~Hebrews 12

The day had finally arrived. I had dreamed of this day, off and on, for almost 12 years, had been preparing for it since early January, and had been training extensively for 16 weeks.  It was October 11, 2009, the day of the 32nd Chicago Marathon.   A 33 degree temperature greeted the 45,000  runners in the gray early morning.  Meredith — my sister-in law, dear friend & training buddy — and I were wearing the fashionable black trash bags as our warm up gear.  I was delightfully surprised that there were many trash-bag-clad runners in the crowd that morning.   Black was definitely  the color of choice for the two of us.

The crowd was immense, massed in ordered ranks behind the Grant Park starting line from fastest to slowest-paced runners. We found a spot in the crowd in between her 12 minute mile pace and my 15 minute mile pace.  Starting the race together was important to us as we knew that we would not be running together for long.  We had trained “together” in separate states, so this needed to be a shared moment, a time to physically be there with each other as we met the call to this challenge. The crowd was swelling, cold but jovial.  Tears  once again formed in my eyes as I thought of how hard I had trained, of the runs I had done with my 2 daughters;  of my three sons, husband, dad, sister and niece  who would be cheering for me along the route;  of the prayers my church had offered for me the week before;  of Julie from Run Happy Tees and the beautiful t-shirt gifts she had given me, just to honor a fellow mom.  This was it.  So many lessons and so many miles to make it to this day.  I was part of the 2009 Chicago Marathon! I was nervous.  I was excited.  I was ready to run!

The starting gun went off at 7:30 a.m., and the crowd surged forward. Mer and I crossed the start line at 7:57a.m.  I was amazed at the sea of runners ahead of me and thrilled that I was joining this throng.  We ran together for about 5 minutes.  Then, I kissed her goodbye.  As Meredith disappeared into the crowd I turned around.  The number of people behind me was despairingly thin.  And about 2 blocks away was a police car bringing up the rear, like the sad end of  a parade.

I looked at the woman running next to me and said,  “I cant believe that I am going to spend the next 26.2 miles being chased at a SLOW speed by the Chicago Police.”  She responded, “Don’t look in front or behind…just run your own race.” And I was prepared to do just that.

Within minutes I saw the lights on the squad car and the officer driving began to tell the runners in the road to move to the sidewalks, because they were opening the roads.   If there was any time  during the 26.2 miles that I encountered a wall, it was right then.  I had only been running for about 15 minutes,  all of my training had advised to start slowly on marathon day.  It takes a while to get your pace… and now I needed to move to the sidewalk!?  I obeyed.  But I was angry and felt like quitting. I tried hard to remember “run your own race.”

I then hit the first water station. Paper cups were stacked five or six layers deep, hundreds of them on each of  sixteen folding tables, each cup filled with water for thirsty runners. As I arrived and drank a cup, the volunteer in charge told the swarms of volunteers that they could empty  their water and Gatorade as the last runners were coming through the line.

I must say it was an amazing sight.  The volunteers tipped over their tables, sending thousands of cups of liquid flowing into the streets of Chicago.  My heart fell a bit more  — here I was at mile two, it was only 8:30 a.m. and I was realizing that I would be running this race on the sidewalk and perhaps with little support.  The people I was navigating around on the sidewalk were  rude, telling me I was in the way.  I decided I would take advantage of the bathroom at  the 5k, then dig deep and pull ahead of that annoying pace car.  But when I came out I was following garbage trucks  and the pacing car was at least 6 blocks ahead of me.  Despair!¹  I honestly could not believe it.  I  had trained so hard.  I was so looking forward to running my race in the city I had called home for 14 years.  Now my dream of doing a marathon was here, and I would have to follow the garbage trucks.

I then remembered that some one in my church as they prayed had said something about courage to run.  They had physically held up my arms in prayer as a sign of endurance and victory. And someone else had said, “God has a surprise for you in Chicago — watch for it!”   So I started over.  I decided that my goal had been to finish.  I had worked hard, and even if I did not get a medal my family would be there at the finish line to validate and celebrate this victory.  I pulled up every ounce of courage that I could muster.   I put on my earbuds, delighted in the encouragement of the Marathon Cheering Team of The Moody Church and mentally prepared to chase those garbage trucks for 26.2 miles.  The 2009 Chicago Marathon began for me a second time.

