Mourning the stolen finish lines

I ran tonight.

It was 7:30 by the time I was done with work and teaching and had a little bit of space to just put one foot in front of the other. I ran alone, only about 4 miles. Along the river, under low clouds. Not fast. I’m not fast. But I do it anyway.

I’ll run a couple of half marathons this year. Spring and fall. I always do. My husband and our sons have stood at so many finish lines for me. My sweet, smiling boys, all of them.

The kids must get so bored sometimes, standing there, waiting to see me come around the final turn. My husband has to get tired of holding that damn camera, hoping he can get the shot as I lope over the finish line.

My littlest son, Ben, is 8. Just like that littlest son who died at the Boston Marathon, standing there with his mom and his sister, watching the runners. Ben is my runner. He can cover a mile in just over 8 minutes, his small, strong legs whirling, his face set in that determined, unpretty scowl he got from me. “We’re the runners in our family,” he tells me, slipping his small hand into mine.

I run a half marathon in a little more than 2 hours. If I ever attempted a full, I’d hope to come in around the 4:15 mark, like most of that slow-but-steady crowd that was striding toward the finish line in Boston, running toward relief and joy, when everything we knew about that moment changed.

That moment. It’s such a good one. That moment as you see the finish line come into view, that moment you see your boys waving, that moment you cross over and they find you and hug you despite the sweat, and you can’t quite catch your breath yet to thank them for standing there, to tell them you love them -- but you will. You will.

That moment is one more we’ve lost, isn’t it? One more lovely, bright thing that’s been taken. Will I ever see them standing there again without thinking of this? Will I tell them not to stand there anymore? I can’t breathe now, when I think about them standing there.

I’m thinking about dropping out of Nashville, my friend texts me.

Next week he’ll run a race there with 32,000 people. He and I ran that race together last year, back when that moment was still whole, still utterly and unambiguously good. I don’t know what to text back to him.

My initial thought is, Friend, don’t cancel. Please.

But then I think, Would I want my boys standing at that finish line? And I can’t breathe.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t offer any advice. I don’t have any. My next race is in May. I think I’ll go. They’re supposed to go with me, they’re expecting to stand at that finish line.

I think we’ll go. Probably. Maybe.

For the most part, runners are inherently happy people. We take a lot of pleasure in effort, in goals set and met, in the journey as well as the destination. We tend to travel in packs, but we also delight in solitude.

The people I run with laugh about pain, compare injuries and share tips on treating them, make a good-natured joke of the bad runs, turn the good ones into the stuff of legend – epic stories told and retold, enshrined forever in their running story repertoires.

They know exactly what you mean when you say, “I’m so tired; I really need to run.” They know exactly when to text just that word: Run?

The people who love us most may not get it, but they get how much it matters. There isn’t much in life more purely joyful than seeing those people at the finish line of a race. There isn’t much that feels better than that.

There wasn’t, I mean.  There wasn’t.

I don’t know what to do with this loss. I don’t know how life looks without that moment. I don’t want to be angry, but I’m so angry. So angry, so sad. But I don’t know what to do with it, this enraged mourning for all those stolen finish lines.

So I did the only thing I know to do. I ran tonight.

I ran.



With our boys at the finish line.



We're all made of stories. Well, I guess we're mostly made of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen and oxygen. But also stories. They really should be on the periodic table.

Writers never stop writing, even when they appear to be doing other things. We're writing when we run, when we cook, when we do the taxes or get a pedicure. It's all fodder for the narrative, and our minds are forever turning over and storing the details for later use.

But guess what? You do it, too, even if you aren't a writer. You build and tell and retell your own story every day -- to yourself, to your friends, to your family, even to strangers. We all do it, even when we don't mean to. Even when we don't realize it. We can't help it.

Today's column in the Times Free Press reflects on the power of narrative to strengthen our connections to each other and to show the people we love that, while there may not be happily ever after, there's always another page to turn.

