An Ode to the Lodge

My first memory of the lodge was the juice machines. When I was much younger, our family would make the 4-hour trip to camp almost every summer, and every visit to camp included a stop in the lodge. This old, decrepit, white building perched regally on the north shore of Lake Sakakawea has been a staple of Camp of the Cross Ministries for decades, and for young me, walking through the door and seeing those juice machines was something that could brighten me up. The grape juice was my favorite, and after abiding by our 2-glasses-of-water-before-juice rule, I would indulge myself in the sugary goodness.

The story is that this building was used as a barracks for Army Corps of Engineer workers during the creation of the Garrison Dam in the 1950s. During that time, an enormous earthen dam was built across the Missouri River, flooding all the river bottom land in the directions of north and west, all the way through populated areas of the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation up towards Williston. Thus, Lake Sakakawea was created. At the completion of the project, there were buildings that could be re-purposed, and the barracks were no exception. Camp of the Cross received this building, but transporting it was going to be difficult. Fortunately, North Dakota’s frigid winters freeze the lake over to such a depth that the building was thrown on the back of a truck and driven across. They set it down on the north side of the lake, and here we are, years later.

Today when I visit the lodge, there is a forgotten quiet, sliced only by the hum of a few remaining freezers still being used. With the advent of our new fellowship center at camp, the lodge has passed on into history. Essentials have been removed; non-essentials have been left. Assorted items are scattered across the floor, and parts of the wall remained painted from this summer’s festivities. The 70+ boats representing all our supporting congregations have been taken down from the wall, and so too have the numbered prayers that all campers for decades have sung together. The juice machine is absent, having been disposed of years ago because it didn’t work.

The lodge as a building would go through cycles every year. During the summer and weekends during the rest of the year, it was bustling with noise and vibrancy; during times when nobody was there, it was simply another old building in the middle of nowhere. I fell in love with it during the quiet times. From playing piano early in the mornings and listening to rain fall off the roof in the veranda, to hiding from howling winter winds and searching for air conditioning, this building was always a refuge. In this building, a person can watch a prairie thunderstorm whip across the lake while hiding from the kids inside. In this building, a pastor can nap before Sunday morning worship. In this building, it felt like a person could breathe easier.

Well, now that we know what kinds of things are in the ceiling, I suppose ‘breathing easier’ is subjective, but that never stopped the lodge from shaking the walls with noise. In the summer, we would pack Summer Sunday worshippers in like sardines, and at times the guests would spill out onto the veranda. Hours later, dozens of crazy, noisy, energy-packed youth stormed in and made it impossible to hear your own thoughts. We would sing, dance, and eat like our lives depended on it. During times of rain, we would come in and play games, watch movies, and even one time perform our famous ‘Faithwalk’ play. During staff reunions, we would stay up late into the night playing games and blasting music on the kitchen speakers.

Adults can make plenty of noise, too. For a few years, Ingrid and I lived and worked at Camp, and during that time we hosted lots of adult retreats, many of them focused on crafting and quilting. Even though it was cold and dark outside, the attendees would fill up the space with their warmth, laughter, and conversation. In the stillness of winter, life abounded in this glorified shack. Many times I would walk through the back door (kind of the employee’s entrance, even though my official title was ‘husband of the program manager’- which is a de facto volunteer) and immediately be greeted with smells of food and sounds of laughter. I’d try to sneak a dessert and hop in line for food, before having a time of fellowship with whoever was spending their weekend getting away from the world at camp. For many, year after year the lodge represented a safe haven to enjoy life a little, worship a lot, and breathe easier a little more.

During my Christmas visit this year, I wandered into the kitchen. The utensils and cooking supplies were mostly gone, along with the fridge and most of the stuff in the pantry. Remaining was the basic outline of stovetops and countertops, the dishwater (Hobart), the walk-in fridge (Betty), cabinets with meal plans written on them in marker, and a small chalk wall with a monthly outline of retreats. As with most of the rest of the building, it looked as if someone hastily packed up the necessities and abandoned ship the day before. I considered all the dishes I helped clean, all the desserts I had illegally obtained from here, and all the camper midnight kitchen raids that had occurred under watchful supervision. I remembered the songs we had blasted through the small space and the times we had all been kicked out by an overwhelmed food service manager. Perhaps most vivid to me was the quiet weekends during my first summers on staff. I and the few others who lived more than an hour or two from camp would stay Friday night and Saturday while everyone else went home. Often, we would gather in the kitchen in the lodge and cook a meal together, usually something gourmet like mac-n-cheese or spaghetti. In some of those weekend moments, it was peaceful and quiet.