Finding My Surprise Gift

Midway through mile five I met Pat, an African American woman from Connecticut. By this time the garbage trucks were no longer visible,² but neither were there any crowds cheering on the sidelines. There were maybe twenty Marathoners visible; the people on the sidelines — apart from local residents and the occasional die-hard fan — were those who had been watching a race, but now they were going home to get warm. Paper cups, poster-board signs, hats, gloves & warm-up clothing littered the streets.³ Pat was walking, and I slowed my pace to greet her. We chatted a bit and I asked if she would run with me.  As we ran into the 6.4 mile water station we were greeted by cold but friendly volunteers who still had some water and Gatorade. I was excited because the tracking mat was still on the ground and connected, though the service truck was there to pick it up.  I told the driver he’d better not  touch that mat until Pat and I went over it! At least my family would know where I was.  (Little did I know that it would not track me — nor did it track thousands of other runners, because of a problem with the tracking system software.)

I think when we crossed that tracking station we were glad that we had found each other.  We were still getting to know one another, sharing our stories about our journey to the marathon and our training details.  We were running  as much as possible.  Pat had trained for walking, not doing a lot of running; I had trained cautiously, running for 11 miles continuously at my longest stretch, and mixing walking & running when my training took me on a 14, 16, or 18 mile trek. We were both in shock that they were cleaning up so early in the morning.  We were determined to finish but wondering what this was going to look like.  I noticed a building clock said 9:40.  I told Pat how my church had prayed for me the previous week and that they had committed to pray for me each step of the way on marathon day.  Church would be starting soon.  I had a new resolve that this day would turn out okay.

At mile 8 or so Pat and I threw our empty cups into the road.  The road had not been swept yet and I felt that should at least be able to do that, as all the runners before me had been able to do.  We’d been taking encouragement from cheers of those few die-hard fans who love to support the least, who would brave the cold until the last runners left their neighborhood.  But what stabbed my heart was the woman who yelled at us.  Didn’t we know that we were littering her street, her neighborhood?  People lived here and you need to be respectful of that!  Didn’t she know that I loved that city, too? And not just Lincoln Park where we were, or Rogers Park where I got married and lived a block off of Devon Street, but also Stony Island Park on the South Side,  where my husband had his first full time teaching job,  the New Eastside where we both had worked at the Chicago Children’s Museum, and  Lawndale on the West Side, where college students and I had lived, worked and worshiped as part of InterVarsity’s Chicago Urban Project. I had fallen in love with Chicago as a senior in college, when I took the L to Operation PUSH on the first day of a semester there. I had prayed for this city.  Wept over this city.  Lived, worked, explored and played in this city. And this woman was accusing us of disrespect?!?  I looked at Pat and said, “We have a right to be here. Let’s run and STOMP on injustice!”

There were more lingering spectators in the next stretch, though even as they cheered the clean up crews were working diligently to make the streets sparkle.  We were running in the street, since here in Lincoln Park, police officers were sill keeping the streets closed to traffic.  I was enjoying my marathon.  I was feeling pretty good. Around mile 9, we ran into the wild and crazy cheers & hugs of my family, who had staked out a place to wait for Meredith & me in front of the Weiner’s Circle.⁴ We were behind the final pace car, but ahead of this neighborhood’s cleaning crew. My husband gave me two power bars and some bottles of water, thank goodness!  We would need these.  It was about this time that I realized that Pat was my surprise.  My gift from God.  And underneath my conscious effort to just keep moving forward, I unconsciously made the decision to carry on with her, come what may.

Half  Way There

Pat and I had been pushing ourselves to pass other runners, taking the race one short push at a time. Around mile twelve we were met by Pat’s husband.  He told us the Marathon was over — were we planning to finish the course?  We responded simply and in unison, “YES!!”

