Ask me about my feet.

Yesterday my friend Kim called me and invited me to go on a barefoot walk for children without shoes.   “What do we do?” I asked. “We take a walk. Without shoes,” she replied.  And I was in.

We met at Center Street, where I learned the event was sponsored by TOMS shoe company.  I removed my shoes and had the TOMS logo painted on my face, and we all began to rally with our signs down University Avenue.

And by “we all” I mean…. Well, all seven of us.  Seven of us women in our 20’s.  We got some attention, but not because people were fascinated by our cause.  Cars of student-age boys continuously flipped U-turns and honked at us throughout our walk.  We even got a few whistles.  And I just kept walking along, waving my sign that read, “Ask me about my feet.” No one did, and if they had I don’t know what I would have told them. Because really, there were only three things I knew about my feet in that moment:

1. The bottoms of them were black.

2. They had recently stepped in something wet that may have been dog pee or maybe just spilled soda.

3.  My toenails needed to be repainted and SOON.

And so during that walk with our army of seven I silently prayed that no one asked me about my feet.

At the end of our gallant march I contemplated that protest.  I felt a little like I had just provided free advertising for TOMS.  And I always hoped that the first time I picketed a sign somewhere, it would be for a cause I was fiercely passionate about; and I would wave my sign and yell until my voice left me and feel exhilarated and proud and collapse into bed at the end of the day with a sense of accomplishment for having contributed something great to the world. It wasn’t very much like that. I went home, washed my feet, scratched the blue silvery paint off my face, and went to bed thinking hard about how we’re almost out of milk. 

A not-so-flattering photo of my face, the billboard.

P.S. I really do believe that children need shoes in the world.  So, at the risk of once again being a walking billboard, you might want to clickety click here instead of asking me about my feet.

On marathons

We could see our breath, my sister and I, and the breath of dozens of others around us, all standing anxiously behind the rope and orange cones dividing us from the runners.

I made a note to self: Logan in September equals winter. I’d come to my parents for the weekend dressed in flip-flops and a t-shirt, so I was awkwardly dressed in an old brown sweater my mom bought in London in the ‘60s, a pair of oversized blue socks, and some moccasin-like slippers, two sizes too big. My stomach grumbled and I understood what it was telling me: “Me want more than poppyseed muffin for BREAKFAAAAST! RARRRRR!” I checked my watch. We had been standing near the finish line for the Top of Utah marathon for five long minutes, watching for Dad to come tearing heroically past us.

I started watching the runners. Some sprinted in with large grins on their faces, glowing rather than sweating, looking victorious and fit and ready to run ten more miles. Others looked pale and sick, limping across the finish line soaking with tears and sweat, tapping into their very last deeply embedded molecule of energy with every agonizing step. Another group fit somewhere in the middle: they looked somewhat happy to be finished, but were trying to conceal pain and emotion behind a smile or a tough face.

As I watched this sweaty parade jog, dash, and hobble past me, I made a goal to cheer for every person that went by until Dad appeared. Cari joined me: “Go pink lady!” “You look awesome, Nike!” “Nice finish, Michigan State!” My cheers got louder when we got an old person, a limper, or anyone that looked like living death. My voice got hoarser and hoarser, and I started warming up. In fact, when someone made eye contact and smiled because I was cheering for them, my heart turned into a giant furnace capable of powering the Boeing factory.

But I wasn’t the only one cheering. Everyone around me seemed to feel the same sense of compassion for these runners. Small old ladies were cheering for young shirtless men with long beards and dreadlocks. Children were rooting for other people’s grandmas and grandpas. Occasionally family members –including those just learning to walk – would step out from behind the rope to run the last leg with their loved ones. Race, age, class, religion, and appearances became meaningless against everyone’s desire to help each person survive to the end with kind words of encouragement. Everyday labels were replaced with uniform runner’s numbers on the back of everyone’s shirts. We became a family, all of us huddled behind the orange cones, and all of those persistent souls flocking their way to the sign that meant everything in that moment: “FINISH.”

We were complete strangers. But for a moment, it occurred to me that maybe we don’t have to be. In the marathon of life, why aren’t we screaming ourselves hoarse for each other? Do we not all deserve help in crossing our own personal finish lines, whatever those may be? Does not every hand deserve another’s – even a stranger’s – to be a guide and a strength for the last leg? If I learned nothing else from this run-down, soaking group of finishers, it’s that cheering for strangers of all shapes and sizes is cool. And pretty dang inspiring. And a great way to drown out a whiney stomach.

