...just on the other side of pain.

As I sit, sticky beads of sweat roll down my forehead, off past my temples down my cheeks—the tears of endurance.

I am out of shape, and I know it.  Between the detrimental but oh-so-soothing nicotine habit, the sedentary day job, and my overall lack of energy, exercise took the backseat.  And when I say the backseat, I mean it settled somewhere deep down in the trunk beneath empty milkshake cups and boxes of used clothing for Goodwill.   

Running sucks right now.  My feet ache, the damaged cilia in my lungs protest, my calves cramp, even my shoulders throb.  And too often, when it begins to hurt I stop.  I find myself slowing to a jog or walk when the stings of exertion kick in, without even thinking twice.  The will to endure has become passive, a small voice easily dismissed aside roars of pain.  And for some reason, it never seems to get easier.  I long for the shapely legs and energy I had when younger, chasing the ever elusive remembrance of feeling strong.

So running tonight, underneath a shower of noise and lights, fireworks set off by those too eager to wait until the 4th, I once again met the heave of exhaustion, the angry protest from my muscles.  I usually answer their demands, slowing or even stopping completely. 

But tonight, I fought.  I will never become stronger unless I push past the pain.  Growth, learning, insight, is always just on the other side of pain.  And too often we stop or slow to a weak walk, as soon as it gets hard.  It hurts, a lot, so we stop.

But getting stronger seems to most often come through pain.  If we keep stopping on the fringes of hurting, even deep hurting, we never learn anything, never get stronger.  My body comes to recognize a threshold, intuitively easing back and disengaging my sympathetic nervous system—the one that enables power and energy even when exhausted.  I am training myself to give up.

So stubbornly, because that is a strong suite of mine, I maintained pace even when my legs began to falter.  I kept on pushing, one leg ahead of the other.  And I got stronger.  Even in just than final half-mile, I felt my muscles strengthening and my breath gaining fortitude.  I started sweat, more than I had the previous miles, and felt just a hint of a second wind.  Certainly nothing incredibly energizing, but a slight feeling of something else kicking in.  Something that said, I have the ability to keep going.  Don't get me wrong, it still hurt like hell, but the nagging voice saying "quit and give up" found itself silenced beneath laborious breaths and heavy steps.   

So I am looking at my life and thinking, how many times have I pulled back, weakened my pace because it started to really hurt?  And what growing, strengthening, was possible and intended, but left behind and dismissed because it was just beyond pain?  When should I have just pushed through, finding the stubborn will to persist, instead of abandoning the pursuit?

Growing is most often on the other side of pain.  It probably won't get easier for a while still, but if we can quiet the voice that urges us to quit, even by just a bit, we've won.

  

Mishaps with Monsters

I made a mistake today.   

Well, it ended differently than “mistake” typically implies, so perhaps a “misstep” is more fitting.  I broke nutritious status quo.  I drank a Monster midway through my Tuesday school day. 

And it had quite the effect. 

Now, my mental state entering the Monster-drinking incident was already quite delicate.  Finals week looms on the calendar, an unmoving stress sentence which denies rescheduling.  I tread the slippery slope of apathy in my classes; fewer credits this semester enabled a too-occasional lackadaisical attitude towards academics and learning.  Furthermore, my attitude involved something of a general questioning-of-life, should I be at this school, what if this is all chance, am I wasting my life-type of attitude. 

Yep, just average thoughts on a Tuesday afternoon in November. 

And then I drank the drink.  As a coffee-regular, caffeine normally pumps through my well-conditioned adrenal glands without issue, but this particular can of Rehab had the perfect blend of B-vitamins, Taurine, and Caffeine to send my anxiety and re-thinking and analyzing and general freaking-out into overdrive.  And so, in the middle of Doug Down’s 3:05 p.m. Popular Science Writing for Non-Fiction class, my brain catapulted into:

What if straight out of high school I had pursued a scholarship at Stanford or Columbia or Harvard? If I had worked hard enough, I probably could have gotten one.  What if I should have pushed hard for a different career?  Computer programming, instead of English?  Why did my friend Aaron die?  Why can’t I seem to get over him?  What was it about his light and knowledge, his potential, that I somehow feel lacking without?  What I am wasting ME?  What if Montana State isn’t facilitating my mind in the best possible way?  I see my inner greatness; is it being fostered?  Life is this giant room with so many doors, and we get to choose one.  And what if we should have chosen another, a different route?  What if the engine that operates on an entirely new level with an alternative fuel will not be created because I did not pursue Mechanical Engineering?  Or the case that needed to be won, to change the future of women’s rights, will not be passed because I didn’t go to Law School?  What if I could have made it big in the music industry?  Am I getting the best education I could, here?  Am I empowering myself to the highest extent?  But then there’s also….

