The Red Pill

I have a confession to make. Recently I have found that when I am not paying attention, when I am zoned out in my own little world, I catch myself humming and singing to a recent song that should make me blush in shame: Lady Gaga's "Judas."

The first time I heard it I was driving from my hometown to Muncie. When it popped up I almost turned it off. A good Christian follower wouldn't subject his or herself to a song about their Savior's betrayer. Still, the curious, "try to be open-minded" side told me there was no harm in hearing what she had to say. I listened intently to the lyrics, trying to interpret the message she was relaying. It eluded me. After the song ended I sat there behind the wheel thinking, "Huh?"

Of course my confusion about it only meant that I was going to listen to it more. I wanted to figure it out. Which is what I have been trying to do. I listen to the song. I read the lyrics. And last night I watched the music video. I still don't completely know what to make of it. The best interpretation I could come up with is based off the line "Jesus is my virtue, and Judas is the demon I cling to." Perhaps she is saying she cannot stop herself from sinning and giving into the darker side of life.

Still unsatisfied I decided to investigate some more. Somewhere out there in the world had to be some clues as to how Lady Gaga feels about religion and God. Especially after her Alejandro video, in which she dresses as a nun and swallows a rosary.

I watched and read interviews. She says she is religious and that she prays and believes in God and Jesus. I also learned she attended a Catholic school her whole life. That tidbit of information right there made everything click.

I am not out to disrespect Catholic schools or the Catholic Church or anything of that sort. But I have noticed, with my friends who attended Catholic schools, most of them do not have a close relationship or faith in God. In fact, ironically most of them are atheists. I don't know why this is. All I know is that they're impossible to argue with. They have a wealth of knowledge on the Bible and Christianity and have also spent a decent amount of time seriously reflecting on it and the validity of it all. I, on the other hand, know very little about what's written in the Bible and its validity. I actually know very little about my faith and belief. No wonder I get so frustrated with it.

I find this ironic and silly of me. How can I go around preaching something I barely know anything about? It's foolish. Foolish to put my belief and faith into something I haven't devoted any time into learning about. And as I talked about in my last blog, I fear that my lack of knowledge will cause my faith to be misdirected. I don't want to end up like one of Camping's followers, so certain of something I had very little information about.

So I've decided that my ignorance needs to come to an end. I have just spent the past three years receiving an education in journalism – finding the truth has been shoved down my throat. I've been trained to research, ask questions, and to be "objective." Maybe it's time I take some of these tools and use them for my own good.
I don't really know how to go about this. Should I start in Genesis and just go from the beginning to the end? Should I make up a list of questions and concerns and focus on finding those answers? Should I check out some books? And how do I go about finding the other side of the story? Should I go down to the Creation Museum and then go talk to a scientist who specializes in evolution? Should I keep going to church or should I isolate myself from other believers in hopes of finding how I feel about everything?

I haven't even started and I'm already frustrated.

Good news is I don't think there is a right or wrong way of going about this. So my first step is simple. What's the first thing I always do when I'm confused or frustrated? Actually it's run, but the second thing is: write. Writing clarifies my confusion. And since my faith seems to be the most complicated part of my life right now, I figure writing about it is a good place to start. I have a journal and a pen. And I plan on filling it with all of my thoughts, questions, prayers, and discoveries. My journey starts tomorrow.

I started this blog talking about Lady Gaga. There is a reason for that. Because the more I listen to Judas and the more I read about her the more I sympathize for her. Why? Because I think she is confused as well. I don't think she's out to piss people off. Maybe she is, but I would like to think it's a little more innocent than that. I would like to think she is using her music as a venue for expressing her confusion. I'm not saying she is right or that I agree with some of the things she does; I certainly don't condone her actions. All I'm saying is that I think I get it. I think.

Regardless, her song Judas has inspired me to go in search of the answers I've been asking my whole life. It's time to swallow the red pill.

No Good Deed

Twitter was the first to bring me the news. It was on Friday, May 20 when I read a tweet that caught me off guard: the rapture is happening. And it was happening tomorrow at 6 p.m.