But despite our best efforts, a second bathroom stop had put us behind the cleaning crews again. One thing that struck me as we turned onto Adams Street toward the West side was the clean up.  As we’d come down through Old Town along Sedgwick and Wells, following the crews, there was not a cup on the street.  There was NO evidence that 45, 000 runners and 1.5 million people had been in there just a short time before.  Honestly, I have never seen city streets looks SO clean on a blustery fall day.  But here on Adams heading into the West Loop, there were still cups and banana peels littering the road.  There was evidence that there had been a party.  It wasn’t bad, but it certainly was not pristine — not the showpiece street of the city.  My desire was to stop, pick up the trash, and give some respect to this neighborhood where people lived.

Somewhere before mile 16, Pat and I  saw some water bottles in cases that were unattended alongside the course. We ran to grab one, and heard someone yell, “Stop!”  The woman who had reprimanded us apologized  as she got closer.  She had not realized we were marathoners and thought we were stealing the water. We must have been an unexpected sight — one African American woman and one White woman, pushing on through the North, West, and South Sides together after the tourists had gone. As I moved through the streets of Chicago with with this new friend,  I realized how much of a statement we were making in this hyper-segregated city.  Was just our very presence together on this chilly October day stamping out just a bit of injustice? I hope so.

There were some ladies in green shirts with the name of a church (I think) at a bus stop.   One said that she had run the 2007 Chicago Marathon and was so glad for the people that had helped her along the way.  They had oranges for us.  Such a gift, since we had missed the bananas.  We had eaten the power bars and were sharing the water.  I had some little electrolyte gummies made by Powerbar, so Pat and I shared those. The water stations had closed — at some of them, volunteers lingered, without water to give; others were deserted entirely.  We moved quickly as streets were still closed to traffic,  but officers were telling us that streets would be open soon.  It was still early, perhaps noon, and I was under the impression that the course was open until 3:00 p.m.

Meanwhile at mile sixteen, my family was getting worried.  They had waited there a long time, as the band stopped playing and the Gatorade was poured out on the pavement. Despite the race being quite obviously “over,” with all the official support shut down, there were still runners coming, a small but steady stream. My husband walked a mile along Jackson Avenue cheering on the lonely runners as they came by ones and twos through the deserted streets. When he’d nearly reached the end of the marathon course’s westward loop, he gave up and walked back, thinking he must somehow have missed us. But my sister Nadine wouldn’t let him leave — which is good, because as the cleaning crew came finally down the street, so did we. He gave us a bagel, and the last banana from the packed-up supplies of some more green-shirted church people. My family would meet us again at 35th & Michigan and run the last three miles with me.  Wow! my Dad, who had open heart surgery less than 2 years ago, was  going to do the last three miles with me! My boys, who were born in Chicago, were going to do the last three miles with me! And my sister, too! My heart swelled. I felt a new certainty: I will keep going.

In Need of Direction

We hit the 18 mile mark. We were counting down single digits now — only eight miles to go! Pat and I were refusing to talk about aches and pains, but we were getting tired.  I had two ibuprofen, and we each took one with the little water we had left. Our marathon had now completely moved to the sidewalk. There were no course markers, so we asked directions. We were told, “Turn left at the corner…” Half a mile later we met some early finishers,  strolling along & reveling in finishing their race.  They gave us the thumbs up, and we told them that we were still “racing.”  Horror filled their faces and they told us we were headed the wrong way.  We had no map.  There were no signs.  There were not any people associated with the marathon anywhere.  Thankfully, we had retrieved Pat’s cell phone from her husband.  We spent the next hour trying to get back on course. We were in Pilsen on Halsted, and I knew that we had to go through Chinatown. We called my husband several times, and he would give us the next few streets we would need to cross.  Somewhere along the line as we got back on course, we met another African American woman who was running alone and was very discouraged, hurting and ready to give up. Her name was Lisa. She asked if we were going to finish, and we both said, “You bet!” As we came down Halsted, a shuttle bus came by and asked if we needed a ride to the finish line. There was NO way I was going to drop out with only 6 or 7 miles left to go! Lisa hung on to our determination, and stayed in the race.