Oh, and my dad finished at around 4 hours with bronchitis, a strained Achilles tendon, and extra gray hairs. Everyone cheered real loud as he hobbled to his own personal victory.

Gold's Gym Special Needs

We’re fat, the husband and I. It’s this thing that happened when we got married. Calorie-burning activities like desperate flirting at parties were no longer necessary, and we found ourselves doing COUPLE activities all the time… you know… like eating lots of shave ice and reading Harry Potter.

So now we’re in Provo. The first day we got here, we got a doorknob brochure reading GOLD’S GYM SPECIAL with a really fit looking woman in a tanktop for emphasis. I thought, “Wow… I want to be a Gold’s Gym kind of special,” and Kendon agreed. I bet the Gold’s Gym doorknob brochure-disperser must have known that married housing is the place where people go to stop burning calories. They should probably give that guy a raise.

HOWEVER. As much as I wanted to look as sweaty and toned and summer-licious as the chick on the brochure, I was hesitant. Simply put, I hate gyms. I hate the muscle heads and the smell. I have always felt that if I want to get exercise, I can step out of my doors for FREE and go for a run in some fresh, friendly, unpolluted-by-muscle-head air. Most of all, though, I hate the salesmen. They pretend like you’re their friend, even though they don’t even know you, and even though there are dollar signs in their eyes, and even though if you don’t do what they say they will lock you in a room and use their tactics until you die of old age or give in to them. Not my idea of a very friendly friend, thank you.

But alas. My brother gets married in a month and I have a gut that must disappear before people start asking pregnancy questions when it protrudes like a watermelon in my tight new dress. So we went to inquire about the special.

When we stepped through the doors, the receptionist gave us papers to fill out with all our information, starting with our date of birth, social security number, disease history, pin numbers, deepest secrets, and expected cause of death. I’m still not sure what they do with those. Maybe it was just to give us something to do during the vast amount of time we spent waiting around for the sales guy…. in which case I probably should have just drawn some pictures.

Finally Adam, our salesman, arrived, unnecessarily wearing a windbreaker (I’ve noticed that buildings are generally windproof in the 21^st century) and a smug expression. He didn’t have to lock us in a room. Luckily for him – and us – we knew as well as he did that we are a fat couple with Gold’s Gym Special Needs, so we patiently listened as he explained the pricing by writing numbers upside down from across the table (showoff!). At several points I nearly burst out, “NEVER MIND!!” Just to surprise him and make him feel less smug. But I looked down at my gut and it told me to behave.

After hearing the pricing, we did the part where we signed our souls away. I didn't take the time to read the 10-page contract, but I’m pretty sure I agreed to never hit a salesman, to donate my organs to exercise science, and to give Gold’s Gym my firstborn child if I ever stop making payments.

Once I’d signed my name 27 times and given 49 initials for small clauses, Adam handed us another sheet and said, “Part of the special is that you must refer at least three friends.” I looked at him, astounded, and said, “I don’t have friends.” (Seriously, what do they do about the sad people who have no one in life? Talk about rubbing it in). But Adam insisted, so I referred Ronald McDonald, Ronald Weasley, and Adam the sales guy. Ha! Who’s feeling smug now?

But my victory was short lived, for we were then immediately attacked by Cameron, the personal trainer. He was also wearing a windbreaker. He looked at us with a sappy smile, crouched down to our sitting level, and said in his I’m-talking-to-amateurs voice, “When can we get you guys in for some one-on-one training?” He had his pen ready against a big important calendar. Again, I nearly yelled “NEVER!!!!” Just to wipe that overly sympathetic smile off his face. But instead I said, “Friday at 10 looks good.” When we left, I felt as though my time could have been better spent going for a jog.

But never mind, now we are official Gold's Gym members with shiny official Gold's Gym barcodes that give us identity and a sense of belonging. And this morning at 10 a.m. we attended our first official Gold's Gym personal training session. It felt good. But I could just be saying that because Gold’s Gym owns my soul.

Lessons from hikes

Life is a hike.

A miserable, grueling, pain-inflicting hike.

