Working Out My Guilt

This is my schedule for Sunday:
8:40-9:15 Worship team practice
10:25-12:30 Worship
12:30-2:30 Worship symposium
5:30-7:30 Youth group—teaching high school lesson

This is my dilemma: When do I go to the gym?

If I go before rehearsal, I have to wake up at 6 to get in an hour workout and to have enough time for showering and driving to church. If I go before rehearsal and shower at my brother’s house between 9:15 and 10:25, then I can sleep in until 7. I could also go between 2:30 and 5:30, a less desirable option because the gym will be more crowded.

As I pondered these things on Wednesday night, I began to dread my weekend. It seemed too full before it had even arrived. And I began to wonder about my commitment to the gym. How much of a good thing is too much?

People often say to me, “I admire your dedication” or “You’re so motivated, I wish I was like you.” The truth is, I am driven by a sense of guilt that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

When I don’t go to the gym, the monkey chatter in my head is so loud and so destructive, I can’t stand it. I scold myself for eating. I tell myself my clothes aren’t going to fit. I believe that I am unattractive and never will be because I didn’t exercise today. It’s easier to go to the gym than it is to tolerate the clamor in my head. I’d rather wake up at 4:30 in the morning and get dressed for work in a bathroom stall than listen to my self-reproach.

Guilt is not the only reason I go to the gym. I love the energy I get from working out and I love the difference in how my clothes fit. After being a fat girl for 32 years, I love that I can run a couple miles every day. I love going to classes and learning new dance moves—Emily and I are going to rock wedding receptions all summer long! Hanging out with Emily is another reason I love the gym.

But I’m starting to wonder about this awful guilt. If I am living in freedom and truly believing what God says about me, then I should fear no condemnation—not even my own. I would never tear down a friend who had to skip a workout, I’d probably encourage them to rest or shop or do whatever they were doing instead. I don’t offer myself the same grace, though, and I don’t know if it’s healthy commitment or something uglier.

I shared this with a couple co-workers today. Tressa, my carpool buddy, exercises daily. She did a 120-mile bike ride while going through chemotherapy a couple years ago. Tressa thinks that the gym is a new priority in my life and that I need to adjust. The guilt doesn’t concern her because she sees it propelling me toward healthy choices. When I told her about the spiritual implications, and my fear that the gym is becoming an idol; she pointed out that I’m not bailing on worship team or Sunday worship so that I can go to the gym, I’m just trying to fit it all in.

My friend Tonya thinks that I am being too hard on myself. She believes the monkey chatter is from the devil and that I shouldn’t entertain it.

I think I’m somewhere between their points of view. I need motivation to get to the gym every day, but I want it to be positive motivation, like the energy I get or the enjoyment of classes. At the same time, I want the freedom to take a day off, like when my Sunday is booked and promising no rest.

Making the Most

In college, between the 20th and 24th of February, we celebrated four birthdays. It usually made for a fun weekend. We started off with Krista and John, then Laura, then Jess.

These days, February is still a Hallmark month for me. I send my grandmother a valentine, my godson too if I can find one cool enough for him. I buy cards for Krista and Jess (Laura and I have lost touch, but I will write on her Facebook wall this year!). And I remember John fondly, but with a touch of sadness.

John passed away shortly after his 30th birthday. At the time, he was living in Boston and I was living in Carolina. But in the first years after we left college, John and I were both living in Philadelphia and we had a great time.

John indulged my love of sports and accompanied me to Flyers and Phillies games. He didn’t know anything about hockey and peppered me with questions about how they kept the ice frozen and put the floor down for 76ers games. At one point, he demanded, “Get me the specs on this place!”

I shared John’s love for music, so I went with him to the Met to see The Marriage of Figaro. We saw Cabaret in Studio 54. We saw celebrities in Starbucks. He made me ride the bus from Philadelphia to New York and called me a snob for preferring the train.

In between New York trips, there were dinners and parties, and me forcing him to watch the finale of the first season of Survivor (the only one I watched). And we always had great conversations.

