I used to be a runner. I ran in my early twenties, up until I got pregnant for our first daughter, then shifted my focus to walking behind a stroller and chasing kids at the park. Then, in some of the very chaotic days of our family, I returned, probably out of desperation, to the consistency of running — trotting for three miles at the end of the teaching day. It was a way to decompress, to find some silence, to download the details of the day, and to transition from the classroom to the work of parenting.
Those three miles turned into more, and I eventually found myself training for and completing two half-marathons — 13.1 miles in (for me) just about two hours. Running was a space where I felt strong and confident, and it perhaps let me escape from the spaces where I didn’t — my marriage, my family, and even my classroom.
The fact that I was able, in my forties, to run 13.1 miles added to my soldier mindset, helping me believe that I was kicking butts and taking names, and helping me dissociate from the failures in my personal life that I was too terrified to face. Running helped me survive that difficult season, and then, when I became chronically ill and could no longer run, I had to face the things that I had been running from.
Since 2013, I have been stumbling my way through the realities that I did not face during that season, searching and longing for a newer healthier space.
And I keep thinking I have arrived to that space — that I have finally gotten to the bottom of the rucksack I’ve been lugging around, that I have unpacked, examined, and processed all the hurts from the past — and then I turn the rucksack over, give it a little shake, and something else falls out. How could I have missed that? How could I not have seen, known, heard, understood? And I find myself staggering again.
And that is what I have been doing. Staggering.
It was six weeks from the end of the semester when someone near me was sorting through their own rucksack full of unfinished business and inadvertently knocked mine off the shelf. I thought I was standing by supportively as they managed their pain, when a shard from my own bag was knocked free. As it fell, it grazed a tender spot and broke open an old wound.
The cut was deep, but I had seniors who needed to finish their semester, freshmen who still needed my attention, and a garden that needed to be planted. So, I packed that wound with gauze, wiped my eyes, and tried to stay in motion.
Different from my running days, though, my steps have been slow, and despite being off-balance, more intentional.
I have learned in these last ten years some ways of holding more than one thing at a time — how to keep one hand firmly over the wound, applying pressure, while slowly moving through the remaining days of the school year. In the mornings, I stayed in bed a smidge longer, distracting myself with Wordle, and Scrabble, and Spelling Bee before stumbling to my little spot in our home office to scratch out my thoughts and feelings (and to-do lists and calendar items) in my morning journal. I have religiously practiced yoga. I have walked, and thought, and cried, and seethed. I have seen my therapist. And a family therapist. I have continued with my chiropractor and physical therapist. And I have splurged on my nails every other week.
Life around me didn’t stop. We also fit in a visit from a daughter and her fiancee, a weekend away with dearest friends, and a weekend away with our granddaughters. And after each of those, I have needed time to decompress — extra time in the bath, in the bed, in front of Queer Eye. Time to examine the wound, re-dress it, and then get back into motion.
I have shown up to school every day with my wounds [mostly] concealed, but because of the persistent pain, I didn’t have the resiliency I would typically have, and I lost patience with my seniors, lost control of my freshmen, overreacted to a miscommunication, and just couldn’t listen when a colleague needed my time.
And Friday, on the last day of school, when only a couple dozen of our kiddos showed up, I was all alone in my room, organizing, packing up, and tossing things that had accumulated over the past several months, and I started to feel like I might be ready to slow down, unpack the wound, give it some air, and allow it to heal.
Our students had finished their finals on Tuesday, but Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday were still considered “official” school days. Many students announced early that they would not be attending, and I expected that to be true. Why would they come if their finals were complete?
But some did come. Each of those three days, a pretty similar group showed up. Most didn’t stay in their assigned classes — some found their way to the gym to shoot baskets; some relocated to a favorite teacher’s room to hang out; some did what they are known for — strolling the halls and getting into mischief.
They got free “breakfast” (if you can call a packaged bar and box of juice breakfast) and lunch (and I have to admit that the tacos on Thursday looked rather appetizing), and I thought maybe that is why some of them continued to come — for the food. But then, on Friday, about 15 minutes before dismissal, students were told to empty their lockers and get ready for the bus. We all moved to the hall. Teachers who would not be returning in the fall handed out notes and said their goodbyes. Students began hugging their friends and their teachers, and a few began to cry.
And that’s when I remembered — I am not the only one staggering. We are all stumbling along, doing our best, trying to make it through. We are all hurting; we are often just so focused on our own pain, that we can’t see the the limping of those in front of us. Many of my students find their strength and confidence in our building — this is where they feel safe, and seen, and loved. And for the next two months, they won’t have access to this space where they can ask a teacher for snacks, or feminine supplies, or a new deodorant, or more importantly, a place to sit in the quiet, to speak and be heard, or to get a hug.
I wonder what their next two months will look like? Perhaps, knowing what was ahead is what brought their tears.
My next two months provide me some space — to rest, to shake that rucksack a few more times, and to write, because that’s where I mind meaning, the meaning that is often buried under layers of bravado — my futile attempt to conceal the fact that I am hurting.
Brokenness is the human condition. In some seasons we survive it; in other seasons we grieve it; in others we process it and hope that in that processing we become able to see the brokenness in others and allow them the space and the grace to be in whatever season they are in.
For from his fullness we have all received grace upon grace.
John 1:16
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