I had pretty much given up any hope of getting a medal, but there were still bystanders who supported us. One guy along the way told us, “Everyone gets a medal who crosses the finish line before dark.”  A little marathon folklore, I thought; it seemed clear to me that the Marathon had ended in the official sense when runners were told to move to the sidewalk at 8:30 in the morning!  This Chicagoan was convinced that we would make it to the finish line before dark.  I was pretty sure that we would as well.  Another guy called out to whoever would listen, “These women are the real champions of the day!”  So I want to send out sincere thanks to the dear people of Chicago, many from churches, who prayed, encouraged, blessed and provided support to ALL of the marathoners who were chasing garbage trucks on October 11, 2009. They lasted as long as we needed them.

I knew when I hit Wentworth Ave in Chinatown that I was going to finish the race.  A woman with a green church shirt prayed for us as we moved along.  She prayed that we would be protected.  She prayed that we would not have any physical injuries. By this time three other women — fellow elite slow runners — had caught up with us. They had been running the race together, and we had passed them earlier, before we got lost.  Pat & I were confident, but Lisa looked rough, as if she were being dragged along in our wake.   My heart was very concerned for her, but I knew if my body slowed again I would not cross the finish line.  And that was my goal.

The End in Sight

As Pat and I crossed over the expressway on the 33rd street bridge I turned to the left and there was that beautiful sky line.  I slowed just enough and forced a determined Pat to take the time to look.  She had come a long way to see that, farther than me! We needed to savor the moment.  We also knew that in a few minutes our journey would turn North, and that we would be heading into the skyline and towards the finish line, our ultimate destination.

We finally connected with my family for the last three miles, and also saw someone who was connected with the marathon.  He said that we would get our medals if we finished.  This marathon worker in a yellow shirt had Advil for us and offered water.  It was amazing — we had not had any marathon support for hours.   Some IIT students cheered us on.   We moved ever closer to the finish.  My sister called my husband, who was waiting  at the finish  line, and told him that we were at 18th Street and that he should lie down across the finish line until I crossed it.⁵ They were not to take it down!  Meredith and her husband David met me at the corner of Michigan and Roosevelt, mile 26.  I burst into tears, hugging Mer, and telling her that I almost quit at mile two and now I was so close to finishing.  I RAN as I rounded the corner of Roosevelt and Columbus — here it was…the FINISH! It was obscured by cleaning crews and service trucks, the stands were being disassembled, and the FINISH sign which had been suspended over the end of the course had been taken down from its scaffold and was resting on the ground. But it was there. My marathon day was almost over.

First Pat and then I crossed the finish line to the cheers of my husband and niece.  My sister in law and brother in law, sons, dad and sister, were behind me cheering. The race officials had gone, but one of the crew members went to find us the person with the medals. Lisa crossed the finish line about 5 minutes after us, picking her way around the scaffolding from which the word FINISH had just been removed. I don’t know if I will ever hear her story, but she too had finished her race. Mer found her a blanket and tried to tell her that she had accomplished what only 1% of the population will ever even attempt.  My finishing time was 8 hours, 25 minutes, but my experience was more: memories to last a lifetime, a new friend and a journey across the city of Chicago which seemed somehow to  embrace the meaning of my name, victory for the people. And I have  the courage to run, whatever the race that is set before  me in the future.

Epilogue

I got a standing ovation at my church the following Sunday.  My people, who had stood with me as Aaron & Hur,  praying for me as I persevered and ran the race set before me.  The crowds and hype of the marathon had passed me by.  There were spectators, but never the 1.5 million that many other runners had experienced.  But to come home and be celebrated in such a way by the people that God has placed me with — this was a gift that was profoundly better than 1.5 million people.  I am honored to be journeying with them.

Minutes pass.
Panic ensues
Where is she?
Did you check the bathrooms?
Where is her dad?