After the kitchen, I walked into the vern (the veranda). Describing the vern is difficult; it is like that second-favorite room in your house that you don’t frequent as much as you wish. This extension perpetually battled the wear and tear of North Dakota, perched wonderfully on the west side of the lodge, ready and willing to take the brunt of punishing northwest winds all year round. When it rained, water would pool on the tables; when it was hot or cold outside, it was hot or cold inside the vern; and when food was left unattended for a week during summer staff recharge, a friendly neighboring raccoon came in and got itself stuck inside a dry storage. The vern housed staff meetings, guitar practice, art storage, fish frying, and excess meal attendees.

For me, the vern always has weather attached to it. Because most of the windows of the lodge are covered up, the vern is where’d I go to keep an eye on pesky summer storms that would brew up during the afternoon and come barging through around suppertime. We would be treated to spectacular displays of lightning, howling winds, and rain and hail pounding on the metal roof above our heads. Sometimes I would use weather as an excuse to leave the lodge, because those kids can get so loud sometimes!

For years at camp we have done this thing called “amped up”, where we would take a normal campfire worship and turn it on its head by using electric guitars and basses, a drumset, and speakers. It has, over time, also morphed into “lamped up”, where we do everything the same, but we also plug in an obnoxious number of lamps to illuminate the stage well after sundown. I remember being a camper and not wanting to be in the lodge when amped up was going on, because it was too loud for me. I went out to the vern with a staff member and stayed out there most of the time. A few years ago as a staff member, I stayed out on the vern with some youth that didn’t want to be inside during the loud festivities. The vern has always been a place of peace.

I’m not ready to say goodbye to the lodge, because I haven’t known life without it. It would be fascinating to see a picture of myself every year I’ve walked into that building and how much I’ve changed over time. I went from a little kid, to an adult shaving in the bathroom sink on the day of his wedding, while it rained right outside. I went from an inexperienced staff member to someone that helped a year-round staff member drag his deer out of the woods through the snow in the non-summer months. I went from a person that seemingly knew everything to someone that seemingly knows nothing. At the center of it, each year, was the old lodge.

It’s not a liberal estimate to say at least 50,000 unique people have walked through the oft-broken front screen door of the lodge throughout the years. Whether for worship, a meal, camper registration, retreats, youth bashes, reunions, or service work, anybody with connection to Camp of the Cross has experienced the lodge at some point, and it will now be phased out. In some time, it will be torn down. The prairie grass will fight back into its old turf, and within a few years maybe even some prairie flowers will reappear on the hillside. Kids will run through the open space, unaware of the large, rickety shack that once stood in that place. In 100 years, it will be a faded picture in a photo album.

But in many ways, the lodge was much like the faith of a western North Dakotan. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t enormous, and it wasn’t in-your-face. For year after year, season after season, it quietly went about its business providing a refuge to retreaters and worshipers from all walks of life. It was strong and steadfast and had a deliberate message of being a place for people to seek God. For every day of joy and noise, there were equally many days of quiet and seclusion. And the people here wouldn’t have had it any other way.

A Survival Guide to Winter Running in North Dakota

After living in Virginia for a few months, I came back to North Dakota for winter break. I was greeted with wind, snow, freezing rain, and plenty of sub-freezing temperatures. As I was packing for my trip, I got to thinking that I had a good understanding of how to pack for running, but many people may not. So, without further ado, here's an overview of how to run in a cold, harsh, and unforgiving climate from November-March. 

#1: It's Cold- Really Cold.

The trope is that North Dakota is a frozen tundra, and during the winter months that just about rings true. In the month of January, average high temperatures across the state range from 10-20 degrees above zero (F), but you can expect some days to have high temperatures below zero (F) and low temperatures as low as -30 to -40 below zero (F). 

Snow cover is a given, and running on snow-covered roads is a given. With that said, having shoes with traction, or owning some sort of strap-on spikes for your shoes, will help immensely. With your shoes, wool socks will do a great job of keeping your feet warm. 

As for layers, here's a trusty template that I use (I'll work out better formatting for the table later)*: 

For the guys, one thing to consider is that, when it's really cold out, there's a certain man-only area of your body to protect, or else you can get what we call FDS (frozen ____ syndrome). You may need more layers there as a result. 

*Everything in this table is using sweat-wicking materials like DriFit, because anything that holds sweat heavily (like cotton) can lead to hypothermia when it's cold.  

