Boston Recovery

Ordinarily, I'd follow my running of the Boston Marathon with some reflections on the day of the race, a week or so off from running, and a more or less routine approach to the physical recovery process. Yet last week saw no ordinary Boston Marathon, and the coming days, weeks, and months necessitate a very different recovery process.

Boston Marathon Finish Line
Copley Square, Boston MA
14 April 2013

Marathoners, by virtue of their hundreds of miles of running over several months, do some intentional and measured harm to their bodies. Training is really about strengthening bone and flesh, as well as mind and nerves, to survive (and eventually thrive) under ever-increasing exertions. Running 26.2 miles on Patriots Day is an emphatic exclamation point, but the sentence it concludes is far more personal, hidden from throngs of cheering spectators, but known to family, friends, and running partners. The motivations, details, and adventures of getting to the starting line are the stories that animate the athletes' village in Hopkinton, where friends are made with the person who sat next to you on the shuttle bus, the runner who's next to you in the portajohn line, and the person who notices a common detail on the apparel that you might soon donate to charity. ("Do you work at Boston Children's?" "No, but my friend was a resident there, and she gave me this hoodie.")

Ever since the actions of two young men started Boston's people down an arduous course they never expected nor wanted to run, my prayers have been focused on those whose lives were cruelly ended or forever altered. The rising rhetoric of "Boston strong," and the courage with which over a million of us ran through the toughest first days of this new course, points me toward my faith in Christ who restores all things, heals all wounds, and companions us throughout the long, gradual, yet unstoppable progress towards these glorious ends. Thoughtless and impersonal harm was done to us, and we've been responding to the task of recovery with truly inspiring and deeply personal generosity and solidarity. It will take a long time; after my first marathon, it took nearly three months for me to again feel the same level of physical fitness and stamina that blessed me at that marathon's starting line. Whatever time and mileage my physical recovery requires this year, it will be no less than what my psychological and emotional recovery will require. In talking to fellow runners and Boston-area friends, I've heard the same sentiments.

Prudential Center, Boston MA
14 April 2013

A week ago, no one anticipated how relevant Adidas' "all in for Boston" slogan might suddenly become. We've been blessed with the resolution of the manhunt, and a weeklong (and welcome) surge of solidarity and support that raised up a stunned city and gave great hope to the fallen and the surviving. It's my hope that we're mustering that energy not for a sprint, but for a marathon, not only in Boston, but also in all of our neighborhoods, towns, and cities. I hope that we, as a nation of communities, will go "all in" for the training that will achieve lasting peace, harmony, and justice that remains to be gained and secured for all people. That goal's exclamation point is still a long way off, but we can all start writing our sentences in that story today, and every day. Recovery, just like training, is one day at a time.

Emptiness

Lafayette Cemetery #1
New Orleans LA

But at daybreak on the first day of the week they took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb; but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were puzzling over this, behold, two men in dazzling garments appeared to them. They were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground. They said to them, “Why do you seek the living one among the dead? He is not here, but he has been raised. Remember what he said to you while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners and be crucified, and rise on the third day.” And they remembered his words.

–Luke 24:1-8

With all due respect to a certain member of the Koenig clan, this image has been persistently arising as I meditate upon the above Gospel passage during this first week of the Easter season. Encountering this empty tomb, and others like it, during a week in New Orleans last June was somewhat unnerving, yet also an unexpected exercise in resurrection faith. If I do believe in eternal life and something quite distinct from, yet somehow continuous with, the mysterious blend of body and spirit in this earthly life, then this scene shouldn't be entirely macabre. If anything, I should have identified with the puzzlement of the women referenced in Luke's account of Easter morning... they find something quite unexpected, yet recall that they had been told about this ahead of time.

My desk, sans laptop

The same sense of surprising emptiness struck me as my gaze paused upon my desk while I was back home for my lunch break, stopping in my room to brush my teeth before returning to work. Although I try to keep my desk at home relatively organized, it tends to get covered by a variety of articles– a sacramentary (for purposes of study and prayer), my running log, a few mementos, a picture of my goddaughter– in the long intervals between dusting its surface. The empty area typically occupied by my laptop– on my desk at work at the time– suddenly seemed as shockingly gaping as an empty tomb, a space from which something was missing, although in another (reasonably) expected place.

