, soaked up the air, basked in the serenity--and wished I had brought another book.