#2: It's Windy- Really Windy. 

The trope is that North Dakota is really windy. If you look at this map of average wind speeds in the US, you'll see that it's mostly true, with only Wyoming and some of the great plains windier. On any given day, you can expect it to be windy, and with few trees in the state, the wind moves freely and without fail. Running in the cold, open country when windy can make it feel (wind chill) 5-20 degrees colder than it actually is. With the above chart, consider the temperatures to be wind chills and layer up more. 

#3: Use the Wind to Your Advantage.

A general rule of thumb when running in the winter is that you must run into the wind first, if possible. The reasoning for this is that if you start with the wind, you get warm and start sweating, and then when you turn around into the wind, your clothes will freeze and you will suffer. Start into the wind to work up your heart rate and warm-up with dry clothes, and then ride the wind and get sweaty on the way back. 

#4: Have Trusty Running Lanes. 

With snow plowing and wind, running routes, paths, and sidewalks have a tendency to disappear. Trails will be gone for months, and sometimes you will find yourself standing on a 10 foot pile of snow at an intersection while waiting for a stoplight to change color. Trying to run through compacted, crusty snow is no fun, and so knowing which sidewalks and running paths are clear massively improves your winter running experience. 

#5: Positive Mindset is Everything. 

Let's be real: nobody wants to step outside to run when it's below zero and the wind is audibly howling. However, sitting on the couch shouldn't be an option. Running in winter in North Dakota can make one tough as nails, and it pays off incredibly in the spring when the world opens back up and the warmth returns. Getting through these tough months is not easy, but if you can endure, the gains are worth it.

#6: Don't Let Your Eyelashes Freeze Together. 

Part of running in the extreme cold is that when you exhale, your warm breath leaves your mouth and immediately freezes on your face. This can lead to ice beards for men, and for long, wispy ice hair for women (or men too I suppose). One additional thing that happens, especially with the wind at your back, is that the warm air goes straight up and freezes to your eyelashes. If you don't blink enough, it's possible for your eyelashes to stick together when you DO blink. I honestly had this happen once, and I had to stop and rub the ice off, and that hurt A LOT. The moral of the story here is to keep your eyes free of ice by blinking regularly and wiping off ice when it builds up.

#7: PACE DOES NOT MATTER IN CRAPPY CONDITIONS. 

I cannot stress this point enough. If the weather is bad, or if the road conditions are garbage, oftentimes the run itself will be almost like a workout for your body. In life-threatening weather or icy roads, don't try to force the pace, but instead wait for better days. Odds are, if you try to force paces, your run will be trash anyway. 

Music

I was hit. I rolled onto the ground, screaming in agony while the attacker raced past me in the hallway. I heard shouting across the room, and quickly regained my senses. I picked up my gun and peered around the corner. Instantly a bullet wizzed past my head, and I tucked back into my quarters. Knowing my options were limited, I stepped up on my bed and looked out over the top of the wall. I could see people running down the halls towards the other side of the building, and so I picked up my gun and aimed. As the people entered into the open area, I followed their lead and made a clean shot. I quickly ducked beneath the wall, right as a bullet flew past overhead. As the battle continued raging, I decided to step out of my defensive position and run through the halls. Nowhere was safe.

When we were done, we packed up our nerf guns into a large trash bag. One of the other kids, knowing we would have an open night at camp, had brought an entire bag of nerf guns so we could have a war with both sides of the dorm. I don't remember how many of us stayed the weekend, but it was an amazing experience. We were at the International Music Camp, a childhood love of mine, nestled deep within the Turtle Mountains, in a no-man's land between Canada and North Dakota called the "International Peace Gardens".

Throughout the summer, many different one-week camps are offered to high school students, and this particular year I chose to do two in a row. For me, this meant spending the one off-day in between weeks at the camp, with many of the international students there for multiple weeks. We played, we ate, and we got our sleep.  I have wonderful memories of practicing and performing music, dorm life, meeting new people, taking part in the 'World's Greatest Drummer' competition, and playing absurd amounts of 4-square. I actually looked to work there after high school, but upon learning that you had to be 21 to be a counselor, I instead worked at Camp of the Cross, where I fell in love with North Dakota, running, the countryside, met my wife, got engaged, and got married.

Music has always been a big part of my life.

It started in middle school, when my band teacher Mrs. Morrison encouraged me to try out for all-state band in 7th grade. I made it, and every year after that until I graduated high school. The music I had the privilege to perform and the musicians I was fortunate to meet changed me into a new person over time. International Music Camp (IMC) opened my eyes to another world of music I didn't know existed. I even auditioned for a music scholarship at UND because I was interested in majoring in music in college.