Thanks for becoming part of the story.

The magic, the shitstorm, and a toast to the future of Toast

Some people just have magic, don’t they? They have magic and the minute you meet them, you know. You can just feel it.

My friend Kent has magic shooting from his fingertips. His eyes and his voice radiate heart and soul and warmth and humor that turn strangers into friends and friends into communities. The air around him vibrates with joy and empathy and kindness.

And it’s so funny about Kent -- he doesn’t even seem to try, really. He’s just himself, and the rest simply follows.

Kent’s magic takes many forms. He can spin a story that will have you gasping laughter (Oh my god, the stories…). He can deliver a hug that makes you forget even the most frustrating day at work. He knows exactly when to text and say ‘Where have you been? I miss you!’ He will ask you, every single time he sees you, how you’re doing and how you’re feeling what’s up with you today? And y’all, he really, really wants to know.

And when Kent’s caught in a shitstorm, which he is at the moment, he still does all of those things. He directs his magic outward, and he pulls us all together, toward him and toward each other and toward what’s real and bright.

I’ll get back to the shitstorm in a minute. First I want to tell you about the most potent manifestation of Kent’s magic. It's called Toast. A little café at the corner of Vine and Lindsay streets in downtown Chattanooga. A little café where Kent spins his unique brand of magic. A little café he spent 10 years building and working to support.

And y’all, that man worked. He worked when he was hurt (he has the surgical scars to prove it), he worked when he was broke, he worked when he was tired, he worked when he was sick. He kept going when anyone else would have given up.

He built his little business in addition to doing his “real” job as a flight attendant, and he worked on it out of sheer love for the community he was creating -- for the utter joy he takes in having everyone over for a cup of coffee and a catch-up.

The magic made him do it.

I didn’t meet Kent at Toast. We met through mutual friends. I pretty much wanted to climb into his lap immediately. He made me laugh, and then he told me about his little café, just a couple of blocks from my office, and he said, “Come visit me.”

I did. And my friends came, too. And of course they were his friends, too. And then my friends and his friends were all friends and we were all running together and having lunch together and playing games and drinking beers and celebrating birthdays and laughing and laughing all the time. I couldn't even tell you how it all evolved. It just happened.

Because that’s what happens when you go visit Kent.

Here’s the kind of thing he does: We sneak to Toast for a quick lunch, and he’ll be really busy waiting on the midday crowd, but he’ll slip over to our table with a giant cupcake and three forks. 

Or he’ll bring us coffee drinks we didn’t even ask for. Or tell us he really needs our opinion on these new cookies. Or he’ll sit down just long enough to show us a funny video that makes us giddy before he has to jump back up and get back to work.

We’ll plan to run a half marathon together, and he will volunteer to host a brunch at the café afterward, which means he is up late the night before prepping the food, and then he is up early getting things set up, and then he is running 13.1 miles and then he is making us eggs with pimento cheese in them. 

Oh, and all of this after he just flew in from an international trip for his other job. And smiling and laughing the whole time, you guys. Just reveling in it all.

Last week, as I drove to work, the texts starting rolling in: “Oh my god, the café is on fire. It’s bad. Oh my god.”

It burned. It was bad. No one was there, and no one was hurt, and that’s really good. But Kent’s place burned, and Kent had worked so hard. So damn hard for so damn long.

It takes a while to process that kind of loss. You have to realize it one slow, sad moment at a time. You have to walk through it, ashes on your shoes, gazing, bewildered, at a landscape at once familiar and completely alien.

You have to swallow a few sobs and salvage what you can, sit close by your friends with the smell of smoke still in your hair, wash your clothes over and over to escape it, sort through the pictures, marvel at the melted plastic, the charred wood, the ceiling on the floor, the floor burned away, the things lost, the things spared.

So very few of those things.

I don’t think Kent knew, at first, what he wanted to do. He’s been knocked down so hard. He’s taken bad hits before, but this is such a big one. He had to be tempted to take whatever insurance there is, pay the debts he can, and walk away.