Over the speakers: “We are looking for Naomi, is she here?”

She emerges
coming out of her cocoon
she is surrounded by the concerned
no longer lost

Relief!

Wait…
another hug
a whispered word of exhortation
“There is something prophetic here…
don’t miss it!”

Not lost…
Safe on her daddy’s lap
Engaged
in worship.

She had chosen the better part.

I hope that you enjoy spending some time there and continue to visit me as well.  Please look for the link on the right to subscribe.

When I was in kindergarten my family moved into a bonafide neighborhood. You know the place: Eggs and flour are exchanged on a regular basis. Kickball, kick the can, hide and seek are played by anyone who can walk; parents really do have eyes in the back of their heads (in the form of Mrs. Remmel or Mrs. McBride). Babysitting jobs are plentiful. Babies are celebrated with meals, boxes of diapers, offers to give an extra hand. Deaths were mourned by casseroles and attending visitations. When Halloween rolls around the kids on the block get special treats from some of the neighbors. In that place we belonged, and it was not weird or uncomfortable that we knew each others business. It was a safe place and that secure community allowed us eventually to go beyond ourselves to work, school, other countries, and be celebrated not just by family but by friends. This type of community seems a bit idyllic…definitely from another place and time. A “Mister Rodgers” moment, not something to expect in this modern day.

And yet…in every place that I have lived my neighbors have been a treasured part of my life, and in many of those places that feeling was reciprocated.

As a newly-weds living just a block off of Chicago’s Devon Street, one of the most ethnically diverse streets in the city, we lived in a 3rd floor walk up filled with Russians. We were the only English speakers. Or almost. There was the lonely, crazy lady in the next building who called the cops on us because we were talking too loud…in our living room. It was kind of wild conversation as she screamed out her window to make her accusations to the officer, while we made our case from our own window, four feet away. Afterward, there were days we sat and conversed with her through the screens, living room to living room. I think, when her caseworker showed up, she felt a little sorry for us.

But this colorful neighborhood was more often nourishing than challenging. Early in the morning Andy and I might walk to the Kosher bakery a block away and get FRESH, right out of the oven bagels. Andy taught English & geometry at an Orthodox yeshiva a few blocks away; I loved seeing succot booths dotting our neighborhood in the fall. One Orthodox man with his quiver full of children, tzitzit and long coats flapping, helped push my “woody” station wagon out of the snow; another caught Andy gazing awed up from the sidewalk at the stars on a clear, cold night, and smiled, “Ah, the wonders of G-d!” Andy bought flowers on a monthly basis from a Korean woman, in her shop across from the yeshiva. We sometimes would visit the Russian fish market or used book store, whose proprietor knew Boris Pasternak. And every two months or so my sister and I would meet for lunch at Sher-A-Punjab for an Indian buffet. I loved all of the diversity and have never lived in such a place since; and in spite of all of our challenging differences, we shared space together and bumped into one another’s lives daily.

When I was pregnant with Alex and Joseph, Andy was working as one of a handful of white teachers, in an all African American school on the far south side of Chicago. So we moved to a new neighborhood, Bridgeport, and lived over Frank’s grocery. Only the grocery owner was named Omar, and five times a day I would hear him washing up and then I would hear the sound of the Call to Prayer (on tape) reminding me that my neighbor was a devout Muslim and that it was time to pray. He later delighted in our young twins (always a treat from the shop for them!), and his own son repaired our car. There was the woman over the back fence who gave me a bag of wonderful clothes for me after the boys were born. The two Chinese grad students who lived above us, quiet but so in awe of the little babies coming in and out. There was the young woman who worked at Home Depot and was at a crossroads in life. We had many conversations about faith, and even gave her a Bible because she said that she would like one. There was the Korean family that owned the laundromat across the street. They attended Alex & Joseph’s first birthday with their two daughters and we attended one of theirs. I had wonderful conversations as I sat and folded diapers, getting neighborhood history, politics–it was like a slice of what I had read in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. And there was Alice…I honestly believe there was not a thing about 31st street and our little corner of the world that she did not know. She was missing a few teeth, had been married a few times, and generally had a hard life. But I learned a lot about being a neighbor, and being present in the lives of the folks you live with, as we chatted on her front stoop. I cried when we left 31 Street. I thought that I would not find such good neighbors again.