Our society doesn't seem to like emptiness. We fill our roads with vehicles (and expand them to accommodate more traffic), we fill communication devices with text and images, we fill time (often scheduling it accordingly) with activity in a way that seems to value busyness over rest. An empty shelf in the fridge or the pantry, an empty space on a desk, an empty wall in a room or an office– these all seem to suggest something not just missing, but lacking, a void to be filled. There's that old adage about nature abhoring a vacuum, and plenty of examples from the natural world to prove it true.

Flowering crabapple
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

Yet everyone acquainted with Mr. and/or Mrs. Koenig, and with Jesus, would surely agree that filling the void of their respective tombs is not the ideal situation. Rather, it's the emptiness of these spaces that speak of the power, influence, and presence of those who no longer inhabit them. He is not here, the angels say to the women entering Jesus' tomb. What the emptiness yields is of unspeakable value, stirs joy that cannot be fully expressed in words and gestures alone, and accomplishes wondrous deeds. To a much smaller extent, the ideas that find expression in what I compose from that space on my desk– be those writings electronic or in the flow of ink– have some potential to enrich the lives of those who consider them. The emptiness need not be filled... for it has the paradoxical potential to fill those who find nothing there.

Backing Off

Nearly 400 miles into my training for the Boston Marathon, I've been blessed with the endurance to move through twelve weeks of running, the grittiness (and occasional folly) to stride through a chilly January and snowy February, and the company of a training partner who has now officially made it through a winter of outdoor running for the first time. I've managed to tweak my schedule around two trips to Washington DC, and just last Monday, I caught up (while striving fiercely to match pace) with a good friend during a seven-mile pre-sunrise loop through the city and the National Mall.

Yet a familiar danger in my annual marathon preparation is the risk of overtraining or injury, which tend to be related. The latter can occur on its own– I've had my share of near-wipeouts on slick wintry surfaces– but the former is a more complicated matter. Pushing hard in pursuit of a new threshold– clicking through my weekly 800-meter repeats in 2:45, getting under 7:15 pace for a grueling, hilly 18-mile long run– can lead to a breakthrough... or a breakdown. I'm prone to shove my way across some boundaries of time or distance, and often self-critical when I consider backing off and admitting to some sobering physical and mental limitations. Ambition is a great motivator, but rather needy in terms of attention.

So it is with mixed feelings, but also a subtle sense of prideful prudence, that I skipped a run this week, in hopes of bouncing back for a scheduled 20-miler on Saturday. One of my knees had been feeling weird for an entire day– not seriously affecting my walking stride, but clearly telling me that all was not well in this crucial and majestic joint of bones, muscles, and tendons. Another round of snow meant that the track would be unusable once again, a source of mounting frustration. And the marathon lies a mere 24 days away... no time to be courting the risk of a long-term injury.

Frosty greenhouse reflections
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

It's been a good exercise in patience, a virtue that seems appropriate for any number of contemporary situations that also seem to demand urgency. On the third day of spring, the Holy Cross campus remains blanketed with snow. Our nation's budgetary and political climate could certainly benefit from a change in season. Both Pope Francis and Justin Welby were installed this week as leaders of their respective global faith communities, each of which is characterized by great diversity and vibrancy, as well as voices clamoring for strong and positive solutions to troubling issues. I imagine that there are those people who would have wanted these and other changes to have been tackled swiftly and accomplished decisively. Yet there's a sense in which our responsibilities and motivations to labor towards worthy goals shouldn't be equated with the ability to achieve them entirely on our own.

Psalm 130 proclaims, "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits and I hope for his word. My soul looks for the Lord more than sentinels for daybreak. More than sentinels for daybreak, let Israel hope in the Lord." Though I haven't always embraced such waiting and searching eagerly, I have found that the faith it entails has played no less a role than my own determined efforts in getting to a desired point– a new season, a marathon's starting line, or the successful completion of a project. And I trust that the same applies to all situations in which Christ is laboring, inviting not only our participation, but also our patience.