And god, it hurt me to think he would do that, to think that warm, quirky community that spins around him and his place might slowly dissipate. That my friends and I would never again be able to duck out of the office for one of his therapeutic hugs and a quick cup of coffee. 

But I never, ever would have told him what I was thinking. I would only have told him to do what his heart needed, and I would have meant it. He was so hurt, and it was so hard to see.

He’s magic, though. I may have mentioned that.

Just a couple of days after the fire, Kent came to a birthday party for my husband and me, and he talked about Toast 2.0. He talked about how much he already misses it, his employees, his customers, his community. He talked about what it might take to bring it back, to build it even better this time.

I know lots of people believe things happen for a reason. I have to confess to you that I don’t believe that at all. I never have. I just don’t think there’s a plan or a purpose or even a rhythm to these things. We’re spinning together on a rock in space and, y’all, shit just happens. No one is pulling any cosmic levers.

But. BUT.

This is our job as we spin on this rock: To take what happens and learn from it. To find the value in the shitstorm and be better because of what we’ve endured. There’s no reason unless we locate it, unless we sift through what remains and discover it. We make our own reasons. We find our own lessons. The quality of our lives is directly connected to our ability to do that. 

And, because Kent is magic, he’s already hard at work making sure he pulls from this pain all the good there is to conjure.

Here’s what he posted to his legion of Facebook friends just a few days after the fire:

“I want to know what you want... what you want to see and experience when CONSIDERING the ability to reopen the cafe. I want to make this FOR you and WITH you in mind. I want your ideas, criticism, decor and food suggestions, layout and convenience features... I have always made a business FOR the customer and it’s possible that I may have to opportunity to make it better.

“I miss my customers and my employees so much and I am seeing now more than ever how much of a family to me everyone is.”

Kent, we’re with you, and we’ll do whatever you need. It will be OK, friend.

No, it will be better than OK.

It will be magic.

Welcome to shallow

Today's column in the Times Free Press is all about what a shallow jerk I am. Well, that and how I never realized I'm a shallow jerk until very recently.

So today's column is all about what a shallow jerk I am, and also about how pathetically lacking I was in self-awareness until very recently. But all of that is OK because I manage to make a joke of the whole thing. It's kind of funny.

Which I guess means I'm a shallow jerk lacking in self-awareness who remains defiantly flippant about the entire mess. Go team.

Oh my GOD, you guys

Why does this stuff always happen in the car? When I’m supposed to be paying attention to traffic? When I need to focus and I cannot put my head down and close my eyes and take several slow, deep breaths?

Ben, who is 8: Mom, did you know the president is not a Christian?

Me, making a heroic effort to breathe evenly and talk calmly: Well, let’s start this conversation by establishing that it makes no difference at all whether or not the president is a Christian. He doesn’t have to be a Christian to be a great president. And whether he’s a Christian or a Jew or a Muslim or a Zen Buddhist or a Wiccan or an atheist or a humanist is not actually anyone else’s business. Faith is personal. OK?

Ben, starting to get bored: OK.

Me, still totally winning an Oscar here for my portrayal of a reasonably calm woman: One of the best things about our country is that you can believe whatever your heart and mind tell you to believe about god, and you’re just as American as any other American. That’s one of the reasons lots of our friends believe lots of different things about god, and we’re all friends and we all love each other and we all treat each other with respect and kindness. That’s what American means.

Ben: Really?

Me, totally nailing the thing where I drive and suppress rage and explain the world to my son all at the same time: Really. And, by the way, the president is a Christian. The people who told you he’s not are lying. They’re lying and they’re looking for an excuse to hate. And I’m pretty sure that Bible they claim to believe in teaches that both of those things are very wrong.

Ben, after a few quiet minutes: Mom, can I read to you when we get home?

Me: Yes, I would absolutely love that. But I might need to lie down for a few minutes first.

