Tag Archives: running

Dirt

As I headed out to the canal path yesterday afternoon for my first run since the baby, I was dismayed to find that between winter and spring in New Jersey (and many other parts of the world) comes another less beloved season: the season of mud.

It seemed no sooner had the ground thawed that the bulldozers came to clear the path, pressing the treads of their tires deep into the fresh earth and leaving behind nothing but brown as far as the eye could see.

But as I plugged along, bemoaning the stark landscape and the thick frosting of mud quickly coating my tennis shoes, I caught a whiff of something fresh, crisp, and almost sweet.  And as the smell of fresh, earthy mud wafted through my nostrils, I was reminded that beneath that brown soil lay roots, soon to be buds, soon to be new life.

I was reminded that we can’t have the new life without the dirt and the worms and the mud.

We often want to skip over the hard parts in life.  In our spiritual lives, we want to be rid of the dark nights of the soul, the calls to accountability, the wandering in the desert.  But it’s no accident that Easter falls at the end of the season of mud, which we call Lent, a season caked with sins that can’t be wiped clean unless we unveil them in the light of day.

The other morning in the wee hours while I nursed my baby, I listened to a sermon by our pastor on Jesus washing the disciples’ feet.  In it, she asks, what is the dirt that sticks to us when the day is done?  (11:00), and who are the people who we would let interact with our dirt? (14:12)  

In other words, while Lent is in many ways a personal and solitary journey of coming to grips with our own sin and the sacrifice Jesus made for us on the cross, it’s also a corporate season of sharing our joys, our fears, and our darkness, and of washing the dirt from one another’s feet, just as Christ first washed the feet of his disciples.

Botanical gardens in Massachusetts.  My photo.
Botanical gardens in Massachusetts. My photo.

So as spring draws near and as we walk through this holy season of Lent together, I encourage you not to eschew the muddy bits of your life, but to let God and others behold that dirt, from which will spring new, eternal life.  I encourage you to let Christ lift your muddy feet into his clean hands, and to anticipate the miracle of the cross to come.

Amen.

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Learning contentment

I rejoice in the Lord greatly that now at last you have revived your concern for me; indeed, you were concerned for me, but had no opportunity to show it. Not that I am referring to being in need; for I have learned to be content with whatever I have. I know what it is to have little, and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me. –Philippians 4:10-13

For a variety of reasons, my morning runs on the canal path have been a bit slower as of late.

The D & R Canal in Princeton at the height of summer.  Photo by Evan Schneider.
The D & R Canal in Princeton at the height of summer. Photo by Evan Schneider.

That’s not like me.

My type of running is usually a 3-4 mile sprint in which I push myself to the ultimate limit for thirty minutes, cramming in a brisk workout in an equally jam-packed day.  I’ve never been good at pacing myself out there on the trail, and when I’m out of shape and trying to get back to the grind, I have to remind myself over and over not to push, lest I get injured or expend the limited energy that I have.

I don’t think it’s a bad thing for us to push ourselves in life, but jogging this new rhythm, I’ve started noticing things I never saw at the breakneck pace– a hornet’s nest precariously dangling from a slight branch, a plush feather falling to the path, birds, turtles, snakes, and the ever-so-slight glimpses of fall in the reddening of the trees’ leaves.

I’ve started learning something like contentment in all circumstances.

Things are far from perfect, and yet God seems to be opening my eyes to the wisdom and gift of a slower pace, the grace that peeks out when we’re willing to take it in, and the goodness that is God beneath the ups and downs of this world.  Underneath contentment lies acceptance, and under acceptance, a deep, firm layer of mutual trust between God and me that seems to know no end.  It’s like firmament or insulation from this rough and tumble world, this world that pushes, that runs along at breakneck pace…

The first glimpses of fall.  Photo by Evan Schneider.
The first glimpses of fall. Photo by Evan Schneider.

But I’m discovering that we don’t have to.

We are meant to notice, we are meant to praise.  We are meant to live in God’s grace and lift up God’s glorious name in all circumstances.  Paul writes above that he has learned “the secret…of having plenty and of being in need,” and that secret is confidence, faith, and trust in God.  And I think when it’s at it’s best, it’s mutual.  As I trust God more with my life, with everything in it, I feel God trusting me to minister to others, to follow my call, and to speak words of wisdom in times of trial.

I’m discovering the depth of what it means to be content, to remain steadfast in our hope and faith in God, despite the wavers of this world.  And I’m discovering the overflowing gratitude that comes from it (I think it no coincidence that the verses previous to the ones from Paul in Philippians 4 are the ones that call us to rejoice and to focus on the true, the honorable, the pure, the just, the pleasing, that which is worthy of excellence and praise [Phil. 4:4-8]).

God is so good.

Skyping on the balcony with a friend in China.  My photo.
Skyping on the balcony with a friend in China. My photo.

Contentment is not a trite command to push ourselves to be positive in times of sorrow, but an invitation to notice the grace in this fallen world, and to take heart and trust that God is with us in all circumstances.

How is God teaching you about contentment today?

Greeting the day

Photos from the end of summer on the D&R Canal, Princeton, NJ. By Evan Schneider.

It’s inevitably the case that I can rise and get myself going much better on the first few days of the week, and greet the day, just as the sun is rising and the crispness of the morning provides all the confirmation anyone needed that fall is here.

Photos from the end of summer on the D&R Canal.

As I run along the canal, I chase the fog, always visible out in the distance, yet elusive once I near it.  Still, it lingers over the waters, enchanting, haunting, tempting.

So I keep on, hoping to glimpse the heron take to flight like I did last week, its majestic wings flapping with exquisite rhythm.  Or stumble on the sun’s rays peeking through the towering, thin trees onto the dewy ground across the waters.

And I feel gracious for those moments, when I am alone with my thoughts, but hardly alone with all the birds, the animals of the forest, the life sprouting and fading in my midst.  I feel wild, too– free, and strong, if only for a moment.

And it is good.