Turning the Corner II

In the spirit of my previous post, I've spent much of this week appreciating the interplay between winter's lingering grasp and spring's subtle encroachments. A few days of strong sunshine melted most of last week's 22 new inches of snow, and made temperatures in the upper 40s feel quite mild. On the other hand, clear nights dotted by brilliant stars piercing chilly air alluded to mid-January more than mid-March. Students returning from spring break travels responded variously, depending on where they had spent the previous week. Those who skied in northern New England and Canada welcomed the warmth; those who volunteered or vacationed in southern locales seemed slightly bitter (why discard the pun?) over a return to the reality of Worcester's climate. I stayed here, and found particular insight into the ongoing seasonal tension in daily observations of the campus greenhouse.

It all came together this morning: a brilliant pre-dawn sky, utter calm, temperatures in the mid-teens, and a room full of flowers. Transparency to warming light nourished growth, but the clear glass also suggested a certain vulnerability. One crack, one loose joint between pane and frame, and frigid air could steal inside, hijack the fan-stirred air currents, and breathe invisible doom on blooms eager for truly fresh air and genuinely earthy anchoring. Menacing tendrils of frost and sliding drops of condensation seemed quite intent on a two-front sortie against the vibrant plants in plain sight.

As I shivered slightly against the cold, yet felt certain warmth in the beauty of the morning, I took a lesson from the greenhouse. There's a danger in seeking protection from threats that results in an opacity around the soul. On the other hand, there's paradoxical strength in a faith that's transparent, trusting in the invisible and immaterial to keep us open to daily blessings and graces, and safe from the more harmful possibilities that are inherent in the situations we encounter. And while signs of things to come may seem like the spoiling of a surprise, there's great joy to anticipate in knowing that what's growing within will soon be moved and planted outside, where it will be even more fruitful for, and rooted in, this wonderful and changing world.

Turning the Corner

As I write this, it's snowing again in Worcester. Spring break week at Holy Cross has been all winter– the sun hasn't made an appearance since Tuesday, and the latest snowstorm has been in no hurry to traverse New England. I'm one of a few Jesuits in my community who braved the conditions to walk to his office today, preferring to work there rather than from home. I enjoy a good separation between the two spheres, and as this is my eighth winter as a New England resident, it takes much more than 10 inches of snow and 25-mph winds to foil my 7-minute walking commute.

Stairway to Beaven Hall
College of the Holy Cross

However, last week, spring seemed to be just over the horizon. Sunrises were edging closer to 6am. Nights were getting "warmer." Daytime temperatures in the upper 30s (and occasionally 40s) were nibbling away at the snow cover, revealing grass that was matted and pale yet seemingly ready to sprout anew when the time was right. A colleague in Oregon who blogs about her gardening had posted pictures of an Algerian iris in her yard, flowering right on schedule in late February. Spring Training games were underway. I knew better than to think that spring's arrival was imminent, yet I knew that we were turning the corner from one season to the next.

Seasonal transitions are among the many qualities of living in New England that I savor. While the four seasons are rather distinct in this part of the world, the changes between them are relatively similar. Spring seems to gently, even unconsciously, yield to summer– by the middle of May, it gradually becomes hotter, and eventually it's time to say farewell to crisp evenings for a few months. Likewise, summer may try to extend its warmth into September days, but as sunrises grow later and sunsets grow earlier, autumn asserts itself with greater authority. Likewise, after several weeks of radiantly colored  foliage and a rich interplay between the dwindling warmth of the sun and the gathering chill of night, winter closes its grip with increasingly frequent frosts, and then arrives undeniably with the first big snowfall. There may be some back and forth in these seasonal shifts– an early snow in October, an errant blast of heat in April, a cool spell in July– but the progression from one season to the next never seems to be in doubt.

The change from winter to spring, on the other hand, is in a league of its own. It's not so much a transition as a struggle; thought its end result is inevitable, the process of getting there is never straightforward, and can sometimes seem very much in doubt. The stretch from the last days of February to the first days of April always intrigues and astounds me in its unpredictability. The arrivals of summer, fall, and winter are pretty reliable; it's the coming of spring that seems to require true faith. Winter seems poised to play hard until the bitter end this year, so I'm already confident that we've got one good spring on the way... and that it will get here, someday.