John was a friend who knew me as I transitioned from my flagrantly sinful college lifestyle to a sanctified Christian walk. Unlike other college friends, he stayed with me. He never made fun of me for leaving a party early on Saturday so I could be rested in time for church on Sunday. John engaged me in thoughtful conversation about my faith and its emerging influence on my life.

One night as we were walking to Penn Station (I’d somehow persuaded him to take the train for this NY trip) we got into a discussion about faith. John grew up in a Pentecostal church, in a Christian family. His family’s faith was not his, though. When he saw me becoming more passionate about Jesus, he tried to understand it. I remember saying something about the peace I have knowing the God is control of my future. He pointed to things like astrology and numerology that gave him peace about his. I responded with, “Well, we’ll see who’s right one day.”

I had no idea John’s day would come so quickly after that conversation. If I’d known then what I know now, I would have spoken to him lovingly, not smugly. I would have kept the conversation going instead of trying to win an argument.

Remembering John motivates me. I hope that I will never forget him, or the opportunity I wasted to invite him to Life. I keep a picture of us in my Bible at Ephesians 5 which says:
Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil.

You Are Here

Every so often I’ll have a day or week that is so great, I have to put a pin in the map of my life to remember that I was there; that that day happened. Today was such a day and this will be my marker.

It wasn’t a perfect day at all, but it was a day when the imperfections worked in tandem with the good stuff.

Today started at 4:30 in the morning. I woke up, showered, put on workout clothes and headed out to meet Emily at the gym. (Yes, I shower before going to the gym on early mornings. I don’t sweat much, I can get away with it—at least I haven’t had any complaints). Instead of changing into work clothes at the gym, I thought I would just go on to school and change there.

As I was on my way to work, my first imperfection hit. I realized that I had forgotten my 10% off Target coupon at home. After school I was going to drive to a Target near my school to buy Guitar Hero, but without the coupon, there was no purpose in making the trip. So I decided to head home where I was able to change my clothes in comfort and get the coupon. I had to be out of my house by 7 if I was going to make it to work on time and I left at 6:57. I got to work with a few minutes to spare, even making time for my weekly weigh-in for the school weight loss club (down 1.8 pounds this week!).

School today was an early release day for the students, which meant they were leaving at 12:30. I’d negotiated with my principal to let the staff leave an hour early as well. The time with the students went really well. In the morning, counselors and a principal from the middle school visited. One of the counselors commented how he could tell we had a good group of students and that Shannon and I worked really hard with them.

After school I spoke to a parent on the phone whose son is not easy to work with, but I believe it was a good conversation and I’m hopeful we will see improvement in her son. I really did not want to make that phone call. I hate phone calls generally, but bad phone calls specifically. Before I called, I took a minute to pray for humility and genuine concern for the child. What a difference it made in my attitude and in how I expressed my concerns to his mom!

When all the school stuff was done, I headed to the Target. The ride was beautiful. It is a gorgeous day here and I was traveling on country roads through rural towns.

Target did not have the Guitar Hero I wanted. This imperfection was totally my fault for not remembering what I’d read online when I was checking out various Guitar Hero bundles. I was able to travel across the shopping center and park outside Moe’s where I got some free wi-fi. I rarely have my iPod touch with me, but today I did, so I went onto Target’s website and found a store that had the right Guitar Hero in stock.

As I drove from place to place, I spent some time listening to the Shelly Moore Band recording, A Hymn Project. I downloaded it last night, and I’m very thankful I had time to sink my ears into it as I traveled today.

The next Target I visited had a Guitar Hero bundle I didn’t expect them to have, the one with two guitars that I really wanted. The price was also more reasonable than I’d expected.

I’m so thankful for God’s sovereignty over the little things in my life. I think of the Caedmon’s Call lyrics:
This day’s been crazy, but everything’s happened on schedule,
From the rain and the cold to the drink that I spilled on my shirt,
Cause you knew how you’d save me before I fell dead in the Garden,
And you knew this day long before you made me out of dirt.

It’s nice to know a great day doesn’t have to be perfect. And it gives me great peace to know all my days—the good, the bad and the ugly—have been ordained for me by a loving, sovereign God.