You understand, right?  And so my frenzy of thoughts went on.  Class ended at 4:20.  My nervous daydreams followed me out the door.  My anxious questions accompanied me across the courtyard of the English building.  The fearful second-guesses shadowed me through the brick arch, as disorienting and unsteadying as the icy concrete sidewalks.

And then, a friend was waiting to pick me up from school.  One who listened to my flow of fears and thoughts and worries and unanswered questions.  Here I sit now, at my dining room table.  I am coming off my hyper-induced anxiety attack, realizing some core truths of which I needed reminding:

1.      Where I am right now is not by chance.  How prideful I am to assume total control over the circumstances and happenings in my life, as if my current state were the sole work of my doing.  Also wrong is to assume my life is aimless.  There is One who shifts my life each way, with a specific purpose always.

2.      The greatness I seek, to take the world and shake it, is not bound to one career trajectory.  Greatness is a permeating light which can shine through numerous materials, proving extremely difficult to blocked.  If I know God calls me to greatness, I cannot simultaneously believe He can be hindered by any happening in my life.  One the contrary, each event and change must be leading to that greatness (if I give it to Him.)

3.      The facilitation of educational achievement is based less on environment than my personal choice.  Am I engaging my classes?  Am I inviting relationships which feed my intellect and emotional maturity? Am I blessing others, one of the greatest ways to learn?  Greatness is not contained by environment.  If seeking impact, I must first allow other things to impact me.  Namely, God’s truth and my relationship with Him, alongside educational opportunities.

It has been a long day.  It is still going.  There is reading and writing to be done. 

But!

My greatness is not hindered by environment.  It comes down to this: do I trust God, enough to surrender my “best ways” to Him, and accept the present as my opportunity to explore the greatness to be birthed from today?  I did make a mistake today.  I allowed myself to entertain the idea that success in life is on me; Anjeli versus the world.  As if this greatness within was somehow my own doing, or that God would leave in my inept hands.  

That was my Tuesday.

Then and Now: Building Blocks and Laundry Soap

                        On my way to bed I navigate building blocks of various sizes and shapes, an enormous cardboard box that is actually a fort, a spread of wrapping paper scraps and cardboard tubes, climb sturdy pine steps to the attic, and crawl into a king size bed covered in quilts that almost swallow me at night. Man, it’s good to be home. 

                         It’s curious how time has a way of changing irritants into lovely sentimentalities. The way the bottom half of our Christmas tree is more heavily laden with ornaments from little brother’s decorating jobs would once evoke a perfectionist mentality in me, driving me to rearrange the adornments into an even arrangement. Now I smile across our living room, remarking how the décor steadily gains in height as my brothers grow. As a teenager living in my parent’s household, I would grumble at the prospect of doing laundry. Now I satisfactorily fold towels and dishrags, push buttons here and toss a scoop of soap in there, knowing how consistently hard my mother works and relating to the relief of knowing there is one less thing on the to-do list. I head down to the basement and instruct the youngest boy “this is your last game on the Wii,” and he frustratingly stomps up the steps five minutes later. Within a half an hour his exasperated and pouting demeanor has been exchanged for a motivated joy, as we chop and prepare apples, discussing the many baking options for our newly readied ingredient. Even short amounts of time can have transformative powers. 

                      I am currently thick in the middle of multiple challenges and stresses in my life, ones that often feel overwhelmingly large and unconquerable. A heart that feels fragile and walled off; yet constantly having its wounds re-opened by memories and places. Health issues that remain unanswered; numerous doctors and needles. Workplace relationships that are sticky and complicated; some are delicate, and some require concerted effort to effectively communicate uninterest. Sixteen credits next semester, and I recently took on a third job peer tutoring in MSU’s writing center. My relationships with my roommates, my desire to regularly integrate exercise into my routine, my black lab that constantly desires my attention and affection… These must all be balanced, while simultaneously avoiding making string cheese my only meals. In the midst of the looming trees, I easily lose sight of the grander forest. 

                     Being home reminds me of how frustrations, stresses, and burdens can evolve into joyful memories, reminders of grace, and thankfulness. “Tika tika,” a friend told me recently, which is Maori (I believe) for “little by little.” It’s been my silent reminder, whispered to myself in the mist of struggle. All bad things will come to an end. Little by little, with grace, faith, and courage, I must persist through. I believe that what seems to be overwhelming and enveloping stress and challenge will eventually be transformed into character through time, shaped by the Authour. So as I dodge legos on the floor, make effort not to collapse a block castle, and find my towel damp from recent use (that was not mine), I find the joy in the reminder of the healing and changing capacities of time. 

~Anjeli