How wrong I was! Family issues brought us back to the North Side in the Lincoln Square neighborhood. We lived in a house. There were children around, or neighbors expecting children. Although this was the place where we were most like our neighbors, we had to work at getting to know them. Perhaps because we lived in houses with our own yards we felt we could isolate ourselves from those who walked by every day. But I love neighbors. I need to be able to connect on some level with these folks. So we made a point of hanging out on our porch, our little toddlers playing with sidewalk chalk, Andy and I starting conversations as people walked home from work. We chatted daily with the neighbors just one house north of us. It was not long before I knew the names of almost every one on the block and started to introduce people who had lived on the street much longer than me to each other.

Once again God has placed us in a unique and wonderful neighborhood, full of richness, shared stories, occasional get-togethers and borrowed eggs and flour. We live in a cul de sac full of duplexes in  Madison, Wisconsin. Our duplex is farthest back, and we share walls and a yard with Steve (an aging hippie carpenter), his wife Rebecca (a nurse), and Steve’s younger sister Mary (also a nurse), and 4 rat terriers. They thought that they wanted a family to live with them, “a nice quiet family.” Well, we are a homeschooling family of 7 with two cats and a lot of noise. It is CRAZY, and yet it is home.  I love that our boys hang with neighbor kids from families unlike ours, creating elaborate games to play, spending hours outdoors connecting with each other. I love that we come from many walks of life, but there seems to be an unwritten pact among us that we are neighbors and that means we look out for one another.

Living in community is an intentional endeavor. It takes work to be present, and courage to risk being open and being known. We could sit back and hide, choosing not to get involved in the stories of those living near us. (We have other communities, after all!) But, even in these days of impermanent placement and frequent moves, our lives are so much richer because of our neighbors. The neighbors to the north of us, Keith & Jen and their daughter, just moved out of the city; Dulce, with her two sweet kids, has been talking of moving on for the last couple seasons. The community that we have had the past three years will change, and we grieve the loss. But here is a new opportunity to participate in the stories of others and let them participate in ours: I’m looking forward  to welcoming our new neighbors.

I began to wonder who uses snail mail anymore? This year I received virtual birthday cards, have made friends on twitter, wrote on Facebook walls and “skyped” family at holidays. I’ve “IM’ed” my cousins who are in Italy. (My twelve year olds think this is hip, by the way)! I have been connecting…but I have not ventured into one of my most favorite haunts of old, a stationary store. I don’t even know of one in Madison and we have lived here almost 6 years. I have not lingered…longing to buy each pretty paper or a beautiful pen. I have not taken the opportunity to wonder who will get this lovely gift of paper and words straight from my heart. I regret that.

Before the age of technology. I wrote letters. Lots of letters. To my sweetheart studying in London, my sister in France or anyone I was thinking of…just because. I loved choosing stamps as much as I enjoyed finding beautiful stationery. But I have allowed connecting via cell phone and the internet to replace this simple pleasure.

My mom is so good at sending notes. She uses her computer. But honestly getting a note in the mail is a treasure! Thanks Mom.

I think I need to hunt down a Stationer. I need to choose that beautiful paper. And then I need to make a cup of tea and write a letter or two. Watch your mailbox because you might just get a love note from me.

I first made this caramel corn during the world series when my twins were two. We were living with my husband’s grandma and I was frequently looking for entertaining things to do in the early evening. Dorothy, was 91 when we moved in with her. She kept a notebook of all her favorite recipes written in black Sharpie as her eyesight was waning.

