I was perusing Facebook today and I saw one of my friends commented on their ex-boyfriends picture.  I never met this man, I only have the knowledge that my friend gave me.  My friend never spoke poorly of their ex-boyfriend, never said anything in a derogatory way.  And yet, I had this thought in my head of this man.  It was nothing horrible, but the way he treated my friend after the relationship just made me question them.  I was in the wrong, making preconceived notations on this person and their life.  I was wrong merely for the fact that I was making assumptions on someone I never even met, but I was also was wrong in those assumptions.

However, out of morbid curiosity I clicked on the picture to see what exactly he was commenting on.  Up on my screen came a collage of faces.  Beautifully photographed (he is a photographer) and placed just right.  A lovely collage of faces that resembled his own.  It turns out it was a collage of his families faces.  Different poses, different people, all done in the same color scheme, beautifully edited.  Below the picture was comments, gobs of them, most all of them from his family.  And my thought process changed.  I smiled.

What is about family that softens even the hardest of people? 

I've met some pretty scummy guys in my life, and some pretty mean girls; but when you get them around their mom, dad, grandparents, something about them changes.  When you see them in the love of their loved ones, they look different.

Is it the love of a family that shows the person in the way that they are meant to be seen?  Pure love.  Undeserved love.  Love that exists because of the similar blood that flows through the veins and the mountain of experiences that only you share. 

It makes me think about love.  How different do we look when we stand in love?  Not only the love of family, friends, and lovers; but what about standing in Perfect Love.  The love of God. 

How different do we look when we stand in that?

This summer I took up running...well technically jogging...well technically its a mix of running and walking.

I took it up on a whim.  A friend was visiting and he said he was going to go for a run.  "A run," I thought.  "A run sounds nice."  I quickly got up and changed and put on some running shoes before my common sense caught up with my brain, because, well...I don't run.

As I took the jog around the neighborhood I looked for side streets so no one would bear witness to the horrible sight of my struggle.  But as I ran, I began to think.  Besides the music pumping through my headphones into my brain giving me the beat to which my feet should hit the pavement, my mind was racing.  I thought about how hard it was.  I thought about how good it was.  I thought about how I needed to do this continually so I could hike and run and play in Colorado where my oxygen supply would be far less.  I thought about keeping up with my athletic friends out there, and climbing mountains and that only fueled the desire to run.

I jogged 2-3 times a week for a couple weeks prior to my departure.  I got to Colorado and quickly picked up my new found hobby again as I had most days to myself.  It was a lot harder there.  My lungs would burn long before my legs ached.  In Colorado though, I found the joy of pushing myself.  I saw progress as each time I would go out I noticed that I could run longer and longer, with shorter breaks in between.  I loved the feeling of setting a goal and then having to push myself  to get there; of concentrating on making my legs take one more step-one more step-one more step. 

I would go jogging in the morning, and some mornings it felt like it was the only thing I had control over.  Some mornings after fighting on the phone with family or confusion washed over me, a run around the neighborhood cleared my mind and calmed me down.  There was familiarity of the path as I zigzagged up and down the streets and the cool-down walk in the park.  Then there was the bitter climb of 4 stories to reach Jolene's apartment where I would stumble in and lay on the floor, waiting for my heart rate to normalize, and the sweat to quit pouring out.  Sometimes I would lay in her room and watch the ceiling fan turn round and round and just smile.  Because I had accomplished something.  Because I had made it farther than I did the day before, because this run was a good run.

I lived in the presence in those moments.  It was about the run that day, the ache in my legs, concentrating on drawing in oxygen as efficiently as possible.  It was about the next goal point.  The sound of my feet hitting the pavement. 

I got back to Ohio and life kicked in and I forgot the joy of running.  The joy of the solitude, of the challenge, of pushing myself more and more.  Then last week, I decided to take it up again.

Today was a difficult run.  I couldn't get into the groove.  My legs complained from the really great run I had on Saturday.  My side protested with spurts of pain.  I just couldn't find my groove.  I thought about turning around and just going home.  But then I decided to push myself even harder.  Of making bigger goals for myself and concentrating to make sure I reached those goals.  The time came for me to leave so I could meet a friend, and I realized I still WANTED to run.  It turned out to be a brilliant run, and I would have lost it if I didn't stick with it. 

I see a parallel to life right now.  I made a decision, a good one.  I was met with resistance at first, I couldn't find my groove, I wasn't sure exactly what I should do.  I thought about throwing in the towel and returning to what I knew.   But I stuck with it, and I need to stick with it.  Because eventually I'll figure it out and find my groove. And it will turn out to be brilliant. 

Here's to finding my stride and keeping it!