Continuing where I left off last month. Here’s  the tweet-length synopsis of what you missed: I’m terrified of stepping on broken glass, but met someone who has challenged me to run barefoot despite my fear; I’m working on opening my hands to accept change and do things I didn’t think I could or had desire to do, like moving unexpectedly. So, it’s been a month and a half since I started and I’m still going strong, slogging out of bed to log a few days each week. I’m approaching the mileage I was at when I was sidelined with knee injuries at the end of last year, it’s making me giddy that I can do this again, that I am not doomed to the sidelines, shelved by limitations in my head or by my body. Mysterious as it is to me in retrospect, considering I never knew this place as a possibility last year, I’ve somehow coaxed the two into belief that I can run. I assure anyone that asks about the achievement, that I am hardly athletic, coordination passed me over, probably anyone who put in the effort could do it (which I do believe), and crown my come-down with the line, “I’m not really a runner” or “I’m not a real runner” or “I don’t consider myself to be one.”  A runner looks the part with sleek moisture-wicking compression clothes, a practiced stride, and long list of races run in impressive times; not some neophyte with floppy morning hair and glasses still telling herself to open her hands when she runs. Right?

At church a few weeks ago a woman came to me at the start of primary (I’m in the primary presidency) and apologized as she introduced herself and her two sunny-haired children, saying, I haven’t been active for years, its been so long. From the two feet of blue berbered carpet between us I feel the pain and awkwardness of that omission tell that omission a denigration of the effort she had made to be there at that moment. Not as worthy as my own, not as experienced, not a never-miss-a-meeting member. I was not having it. I could not let her apologize for her absence or her presence. I cut her off, waved my hand to push the pretext aside and smiled, “But you’re here now. That doesn’t have to matter.” I’m sure I then blathered about how glad we were to have her and the teachers over her children’s classes. She smiled politely and excused herself to Sunday School and I probably got called away to chaperon a four year-old’s excursion to the bathroom. I didn’t think much more of it as I got busy with my primary busyness, but she did.

The first run back from my initiation to barefoot running, I was still uncertain about going again on my own. Instead I went about my usual run in my dip-dyed pink running shoes as I always had before. But on the last third of a mile, down the hill to my house I decided to take them off. I tucked my socks in to my shoes and my shoes into my arms and ran barefooted in my thin skin, lit by the soft glow of the sun rising at the bottom of the slope. And that was okay. I did it again a few days later, but took my shoes off sooner. And then sooner again the next run. And again until I was taking them off just a hundred yards from the house. It was ridiculous. I was completing an entire runs carrying those bright pink burdens. If I thought it was hard to run with my hands open, it was just silly to run holding my shoes- I was clearly at war with myself. I wanted to run barefoot- but I wasn’t a barefoot runner- I needed my shoes just in case the road was too rough or I lost my nerve or God forbid there is broken glass glittering the road. After enough morning miles of packing the shoes around in my arms I realize I am sadly and laughably ridiculous. This gal who thought she was trying to be more open can’t seem to let go, although she already had.

I encounter the sister from primary again at a social event. She apologizes again, afraid that I may have seen her surprise in our last meeting, she was caught by my words and hadn’t said much else; “You’re here now.” She  wanted me to know they arrested her sense of displacement. It shouldn’t matter who we think we are or have done in the past as much as what we are doing at this moment.

My own words flew back in my face. I don’t fit the idea of a runner or barefoot runner I’ve fashioned in my head, but I was there was with my baggage, playing the part on each morning run; I had pulled myself out of bed before six AM, schlepped myself out the door and hauled myself all through the neighborhood around my house in the gathering light with my shoes under my arm instead of on my feet.  Should I not own the role I’m playing and accept the designation or continue to denigrate my ability? That sister belongs at church as a accepted member just as much everyone else, we are all worthy to sit on those benches and feel like we belong. She shouldn’t have to feel like she has to hold out her apologies and excuses that keep her feeling like an outsider while she’s in. She already opened herself up gaping wide to walk in the door after standing outside for so long.

“You’re here now.” What you’re doing now shows who you are and where you belong.

After all the miles I’ve run in the last year that I didn’t believe I could, opening my hands to something new and now catching something I didn’t know I could. Why am I still prefacing myself to myself and to others? I left my security shoes in the closet and ran. It was easier to feel open when I was unencumbered. With my hands open and my feet free, and the early birds taking out their trash at 6:30 AM giving me the crazy eye (that I had once given to those who looked a lot like I did at that moment), I realized I am a barefoot runner. 

I didn’t think was good enough but my merits qualify me for the title, but here I am. There she was. She thanked me for letting her in, reminding her that it didn’t matter. Her absence didn’t diminish her belonging. She’s still here and her beautiful boy will be baptized this month. I look at her actions and effort- she’s one of us. She belongs.

You’re here now.

What does that make you? Who are you that you didn’t accept or realize?