This is the conclusion I drew yesterday after embarking on one of Hawaii’s most difficult hikes: the Crouching Lion.

Actually, come to find out, we went above and beyond the Crouching Lion hike. We missed a turn that would bring us back the happy safe way, and found ourselves wandering for six hours in a dark and dreary wilderness.

At least that’s what I thought for most of the second half. My legs were shaking. I was out of water. My skin was lobster-red. We had to balance narrow ridges, climb rock walls, and grab onto trees to stop gravity from pulling us straight down the mountain all at once. Sounds fun, yes? Only when one is in shape. And folks, this hike confirmed that I do not at present fit in this category.

It was during the most difficult parts of this journey that I had to remind myself now and then to look up from my muddy, cut-up, quivering feet. Doing so rewarded me every time with the most breathtaking views on Oahu’s North Shore: views that many who live here their whole lives will never witness. A lush, green, uninhabited valley stretched out below us, comfortably sheltered from the rest of the world by the watch of the towering tree-filled mountains around it. At other points I could see where the blue of the ocean turned dark before kissing a bright, cloud-free sky. I saw a mountain goat grazing on an opposite cliff. I saw moss-covered paths and stairways so perfect they looked like they’d been constructed by fairy-tale creatures. I discovered plant life that seemed to know it was too wonderful and strange to allow its seeds to spread past these mountainous ridges. These elements combined in my most grueling moments to assure me that there was still much to be appreciated; that beauty still existed; that God still loved me.

And so it is with life. When we least expect it, we are certain to be met with rocky ridges and wrong turns and, at times, unimaginable pain. Our weaknesses will slap us in the face. And it is in these moments that we need only look up. When we look beyond the pain, we find beauty. We find it in the people who love us, in the experiences we’re gaining, and in the promise of increased strength when it’s all over. We find beauty, most of all, in the constancy of a loving God.

I thought of all this on that punishing, merciless trail. And when Kendon and I emerged and slowly limped, hand in hand, back to the car, I had a flash-forward to the future of us doing this very thing together, on some distant day, when the long hike of our life begins to come to a close.

Running

I haven't been running in several days, so on Tuesday I pull on my shorts, slip on my brown running shoes (they used to be green) and a t-shirt, and step out into the hottest, muggiest day little Laie's seen in weeks.

Down the road, past the empty rugby field and the Laotian farms, there's a muddy trail that snakes up into the jungle. Other people can have their beach on sunny days. I like the ocean too, but up here... this is the paradise I will remember long after I've left Hawaii.

Jumpy creatures -- probably frogs -- get startled as I run by and create brown clouds in the giant puddles keeping them cool. I cross a few barbed wire fences and keep running: up, up, right, left, two steps breathe in, one step breathe out.

Eventually the trail goes over a dry stream bed that winds deeper into the jungle. It's too enticing to pass up. A run is not a run unless I've veered off the trail somewhere, attempted to catch some unsuspecting creature, or at least climbed a tree (banyans are my favorite). The rocks here are slippery, so I hoist myself out of the stream bed and wander into the jungle. Tall weeds and fallen branches immediately attack me, and my legs begin to look like that time at 13 when I realized I was allergic to penicillin. But I keep going. The jungle is peaceful but full of life, and it beckons me deeper and deeper. The trail, the jumpy mud puddles, and Laie feel like worlds away, and now comes my favorite part. I climb atop a boulder and listen.

I hardly notice the beads of sweat running down my shoulders and back or the mosquitoes savoring my wet, smelly ankles. I just stand there on my mossy boulder, inhaling the delicious smell of green and listening to the surrounding song of the jungle. An angry finch sits on a nearby branch and threatens me in the only way he knows how: his tiny orange beak squawks and bounces up and down while his throat and small body vibrate rapidly. Other birds, ignoring me, sing to no one as they fly overhead. There is no sky here; only the soft leaves of the jungle pine can be seen above me, getting teased by the gentle wind. I listen in wonder. The music of the jungle is a music no symphony could do justice. It's the most beautiful, quiet cacophony I know of. It reminds me that, even way up here, I'm not alone.

The jungle screams at me, sings to me in this manner until I let gravity carry me back down the trail and on to homework, neighbors and facebook pages. In the meantime I listen from my boulder... and rather enjoy the company.