Night Running

Night running has never really been my thing. In 13 years of running, I could count on one (gloved) hand how many times I've run after 9 a.m. There's something almost mystical about running in the early morning hours as the city wakes up, and then having the whole day ahead.

Heading home from an all-day meeting yesterday I knew snow was coming. It was 4 p.m. and the snow was rumored to start around 6. Winter twilight approached and I looked forward to a cozy night with books and movies as the snow accumulated outside my window, but even though yesterday was scheduled to be my off-day and I didn't plan to run, something made me want to head straight home, throw on my fleece and thermals, and head out for a short run. Maybe to burn off a little energy before settling into 24 hours of being snow-bound? I figured I'd do a quick run up to Brighton Center and back before it got dark.

The cold air didn't bother me as I stepped outside and, after being in a windowless meeting room all day, the fresh air and winter light felt refreshing and invigorating. The air was brisk as I trotted carefully over the icy sidewalks towards Oak Square; my breath evened out, my mind became clear, and the running reverie began.

Though the sidewalks were covered with weeks worth of frozen slush and snow, my trail shoes braced me and I was careful to guard my center of gravity. The salsa and bossa nova on my ipod seemed ironic as the frozen snow crunched beneath my feet and the cold winter air stung my fingertips. But soon enough I was warmed up, even sweating, and in a groove. Ten minutes became twenty as I ran through Brighton Center and did my little homage to Rocky and blasted up and down the steps of Brighton High School five times. The plan was to turn back at this point, but I wasn't tired. I felt invigorated and recharged and kept running. For the first time in my life, I understood why people like running at dusk. The sky grew purple as the afternoon daylight faded into dusk, and all around me city lights came on, people drove home, streetlights brightened sidewalks, and we all braced for snow.

My thoughts wandered as I reflected on the day I had just spent with people from a planning committee at church, talking about the notion of community building and outreach. We brainstormed and shared ideas and challenged each other's notions as much as our own as we reasoned over what people are seeking, how to reach out to them, and how to be present with and respectful of each person's faith, experience, and journey. As I continued running I recalled individual conversations I'd had with people throughout the day - people quite different from me in many ways - age, stage in life, background, career. But each person listened to me, and every one of them seemed to understand exactly where I was coming from and precisely where I was. As I listened to them I knew that a common thread tied us together, and it was a bond far greater than working together or being the same age. It was enormously comforting to be surrounded by people who 'speak my language', for lack of a better expression.

The more I thought about it, the more I was moved by not just the realization but the profound experience that no matter where we are on the spectrum of faith, career, family, and life, we are all really in this together. We all feel this searching and seeking and yearning to be part of something and to be understood, and when that searching and seeking and yearning is heard or validated or celebrated, it is more powerful than anything.

We all experience joys, sorrows, satisfaction and defeat. Though we may experience these emotions in such different ways, we're human. We laugh, we smile, we cry. We all feel pain and we can all understand happiness. When we are lonely or grieving or lost - and who hasn't been? - we are not really alone. When we are searching and confused and bewildered to the point of tears, we are still not alone. Because this human experience bonds us, and there will always be someone out there who really, really hears you.

An hour later I was approaching my front door. Somehow I'd run six miles. Anything I seemed to have worried about during the week didn't matter that much anymore, and even though I was alone, I knew I was part of something.