Well, today is now Monday, May 23, and so far no earthquakes have happened, no Christians have disappeared, and we all know that the prediction made by Harold Camping of Family Radio was a complete and total failure. The majority of people, including Christians, saw that coming. But there was a small group of people who didn't. And as you can imagine, those people are devastated.

When 6 p.m. EST past and nothing happened, I knew it was safe to say that Camping's predictions were wrong. I immediately opened up my browser and began scouring the web for news articles about the failure of the rapture. I specifically was looking for the reactions of his followers and of Camping. I found an article of a woman saying the time was wrong, and that just because the rapture didn't happen yet didn't mean it wasn't going to happen later that day. But here we are, more than 24 hours later, and still, no rapture.

Initially this has all been amusing to me. I thought (still think) Camping was a little looney, and I laughed when I saw that he had already made a failed prediction back in 1994. I logged online Saturday evening because I wanted to see what these nut cases had to say. I poked my finger and laughed.

My amusement was uncalled for.

Afterward it began sinking in with me that a tragedy had really happened in all of this. This wasn't just some crazy guy out shouting that the world was coming to an end. This was a preacher, who had loyal followers. Followers so loyal that some of them gave up their life savings to put up billboards and advertisements about the day of the second coming. Followers who gave up their lives in order to save others. Followers with good intentions. Followers who are now penniless, being mocked, and have had a decent blow to their faith. And nothing about that is funny.

I'm not sure who is at fault here. It would be easy to blame Camping, and many people are. One person said he thought Camping was an atheist, who used his rapture prediction as a way to draw in donations to his ministry. Perhaps he is an atheist with bad intentions. Personally, I don't think he is. I think he is a Christian, who really felt he had both God and the Bible figured out enough to know what God was going to do next. My guess is he felt God was telling him to figure out the date of the second coming and to share that date with others. His message was a success. His prediction? Not so much.

Part of me does blame Camping. I am not in the position to judge, but considering the fact he already made a prediction and was wrong, you would think he would take that as a hint that perhaps God doesn't want him to figure out the second coming. I'm hoping after this one, he gives up on the crystal ball for good. We'll find out later what he has to say.

The followers are at some fault too. They didn't have to listen to Camping. They didn't have to give up their jobs, money, and time. They had a free choice, and so it would be easy for us to say, "This was your decision. Sorry it didn't work in your favor, but it's not our fault. Good luck." And I'm sure some people out there are thinking that. But I hope you're not one of them.

Whether you're a Christian, Jew, Muslim, atheist, agnostic, witch, whatever, I hope you recognize the tragedy in this. I hope you realize the power that lies in faith and the damage it can produce when it's misdirected.

I am not sad that the rapture didn't happen. I am rather glad Camping was wrong because it is proof that no one can predict the ways of God. But what upsets me is the damage that's been done. It breaks my heart to think that someone out there gave up their life savings to spread the word of something they truly believed was going to happen. It takes a lot of guts and courage to abandon your money and life to try to help others for something you believe in. Having to confess you were wrong and deal with the consequences will not be an easy one, and I am praying these followers will be able to get their lives back in order without the criticism of ignorant people. I am also praying they haven't lost complete faith in God.

Faith is a messy thing. It brings people together. It gives us hope. It makes life worth living. But it's also dangerous. It can lead to the devastation these followers are facing, that Christianity is facing. And the worst part is, we never know whether our faith is being misdirected or not. We just have to have faith that we are right. We have to trust our hearts and hope with all of our might our guts aren't the ones taking us down the wrong path. All we can do is listen to our moral compass and pray it is pointing in the right direction.

I am sad that these followers, and Camping, had so much faith in the second coming and it turned out wrong. Especially when, the followers at least, had good intentions. But no good deed goes unpunished.

The Remedy

It is Thursday night/ Friday morning as I write this. My computer clock tells me it's 1:00 a.m., although I suspect it is still on eastern time and I have moved ever so slightly west into the central time zone. In that case, it is probably just now midnight. Either way, it is long past the time of when I had the intentions of writing.

