Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a runner. I can walk fast, maybe not so gracefully, but I can move. And all my life I have kept moving. In a large family, I learned very early to move, to keep up and stake a claim at the dinner table, to stake my claim to get into college, to earn graduate degrees, to get a job at a university, to get promoted. You get the picture. I have had a wonderful busy life. Even during a year that a bone marrow transplant isolated me from the world, I was moving. I learned to quilt and I quilted as if tomorrow the stores might run out of thread. I enjoy moving. But last summer, I couldn’t muster my same zest for moving. In August, I found out I had breast cancer and though I didn’t panic, my purpose seemed hazy as I ran through each week of doctor’s appointments, waiting for results, more doctors’ appointments, more waiting, cancelling a long awaited vacation to an island in Wisconsin (let me tell you about this place someday), calling my mother to let her know, calling my 6 siblings, more doctors’ appointments, more waiting. Physically - I felt fine. Inside, I was blank. Not panicked, just blank. Waiting is not my preferred pastime.
But back to the race. Where was my race? As I sorted through the days, I prayed – more like an ongoing and sometimes rambling conversation with Jesus and His mother than a prayer. I have had these conversations all my life but now I wondered, was God listening? If He knew me as well as I hoped, He knows he created a mover, a person who lacks patience with dawdling, with waiting, but I was being asked to wait and wait. Couldn’t I just race to the end? Couldn’t I get the treatment now? Today! Get back to my race?
One day, I thought about churches and candles. When I was young, all Catholic churches had open doors with candles you could light – quiet places where you could kneel and pray or just sit and rest. At Notre Dame, I frequently found myself at The Grotto. It is an outdoor cave carved out of stone with hundreds of candles. Students, faculty, and staff drift by all hours of the day every day—snow or sunshine- to light a candle and sneak a moment of prayer or rest. During college, each visit restored me for the challenges of college life. So maybe I was longing for moments at The Grotto. In early September, returning home from errands and driving down Park Road, I braked suddenly and turned into the parking lot of St. Anne’s Catholic Church. Why did I make this turn? I don’t really know. I had been to St. Anne’s years ago, before they renovated. I remembered a small plain church, rather basement like, but one that had candles. I parked. Hesitantly, I got out of my car. I remember thinking about how I am not a member. Will someone stop me? But no one stopped me. Instead strangers said ‘hello.’ I opened the doors and walked into the narthex. It was dimly lit and cool inside, a welcome comfort to a hot day. Determined to find candles, I opened the doors to the sanctuary and my race changed. I found myself in an extraordinary space. The candles were there. But that was not the extraordinary part. As I looked up, past the candles and stained glass windows, I saw twelve life-size wooden carvings of church witnesses and these words painted in large gold letters at the very top of the walls, encircling me and all who enter:
Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us rid ourselves of every burden and sin that clings to us* and persevere in running the race that lies before us … while keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus, the leader and perfecter of faith. Hebrews 12:1-2a.
At that moment, I remembered that I, too, am surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, witnesses of faith coming before me and running with me now, and if I persevere in running this race, keeping my eyes on Jesus, all will be fine. After lighting my candle, and kneeling to pray, I left the church, walking slower, and, I hope, more gracefully. I have gone back many times to gaze upward and cherish the words.