40

My mom turned 60 a couple weeks ago. (If you know my mother even a little, this will probably surprise you.) What affected me the most about my mother’s birthday was realizing how much she wants to be a grandmother and how long she has been waiting for grandchildren. My mom was a young bride of 21 and a mother herself at 22. Since Dave and I left the nest, she has been waiting. To her credit, my mother waits quietly. She is not one for guilt trips or passive aggression. But how long will she have to wait?

For the past couple weeks, I have found myself crying out to God, “How long?”

How long will my brother lead our church in prayer for other people’s pregnant wives?
How long will my sister-in-law pour herself out for other people’s children?
How long will I have to sigh and nod appropriately when girls 10 years younger than me are showing off their engagement rings?
How long will my parents have to congratulate their peers when their kids get married and have babies?

It comforts me to know that David, a man after God’s own heart, asked the same question (for entirely different reasons!).

My soul is in anguish. 

How long, O LORD, how long? Psalm 6:3

My family has been here for a long time. We’ve been here so long that I stopped asking God about it. I took for granted that this was our lot and my job was to be OK with it. What if where we are is not OK, though?

We hear a lot of talk in the church about suffering, as we should. Christians are called to take part in Christ’s suffering. I’ve always thought of suffering as big, painful events. A marriage ends. Someone dies unexpectedly. You are a victim of a crime. A levy breaks and your life is underwater for a time, but eventually, the flood dries up and you return to normal—albeit a new normal.

It occurs to me that suffering is more than a levy breaking. Suffering can come as a steady, impatient drip. You can try to ignore it. You can put a bucket under it and hope for the best, but the end result is the same. Those who suffer in this quiet, persistent way also find themselves underwater.

It’s been a like a light bulb coming on for me—a realization that that’s what this is! This season of endless waiting isn’t normal; this is suffering! It’s OK if I’m not OK with it. God doesn’t want me to be at rest here, He doesn’t want us to stop talking about it.

Having such a realization is one thing. Knowing what to do with it is another. Today, I only know that I am here and I don’t know for how long.

For Richer or Poorer

This week I received an email survey. The survey had a bunch of questions that could only be answered with one word. When I got to the question, “Your life?” I answered “Rich.” It was kind of a funny word choice for me. The only time I really use “rich” is when I’m disrespecting my father as only an overindulged daughter can; as in, “Take it easy, Rich, I’ll get the muffler fixed.”

So why did that word come to mind? And what do I mean by having a rich life?

The Thursday night Bible study girls were talking about budgets and finances. Apparently, it’s pretty common for the married girls to receive allowances, or to ask their husbands for money for haircuts and cosmetics. When I put myself in their shoes, I got a mental picture of me asking some shaggy-haired, flannel-wearing dude for $20 after I’ve been out working all day while he’s been sitting on the couch playing Guitar Hero (in my house, on my couch, playing my Wii). The thought gave me chest pain.

After Bible study I got to spend time with some friends who are closer to my age. When I told them about the allowances and about my fear of asking my Reality Bites slacker of a husband for a twenty, they were quick to reassure me. Heather promised it would be completely different for me because I am not starting out. I own a home; I am established in my career. She even threw in the word “bread-winner.” Shannon assured me that when she got married in her 30’s there were adjustments to be made, but she never had to ask her husband for haircut money. Nakia promised me that every relationship is different.

This is what I mean by having a rich life. There is a depth to my relationships and a variety among my friendships. Some of the girls I know are so different from me I have to take a giant step back; their lives and their choices challenge me to suspend judgment. Knowing them has given me a broader perspective.

Other friends are so much like me, it’s comfortable to be with them and say, “Yes! You get it!” It is great to be understood.

I think it’s important to have both groups of people in my life—the friends who widen my horizons, as well as the safe ones. If all of my friends were wildly different from me, I might feel pressured to change and to become someone I’m not. If all my friends were exactly like me, I would become “constipated” to use another of Heather’s phrases.

I’m thankful for the differences, the variety and the richness these people bring to my life.

And, if I'm being honest, I'm thankful I don't have to ask anyone for money.