Over the years, music and running have started to intertwine more and more. I don't necessarily remember when this happened, but at some point I started to occasionally listen to my iPod while running. To this day, I still do way more runs without music than ones where I do, but it has still taken some crappy days and made them a bit better. I discovered mixes, or long periods of music without ads or switching. First, it was hour-long mashup mixes from the White Panda, such as Pandamonium and Bearly Legal. Then, it was hour-long Panda Waves mixes from the same group. After that came 'Nice Hair with the Chainsmokers', featuring the Chainsmokers, a relatively new group that was making noise in the world of EDM. Mixes gave me big chunks of music to listen to while running, making the 50, 60, 70, 80, and even 90 mile weeks seem a little shorter.

As I've mentioned on here before, runners are increasingly turning to music as a means of helping to defeat the pain of running. You look at any local race, from 5k to marathon, and you will find many runners with arm sleeves holding their phone or music device. Airpods are becoming normal. Even in ultramarathoning and trail races, often held in beautiful and scenic locations, racers will often have music to assist. While I refuse to listen to music during workouts or long runs, easy can breeze by when you have music that gets you fired up.

Music is truly a universal language. I have recently joined a community orchestra in an attempt to rekindle the fire I had in high school, and the first night I attended we jumped right into music. Even though I was in Virginia (instead of North Dakota) and with a bunch of adults (instead of youth), so many things were the same. Forte means loud, piano means soft, rests are easier to count out loud or with fingers, and solos are scary. Across the world, every culture has some form of music; in fact, music is one of the few things that every group of people on Earth shares and has shared in common. Chinese music has a distinct sound, middle Eastern music has a distinct sound, and Native American music in the US has a distinct sound.

Music connects us. Music brings families together, drives people to tears, and encourages celebration. Music can be used to mourn the dead and praise the living. Music helps us to defeat silence when it encircles us. Music inspires. Many times I've let music lift me up and prepare me for big races.

 It's been awhile since I've listened to music while running. Maybe it's time to dig out the old iPod and give it a whirl.

Loneliness

Every human will at some point find themselves lonely. Loneliness is a basic human emotion that stems from our want and need to be around other humans, especially ones like ourselves. Just about every member of animal kingdom displays some sort of herd mentality or group organization, and humans are no different. Yes, of course, there are people that wish to be left alone and live by themselves in the backwoods, but that doesn’t mean they never wish to see anybody.



Runners are perhaps more susceptible to loneliness than other subgroups of people. As an activity, running usually involves stressing the human body and mind at the same time, and for most adults, this also happens alone. Thousands of people across the US (and world) are up before the crack of dawn grinding out miles in the morning chill before work or sliding along the silent streets long after most sane people have retreated to bed. By itself it may not be so bad, but for many of these people (myself included), we have tasted the deliciousness of group running from things like track and cross country in our youth. Gone are the days of prescribed practice times during the nicest parts of the day, where groups of similar-minded people get together. Gone is the shared sweat and craziness of racing. Gone are the easy runs and conversations with friends.



We have come up with innovative ways to deal with these problems. Adult running clubs have formed in larger cities as a means of bringing people together, and an added bonus (sometimes) of lobbying for access to the local high school track, which is usually locked up to all the public whose taxes paid for it. Local businesses will put on 5k runs or weekly meetups where runners can share in their agony of training and joys of the resulting successes. We have sophisticated musical technology, especially now with Bluetooth, that allows us to shut off the world around us and listen to our favorite tunes, giving us that added jolt to our step when we feel tired. We have treadmills set up at gyms, fully equipped with air conditioning, tv, music, and even simulated trails.



And yet, we cannot push away the loneliness.



When intervals become hard, who’s gonna know that we added 4 seconds to the recovery time? During long tempos, who will notice that we cut one mile off the total? On long runs, what can occupy our mind’s space for more than an hour, when all we can think about is sweat and pain?



The loneliest I’ve ever been while running was in the summer of 2018, when I had been dropped during the second half of the Maah Daah Hey Trail Marathon, and I found myself unable to take more than a few jog steps before walking. I was weak, exhausted, in pain, and completely and totally alone. There was no friend to lift me up with words of encouragement. There were no alternate routes or places to drop out. I had no access to any sort of music device or nutritional aid (other than water). I could see no competitors in the distance in any direction. Giving up was not an option; I had to drag myself and my damaged pride across the finish line, a mere seven miles away. Somehow, I finished, and I became tougher from that experience.