St. Joseph Chapel
College of the Holy Cross

In reflecting upon past struggles from which I've ultimately emerged with greater wisdom and experience, the problems I've overcome despite periods when no solutions were in sight, the shift from winter to spring becomes an apt metaphor. Looking at the state of our nation's political scene, or at the issues attending the papal transition in the Catholic Church, one could be justified in wondering what the future holds, where a positive way forward lies, and who may be the figures to lead and accompany us along that mysterious and uncharted route. I wouldn't dare to hazard a guess, but I need only look out the window to have faith that we'll get there, someday. For although it's cold and snowy yet again, I'm sure that we're turning the corner to a new season, even if it's a longer curve this time around.

Screened Out

Three weeks into Lent, I'm grateful for the grace of remaining faithful to a practice I'm trying for the first time. As I spend my work days using my delightful laptop to create budgets, tweak narratives, and correspond with colleagues to accomplish the tasks of the grants office– with only occasional breaks to check Spring Training box scores– I'd noticed myself getting tired out by all that screen time. I found that, in the evenings, I maintained a decent discipline of replying to personal emails from friends in a timely manner, but also a tendency to fritter away time in a range of generally worthy endeavors– daily news trivia on NPR, the nuances of the weather forecast for the next morning's run, or the BBC's latest take on world news. So I made a bold declaration to myself for Lent, and shared it with a few friends to keep myself honest: no screen time after I leave work each day.

After three weeks of screenless evenings, I'm increasingly grateful for the wealth of refreshing activity I've been able to enjoy while my laptop sits closed and unpowered on my desk. I've found greater focus and intentionality in my prayer and my journaling. I've written and sent a number of letters of varying lengths. I've made my way with greater swiftness and closer attention through my two latest books– Bernd Heinrich's Winter World and Jared Diamond's Collapse. I've enjoyed countless cups of tea while indulging in these activities. Most of all, I've enjoyed a different experience of connectivity– be it with the written word, the divine voice, or the gentle tranquility that seems to attend my deep engagement with both.

With days lengthening, and the end of Standard Time about to bestow an extra hour of light upon expanding evenings, I can anticipate sustaining my "screened out" evenings into the spring, when I might even be able to haul a chair outside to read, write, or pray by the radiance of a good sunset.

Sede Vacante

Not too long ago, I watched the video of the doors being closed and the Swiss Guards standing down at Castel Gandolfo, as Pope Benedict XVI's resignation officially took effect. Remembering where I was– in a training session at a palliative care hospital in the Bronx– when Benedict's election was announced in spring 2005, I found myself somewhat emotional and certainly grateful over all that has occurred during the past eight years in the life of the Catholic Church, and the life of the world. As has been reported in the news, until the cardinals elect a new pope in a few weeks, a situation known as "sede vacante"– literally, an empty seat– will occur.

In a much different and far less pious way, I feel like I've taken a sede vacante approach to this blog lately. I've had ideas and inspirations for posts, but not necessarily the time and inclination to translate them into text. I've made choices and embraced priorities that carry my attention and energy in different directions, often with happy and fruitful results. And in this season of Lent, one of the practices I've adopted is an exclusion of "screen time" from my evenings... in order to focus on prayer, conversations with my brother Jesuits, and penning letters to friends near and far. The blogosphere as a whole, and my little corner of it, likely don't mind the hiatus.

I imagine that the media will be turning their attention back to the Vatican when news of Benedict's successor is announced, and perhaps occasionally in the meantime with related stories about papal history and some of the figures and issues involved in this time of transition in the Catholic Church. Just as my life goes on– with all of its excitement, challenge, opportunity– during my absences from blogging, the life of the Church– its ministry, its work, its community and worship– goes on, often in ways far less newsworthy yet no less wondrous than the emotion and ritual of Benedict's farewell. Even without a duly elected person in the position, I deeply feel the presence of a firm and gentle hand at the helm, guiding the people of God through the affairs of our time.

I'm not sure whether or not I'll post again during the sede vacante interval, but I'll certainly be deeply engaged in the activities to which I'm called, and in which I'm grateful to participate, throughout the coming weeks.