I could make excuses for my lack of writing. I am at my boyfriend's house in Indiana. My time up until this point has been spent sleeping, petting animals, searching for a cat, bike riding, visiting Milwaukee, cursing at fax machines, making smoothies, watching 3 movies, stuffing my face with my boyfriend's Italian grandma's home-cooking, and passing a total of 13 hours in the car. Listing the random activities I have engaged in makes it seem like I've actually been productive over the past few days. But quite honestly, just sitting here in this queen sized-bed typing while the rest of the house sleeps is the most productive thing I've done.

So here I am. Writing. Not even sure what I want to write about or what I need to say. Which in my case is never good. My blog is driven by my personal experiences, the emotional turmoil of a college girl facing the big questions that seem to determine the rest of her life: Where will I live? Will I find a job? Is it a job that I want? What will my boyfriend and I do? Can we go long-distance? Will I give up my dreams to be with him? Will I give up him for my dreams? Will I be able to have the life I've always dreamed of?

These questions exhaust me. They haunt me. They're my little Caspers, popping up when I'm trying to go about my day and scaring the hell out of me. And I have dealt with them so many times before I don't want to think about them anymore. So I avoid them. And in turn, I avoid writing.

For a while I was thinking I had a slight case of writer's block. I wanted to sit down and write but I couldn't find a topic I felt passionate writing about. And there is plenty I could share. Like being almost officially done with college, or my first impression of Milwaukee, or how I feel about my boyfriend's avoidance on the topic of marriage, or how pumped I am for my internship…you get the picture. But I don't want to deal with those topics. I don't want to sort out the thoughts and feelings for them. I don't want to think about my career or my relationship or my future. And truth be told, I don't think writing about those topics would be much help anyway.

When it comes to my blog, I write for me. I write to sort things out, to see what it is that's running through my mind right before me. My blog acts as a mirror, a reflection of the things that aren't so obvious to me until I take the time to really analyze them. This has always been a useful tool for me. I have little epiphanies when I write my posts. Then I post them, in hopes that someone else might find some use out of them as well. And if they don't, well, I hope they're still at least somewhat entertaining.

But as time has taught me, you can only analyze things so much before you just have to put them to rest. I have contemplated what will happen after this summer numerous times and the result has remained the same: I don't know. I don't know where I will be. I don't know what I'll be doing. I don't know what it will mean for my boyfriend and I. I simply don't know. And I probably won't know until this summer has passed.

Uncertainty frustrates me. But wasting my time worrying about it is even worse. There is no point analyzing how I feel about these things because in the end it might not matter. Only time will tell what my course of action will be. And that time is not now.

But you can certainly bet that when the time is right I will face those questions and hopefully have some answers for them. And when the time comes, I'll be here, writing, questioning, thinking, and over-analyzing away. Until then, I'll shoo those questions away. I have more important things to enjoy than to waste my time with worry.

For the Love of Running: Flying Pig 2011

It was just a little after 10 p.m. on Saturday when I took a glance over everything before going to bed. Bag? Packed. Clothes? Laid out. Breakfast? Decided. Alarm? Set. Legs? Feeling twitchy and ready to run.

I was ready. Ready to take on Cincinnati's Flying Pig Half Marathon in the morning. And as I looked at everything laid out, I realized I was excited. This was the first time in a very long time that I was this prepared for a race. In the past few years I've gotten use to throwing a few items in my gym bag, grabbing my shoes and a banana and heading out the door for a race, without a care in the world as to whether I forgot my watch or how I was feeling that morning. Racing, these past three years, has been a recreational thing to me. I raced simply because I could and it was always something I had done. I did it just to do it.

But on May 1, 2011, at 6:30 a.m., that wasn't the case.

I woke up at 4:30 a.m., confused as to why my alarm was going off. Then it hit me: You have a half-marathon today. I let myself drift off for ten more minutes before I bounced out of bed and started getting ready.

My parents decided to come down to the marathon so they offered to drive. As we rode down the empty highway in the dark hours before sunrise, nerves began to envelope me. I was getting the pre-race jitters. Adrenaline was already beginning to pump through my veins. I realized how badly I wanted to run this thing.

My race started off a bit slow. Due to a bathroom stop I didn't make it to the starting line until after the gun went off. I was in a mix of runners and walkers. The first couple of miles I let the crowd hold me back. I tend to want to take off in the beginning of a race, as I had done the first time I ran the half-marathon back in 2009, and it ends up hurting me in the end. I was determined not to let the same thing happen.