That evening as Dorothy, the boys and I waited for Andy to make the long trek across the city from Chicago Vocational High School to our home on the North side we turned on the World Series. I popped the corn and started the baking. Periodically, Dorothy would ask what was smelling so good? When I finally filled the large wooden bowl with the caramel corn Dorothy could
not stop eating it. She loved it! And then she asked me to write the recipe in her special book. I was pretty honored because this was not just any book, these were the recipes that Dorothy had used for years, and now my humble caramel corn was being added to the collection.

I hope that you and yours enjoy World Series Caramel Corn!

World Series Caramel Corn

Grandma’s oven caramel corn.

6 quarts popped popcorn

2 Cups nut meats, if desired

2 Cups brown sugar

1/2 Cup butter (2 sticks)

1/2 Cup light corn syrup

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

1. Combine sugar, butter, corn syrup and salt in a sauce pan and boil for five minutes.
2. Remove from heat and add 1 tsp of baking soda.
3. Pour syrup mixture over the corn and stir well.
4. Spread on large baking sheet.
5. Bake at 200 degrees F for 1 hour, stirring at 15 minute intervals.
6. After baking put immediately in storage containers and store until use in a cool place.

Enough for 1 game if serving a crowd!

from Nicole Huebner Wetzel, October 29, 2008

At first, I was engaged in a delightful conversation with a woman that I admire. We shared homeschool adventures. We enjoyed each other’s company, but then she had to go home. So there I was, watching my two little ones in the room with the toys. I admit I was feeling a bit sorry for myself. No one had said that I could not join the adults on the porch, but I knew that I would have to be up and down chasing kids, and not a full participant in the conversation. Andy would have been happy to help wrangle children, but he too was enjoying this wonderful dialogue. At some point I made my way to the porch with the girls. Our gracious host, bouncing his little baby son on his knee welcomed me warmly. “Don’t worry, Nicole, we are just solving the worlds problems.” I sighed. I longed to be solving the worlds problems, even metaphorically, with these friends from our church. But then it occurred to me that I was playing a significant role on this day:

“That’s okay,” I replied, “I’m raising the world’s leaders!”

What is it about watching a ball game that seems to bring so many emotions to the surface? So much love, passion, disappointment, hopefulness. There is something electric about the ball and the bat making contact. CRACK! (…or PING! as the case may be). Something nostalgic about all of that bubble gum and sunflower seeds. Something timeless when fans wear their rally caps.

I am a latent baseball fan. I never watched baseball as a kid, played in gym class only once in a great while and did not marry my high-school crush who loves the game. (He later became my brother in law.) So my feelings are somewhat shocking. And I wonder if they can be real, or if you can only truly be affected by baseball if you never “grew up with it.”

My true love for the game came after seeing the Baseball exhibit at the Field Museum in the spring of 2003. What I thought was a history field trip for my boys turned out to be the flip of a switch that drew me in. That summer after moving to Madison my love continued to grow…I bought score sheets and read all kinds of books for novices like me. The book that was most influential was Wait Till Next Year by historian Doris Kearns Goodwin. After reading that I knew I wanted baseball to be a part of my life and the life of my family. 

Some earlier seeds had been planted. (Like any conversion, my devotion to baseball was not the result of a single encounter.) Andy and I lived in the Bridgeport neighborhood a mile from Comiskey Park when Alex and Joseph were babies. We had a tradition of eating at O’Malley’s on the first day of spring and took in a few White Sox games with a babies in carriers. Joseph was drawn to baseball so I began watching the World Series, honestly knowing nothing about the game. When Joseph and Alex were two they used to run around our apartment swinging cardboard tubes saying SOSA! I thought it was kind of cool when a friend said that he and his brother had a tradition of visiting a different ball park on each opening day. And when we moved back to the North Side I started to make caramel corn during the World Series. So perhaps I have been a fan longer than I thought. I just didn’t know it was for me.

There have been some timeless memories for me even though I have been a fan for such a short time.

