There are two couches that sit in the small family room of my house, one beneath the large window that looks out onto the front yard and one along the wall against the back of the room. The couches are leather, sort of a deep burgundy color ... and they are probably 10 years old. The cushions are currently swaddled in fleece blankets because the years of dogs climbing on them have pretty much shredded the leather on them. I've checked with several upholstery stores, and the truth is that it will cost more to recover or replace the cushions than it would to buy new couches. So I decided that for now, until my big old dog Julie departs this world, the couches will remain in my family room with their cushions swathed in fleece blankets. It's not like I have many visitors to my home, and the fleecy cushions don't bother me. In fact, I think it may be hard to adjust to new couches when that day comes ... in a way, those worn, old couches of mine mean home to me ... familiar, comfortable, safe ... home.
My daughter Meghann has been training for several months to run a marathon, her first marathon as a matter of fact. I was sort of surprised when Meg decided to begin distance running ... though she ran track in high school, she was always a sprinter. I've been able to stand with my son-in-law and cheer her on in 5k and 10k events, and on October 19, I'll stand with him again and anxiously wait for her to accomplish her goal and cross the finish line of her first marathon. I'm proud of Meghann for the determination and discipline she has demonstrated both mentally and physically as she's trained. I'm proud of her for setting such a high goal and not stopping until she tackles the challenge before her head-on with every ounce of strength she's got. I'm proud of her for having the courage and the stamina to run on ... to run on in the rain ... to run on in the heat ... to run on in the wind ... to run on in the cold ... to run and run and run and then run some more.
It was while I was watching Meg run a 10k in downtown Kansas City that I made a decision ... a decision I didn't tell her about until recently. A friend of mine is a marathoner, and one day she told me the reason she began running marathons was because her mother wanted the two of them to run together ... her mother who didn't begin running marathons until she was 50 years old. As I stood behind the ropes that lined the street where Meghann was running the 10k, I thought about my friend and her mom, and I thought about Meg and me. I thought about the miles my daughter and I have traveled together over the last 24 years ... some easily trodden downhill miles and some treacherously dangerous uphill ones, too. I thought about how much running has come to mean to her ... I thought about how much walking has come to me. And I decided ... I decided that I was going to do the Couch to 5k program and learn how to run with my daughter. I've never been a runner, and I'll never be the runner Meghann is, but perhaps next spring, I'll be good enough that we can run the Mother's Day 5k together. At least that's my goal anyway.
I've mentioned before that when Ollie and I walk when it's dark outside, we walk on the sidewalk that runs in front of two schools, one a junior high school and the other a senior high school. There's a sign in front of the junior high, one of those signs like churches have, you know ... the kind you write a message on with the black plastic letters. Since school started a few weeks ago, three words seem to have taken up permanent residence on the sign ... Hope Happens Here. I've passed that sign countless times and I've read those words each time, but they didn't really strike me until tonight when I was running with Ollie ... yep, that's right, I said running. Tonight, those words literally jumped off the sign and bolted into my mind ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here. My mind immediately raced back to that cold February morning last year when hope was the absolute last thing that was happening as I sat at my kitchen table preparing to swallow a handful of pills and end my life. My mind raced back to that hot August morning last year when hope was the absolute last thing that was happening as I sat in a conference room at work with one of the leaders of the company sobbing as I told her the truth of who I am.
I stopped running and stared at the words on the lighted sign in front of me ... Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and stared at the words as tears flooded my eyes, spilled down my cheeks and smacked the concrete of the sidewalk beneath my feet. Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and dropped to my knees, scooped Ollie into my arms and buried my face in his fur. Hope Happens Here. I stopped running and told God how thankful I am for hope and how grateful I am to be alive. At my appointment with the life-saving head doctor on Saturday, I told her I wanted the turmoil and the ever-present struggle within me to be over ... I asked her to fix me, to flip a switch and make me be okay once and for all. And then tonight ... I was running. Tonight ... I read the sign. Tonight ... I understood the message.
If I want to be in the race, I have to first get off my couch and then learn how to run ... I have to learn how to run. I have to go through the process. I have to do the hard work. I have to practice ... and practice ... and practice. I can't rush through the process. I have to try ... and try ... and try. I have to learn how to run. I have to first get off my couch and then learn how to run.
Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here ... Hope Happens Here. Right here. Right now. Hope Happens Here. That it does, my friends, that it does.
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