Not even three miles into the race, just as I had crossed into Kentucky a flash of lightning lit up the sky. I looked up at the clouds and thought, "No storm. You are not ruining this race for me." Fortunately there was only more flash of lightning about a mile and half later and that was it.

Miles passed and I felt good. I pushed the pace. I struggled on the hills. I got a stitch cramp around mile seven and had to slow down, steady my breathing, and relax my posture in hopes of getting rid of it. It helped and a mile later I continued pushing on.

It was around mile nine when a little epiphany struck me. It had been raining the whole time and I was soaked. My feet were rubbing against my shoes and I could feel blisters developing. The side stitch kept coming back and fading. I wasn't feeling my absolute best, but in that moment I distinctly remember thinking, "I love this."

The last three miles of the half-marathon are all down hill. I was getting tired. I had passed mile 11 and was desperately searching for mile 12. I never saw it. We ran around a bend and I knew the end was near. Someone in the crowd said there was only a quarter-mile left. I tried kicking, but the stitch came back. I've never had a stitch at the end of the race, but let me tell you, when you get one and you try kicking, it's hard. Really hard. My form was out of whack as I tried to fight through the pain. I made it through the finish line and started to walk it all off.

I was sure I had done better than I did back in 2009. In 2009 I did not train. AT ALL. I showed up on race day and simply ran it. I struggled through the last half of the race and felt like shit at the end. In 2009 I stopped to use the bathroom halfway through the race, which lost me a few seconds. Plus back then I weighed 10 pounds more. Surely, I thought, I did better than then.

I was wrong.

As I saw my official time on the website my elated feelings about the race left me. My time in 2009 was 1:56. My time this year? 2:01. I didn't even break 2 hours.

I was furious. How did this happen? I knew my training wasn't perfect, but I did train. I thought I had a fairly smart race plan. And unlike 2009 I felt good throughout the race.

But numbers don't lie. And my number was not below 1:56. It was five minutes above it, never dipping below a 9 minute pace. I was crushed.

I sulked for a few hours after that. But as I made the two-hour drive back to Muncie I started thinking about it and I realized how ridiculous I was being.

Runners tend to put success in terms of numbers. For a lot of people, like myself, it's the time. Hitting a certain pace or setting a new PR. For others it's about place; where you placed in your age group or in the race. For those who run for the health benefits, it may be a specific weight or waist-size. Everyone seems to have a certain number they're trying to hit.

When I didn't hit my number, I felt like a failure. Those 13.1 miles seemed like a waste. All the enthusiasm I felt over the weekend was gone. I was angry, and all I wanted to do was start training for a new half-marathon so I could redeem myself. I wanted to forget about the Flying Pig 2011.

But on my drive back, I realized my initial reaction was wrong. This weekend was actually a success. And I was letting a number ruin it.

The race was a success for several reasons. It was a success because I enjoyed every painful second of it. It was a success because I remembered what it was like to get so pumped over a race. It was a success because I realized I still do enjoy racing. My reaction to my time was a success; I still care about how I do.

This weekend I found the competitive girl in me I have been searching for since cross-country of 2007. I don't know how or why, but the apathetic runner in me died this weekend. The past three years of not caring about races or training or how I performed seemed to have finally come to an end. I don't regret those three years; I needed them. I needed a break from caring about running - in high school I cared about it too much. I needed to find a love in running that was independent and solely for myself. I needed to rediscover and confirm my love for running. Those three years took care of that.

As for the time? Well, I thought about it and I realized that even though I didn't train in 2009, I was still in better shape. I finished my final track season in 2008 and had been consistently running with my run club in the fall. So even though that spring I barely ran, my body was still lingering in my high school running shape. Three years of inconsistently running threw my shape off.

And now I have motivation. I want to do better. I want to break that 1:56 PR. I want to redeem myself from this past race. It's only the first day after my half-marathon and I am itchy to pick a new race and start training for it. Pushing myself, going outside of my comfort zone, and competing are all calling my name. I can't wait to answer them.

But in the end, I don't run for time. I don't run to beat someone or to prove anything to anyone but myself. I run because I love it. And I am thrilled that my love for racing has returned.