A funny thing happened on the way to everyplace

We are in the car coming back from a hike with the dog, and my sons are in the back seat playing a game they are both destined to lose: The no laughing game.

“OK,” Jack says, vainly attempting solemnity. “Starting now, no laughing.” A few seconds of silence, then some agonized gasping. And then, of course, giggles followed by shrieks. Each boy accuses the other of sabotage.

“You made a face!” and “You’re not supposed to touch me!” and “No fair farting!” Then they reset to try again.

“OK, OK, OK,” Ben says, panting. “Seriously, seriously. Starting NOW.”

This is hopeless, of course. Hopeless. And maybe my favorite thing in the world.

Those boys laugh pretty much all the time, and they come by it honestly. My husband won my heart by making me laugh and my dearest friends are all utterly hilarious. One of my favorite humans on the entire planet is a woman who makes me laugh so hard that we have created a whole new verb to describe our method of communicating: Yellaughing.

“Is your husband ready for this?” I asked her as I prepared to fly to California for a visit this past fall. “Does he really understand about the yellaughing?”

Wow, we were so loud. And he was such a good sport. The day I left, he posted on my Facebook wall: Our house is too quiet already…

Humor is pretty much the dealbreaker in all my relationships. If you cannot see the absurdity of this life, and of all of us, and of everything about absolutely everything, I really won’t get you. And you really won’t get me. And I’ll just go ahead and sit at that table of people over there who are getting dirty looks from everyone in this place because they are laughing too much. They look fun!

There’s only so much room for all that yellaughing in one house, though. My husband is not a yellaugher or a laugh-shrieker. Jim is quietly, sneakily, wickedly hilarious.

On our accidental first date in 1996 -- a mountain bike ride -- one of the guys in our group made fun of me because I had not tucked in my cycling top. “I can’t because I have such a weirdly short torso,” I told him. “I’d have to tuck in like three feet of fabric. I’m a stunted little freakshow.”

Jim’s face tilted in a warm half-smile, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah,” he deadpanned, frankly appraising my 24-year-old form. “I’ve been thinking this whole time that you’d be really beautiful if it weren’t for that short torso.”

OK, y’all. Do you see what he did there? He managed to make a gentle, genuinely funny joke about my neurotic self-image AND tell me he thinks I’m beautiful without coming off like a creep or a critic or a smartass. He made me laugh – at him and at myself – and he managed to make me feel pretty while he did it. Then, when we finished our ride, he turned out to have a cooler of beer in the car.

Look, if you don’t marry that guy, I do not know what you are thinking.

He hasn’t changed much in the ensuing 17 years. I recently texted him petulantly from a four-hour meeting: Ugh this meeting is so long…

He fired back: I give up. How long is it?

Y’all, people don’t like it when you start giggling in the middle of their four-hour meetings. Don’t do it.

I know, of course, that it can’t all be gigglefests and yellaughing. Our lives are full of all the usual difficulties for all the usual reasons. But I always know when we’re drifting into real trouble because the laughter tends to go quiet. It’s a reliable sign of danger. And it’s one I’ve learned to take seriously.

Those times, while blessedly rare, are a powerful reminder of the gifts we receive every time we laugh together.

It’s really kind of funny how much funny matters.

The word you're looking for there is "seasoned"

Today's column in the Times Free Press was prompted, as many of them are, by something I read. The New Republic took apart the growing phenomenon of older parents and came up with lots of really good reasons for older parents to be scared about being older parents.

Some of those good reason were sciencey: Higher incidence of all kinds of physical and mental troubles for the offspring of older parents. And some of those good reasons were situational: Your parents are elderly and dependent, your children are tiny and dependent, you are middle-aged and completely exhausted.

But they didn't spend enough time exploring the awesome things about being an older parent. And since I am married to a man who is the 55-year-old father of two little boys, I just went ahead and wrote the missing part of that article. Because old dads kick ass.