In the fall of 2003 we did not have TV so we listened to Cubs games on the radio. I am sure this added a romantic element to the game. But we did not miss a playoff game, we were glued to each play, the boys and I. The Cubs had a chance to break the curse and reach the World Series for the first time since 1945! Joseph pretended to score the game, but Alex actually followed each play. And then there was that fan. You know–the one who caught the ball away from Moises Alou, the one who had to be escorted out of the park…. Our Cubbies lost and our Alex burst out in tears, “Now the Cubs will never win a World Series!”

Joseph’s first day of coach-pitch baseball had him up at 5:30 a.m. when his practice started at 10:00!

And what about the Madison Mallards winning the championship game, all three of our boys getting balls when we entered the park, and the extra we got because one of us was wearing a Cubs hat. Oh, and don’t the Mallards always win when we see their games?

Of course I will never forget watching with bated breath each game of the 2005 playoffs seeing my team the White Sox make it to the Series. And then hoping for a sweep so that a game would be over before our upcoming move…okay I need to be a little practical here. But all of us were thrilled to party with the White Sox. Another victory added to my love of the game.

I think what stirs my soul about baseball is its total engagement of community. It is a sport that can engage the 5 year old in t-ball or the college guy playing for an amateur team, or Grandma in the stands introducing the game to her grandchildren. I get excited about the history, the community of players past, and being a part of something that has so many connections.

Last Thursday, Jospeh’s struggling Little league team, Mary’s Trucking was playing yet another game in the cold. (Blankets have become permanent in the van.) Gwenna was intently watching the game and freezing at the same time. Naomi was at the park with Alex and Charles. I was chatting with other parents. Honestly, trying not to get bored….as the BOLD, yellow team brought in another run…but then Mary’s Trucking started to play some ball. The boys put on the rally caps. Runs were being batted in and the fielding started to look like we had a team on the field. It was the last inning, the girls were blue so I took them to the car…only to see Joseph get up to bat just as we got there. I could not hear the PING but I knew it was there because Joseph made it to first base. Then he stole second. Another batter came to bat…another PING and I saw Joseph round home plate. WHOO HOOO! What I did not realize became clear just minutes later, as Alex, Joseph and Charles ran across the field chanting “Joseph won the game, Joseph won the game” Joseph still had his rally cap on, all three boys were ecstatic; I could hardly contain myself. I was so proud. Once again I was completely undone by a baseball game!

Alex and Joseph sat in the back seat white shirts, black ties…all ready for FLAME’s dress rehearsal…formal concert attire this year. There they were so serious, looking so handsome and yet the night before there was sword play and wrestling in the grass with a friend. What I saw this morning were not my little boys -but my 11 year olds on the brink of becoming young men. And perhaps the ache came from wanting to hold time just a bit. Hold their innocence. Hold onto their boyhood. And yet I have so much to look forward to in the years to come.

It is interesting that several months ago Alex came to me and asked if he could still call me mommy. I immediately thought some one had made fun of him but he said that he was just wondering. It was like calling me mom was a rite of passage that happened at a certain prescribed time. After that conversation he called me mom for a few days and then went back to mommy. But recently I have become Mom again and Andy has become Dad. This time the change is permanent. (I asked.)

What I saw in the mirror was a bit of maturity, still mingling with the boy, and I look forward to mentoring in a new way. I look forward to seeing Alex and Joseph blossom and begin to walk into their callings. I look forward to the new relationship that we will have even though it is hard to say goodbye to my little boys.

…the bands from the local high schools and middle schools…the long walks to the cemeteries in the end of May heat…the speeches honoring those who have served?

…standing to take off your hat when the flag passes by?

…the flags lining the street waving in the breeze?

…waving your own small flag?

…a trip to the cemetery, to remember?

…family members sleeping under pregnant plum trees on benches covered with homemade quilts.

…beginning new traditions of rootbeer floats and hot dogs on Grandma’s deck, a wonderful welcome to summer.

…large bowls of potato salad?

…wedding bells ringing -celebrating new journies and new families being made?

…graduation parties and the goodbyes that come with them?

…the husbands, brothers, fathers, sons?

…the wives, sisters, mothers, daughters?

Do you remember to be thankful?