It was not his style that he is remembered for, he wore a bright blue utilitarian painter smock every day, but his simplicity, his impartiality and most of all his joy of life.
Read MoreStaff got used to seeing me and watching the boys grow. In the midst of the isolation and exhaustion that only a Stay-At-Home-Mom of two toddler boys would understand, I was thankful for the few moments of adult conversation as staff would comment on the boys.
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A few months before my 25th birthday I found myself fat and dumped. I had to move out of the cottage that we shared and move into a series of temporary living situations that I hated. In an effort to get out of the house and shed some of the extra pounds I took up running.
Anyone who knew me before age 25 might find this comical. I was never sporty and had such a severe case of asthma that a good joke could send me into a dreadful attack. Yet I needed an outlet, something to get me through the pain of the break up and the stress of moving forward alone.
I began at the start of summer, in the evenings after work. At first I could not run past two driveways on the suburban sidewalks without having to stop to catch my breath. By the end of the summer, I was running two miles without stopping. My asthma has rarely bothered me since.
In the 15 plus years since I have taken up running, I have moved to 3 different states. Travelled to many others on vacation. Nothing thrills me more than to explore my new surroundings by lacing up my shoes. I have run Central Park in NYC, rural Easter Oregon and Downtown Los Angeles.
When I lived in a loft in Downtown LA, I would run each evening before dinner. My husband and I lived in a loft located adjacent to Skid Row where I worked with homeless women and children. Each evening as I would run, the men who lived in cardboard boxes and tents along Spring Street would call out, “Here she is, right on time! You can set a clock to her”. They’d clap and cheer as if I was in a marathon as I ran by. One time I turned the corner and into the exhale of a man smoking PCP. The route took me through the spectrum of social classes as I would run up Grand Ave, pass Disney Hall. Men in tuxes and women in diamonds would stand at the crosswalk with me as they walked from dinner across the way to the symphony. Dripping with sweat I’d turn up the Jay—Z in my headphones, embarrassed at the contrast in our scent.
There was one incident that always stayed with me. Running near City Hall I noticed a young man, around 19, running parallel with me across the street. Small and wiry, he was sobbing and appeared to have metallic paint over his eyes, nose and mouth. He was running with determination toward the 101 freeway over pass. I increased my stride and crossed the street to meet him before he reached the overpass. “Hey!” I said with a small smile as I ran along side of him. “I am just so sad!” he screamed sobbing. We were on the bridge now. Without time to think I said “I know you are, sweetheart. I’m here. I’m listening.” I wanted to get him off that bridge. He was clearly high. “Let’s go sit down and talk”. Miraculously he back tracked back to City Hall with me and we sat for two seconds on a planter wall. He sobbed something incoherent, got up and ran down the street. I had a good 40 pounds on him, there was no way I was catching up and I thought to myself, “how far am I actually going to take this?” Shook up by the experience I went off to run an extra couple of miles.
I have slowed down in the past few years. Unable to run as fast or as far as I once did, running continues to not only, help me work out things in my own mind, but to see past myself to people I wouldn’t normally interact with in the rest of my day to day life. May I always be quick to see those around me.
Thrives on moments where storytelling, art and faith collide.
I must pinch myself that I am part of this collection from Ignatius Press ! It comes out next month but is available for preorder now.
How easily we forget that we are, at every moment, shaped with care by a Creator. Artists, however—who know intimately the blood, sweat, and tears of the creative process—can help us sense how marvelous it is to be created: the patience, the detail, the joy. In this essential collection, thirty-one Christian artists from various disciplines, from music to poetry to film to sculpture, offer personal essays on the strange experience of following God’s lead by making beautiful things.
Goldberg is much more practical than many of the texts that I have read. She gives you much to hold onto.
If you know me, you know I love encounters with strangers. Here is one that left me encouraged.
First time writing for Catholic World Report. I have wanted to tell this story for a long time. Read my essay on the theology of the body as it pertains to our last moments here on earth.
If we keep our eyes on Jesus, small acts of service and love, like those lived out by St. Francis Xavier, will reap more rewards than we could ever imagine.