Do we grow from experiencing extreme loneliness?



There’s an argument to be made that when we are alone, we get a glimpse of what our true selves may be. In our world of social media and unprecedented mobility, we rarely find ourselves alone. Are we what we put on social media? In most cases, no. Are we what people see from us? Possibly. Are we how we behave when no one is looking- when we are trapped inside our own mind, waiting patiently to see where it takes us next? Absolutely. I learned in college that character is how you behave when no one is looking- being alone.



I had a new encounter with loneliness recently. I had just finished moving to Virginia, and my mom had accompanied me while Ingrid finished working back in North Dakota. After a few days, she had to leave. I drove with her to the Richmond Airport, dropped her off, and drove home. I walked into the house and it was quiet. Nobody was there. My cats were still a few weeks away. I had a few boxes of my things and a house with a heavy deadness to it. I was blessed by my uncle-in-law with a radio and auxiliary cord, so I listened to music quite a bit, but even that couldn’t drown out the quietness around me. I took the opportunity to pour over things I had written in high school and college; over time I started to rediscover who I had been, and how he compared to the current me. There were areas that I saw marked improvement, and areas where I saw a de-emphasis of something that I value. Without this change and loneliness, I would not have had this chance for personal reflection and growth. It was hard, but I grew from it.



Loneliness is an essential part of the human experience. In the Bible, we have references to Moses going to the top of the mountain to speak with God; we have Jesus seeking refuge away from the people to go pray; we also have Paul all alone in prison, writing letters of hope and forgiveness to churches. We have stories of different groups of people throughout history who would send out adolescents into the wild for days in order to discover something about themselves or something the Gods needed them to see. In our world, we have wrestled with loneliness and used our ingenuity to render it almost impossible to find, but it is still there. We are afraid of it, but it is something we all need. I was lonely when I was sitting in an empty home, crying because I missed it, but I now realize that few things were better at preparing me for the steps ahead than the loneliness behind.

Balance

The streetlights glowed orange, shining small circles on the road, swallowed up in increments by the looming darkness of the night. The Virginia air was muggy and calm, with only the sounds of cars somewhere through the trees on a nearby highway. A few stars glittered in the sky, overpowered by the abundance of light. I stood, soaked and panting, after finishing an evening easy run. I began doing some short sprints back and forth on the road, noticing some discomfort in my right knee. I turn my head to the sky and catapult back......

 With my arm raised to the sky- trying and failing to acquire GPS satellites- I felt the gravel underneath my feet. It was a cool September morning, with the temperature dipping into the low 40s and the morning glow beginning to overpower the deep darkness in the east. I hear the beep telling me my watch is ready, take a few ginger strides on the gravel, and hop onto the grass. I work my way up the hill and into the prairie trails. Each step lands softly on cool, damp grass, while each push scatters formerly mown grass into the air. As the light continues to pore over the horizon, I run near the lake and soak in the morning breeze. Waves ripple orange, and there are no sounds except the early birds. I complete my 30 minute loop and finish back at the gravel. I wipe off my feet and step inside; now it was time to get ready for school.....

Running in Virginia has presented new challenges, for example finding quality places to run. Where we live, there aren't many running paths, sidewalks, trails, or even road-shoulders to run on- we make due with what we have. Ingrid and I have even went to the local middle school to run on their magnificently manicured field hockey field, just to find something new. One night we were running around town, and at one point we ran through a particularly dark space, where no streetlights could reach. I looked down and saw only faint outlines of my legs, and I wondered what it would be like to lay down on the road right there- how long until someone drove up on me? Of course, I didn't do something ridiculous like that, but it did get my mind travelling back a time when maybe I did....

It was another late night White Shield run. There were still a few cars driving on the main highway through town, but all was fairly quiet, and the milky way shone brilliantly above my head in my driveway. I turned on my headlamp, so I could be easily identified, and started down the road. Soon thereafter I was outside of town on the main highway. The silence was deafening and the stars were begging for my attention. For as many miles as I could see and hear in every direction, there were no cars- only black darkness. I slowed to a stop and exhaled. The steam from my breath rose up immediately into my light and temporarily blinded me. On this cold winter night, I shut off my headlamp and let my eyes adjust to the dark; instantly the heavens above opened up and trillions of twinkling lights flashed around me like a disco ball. I was mesmerized. I sat down on the cold, frozen asphalt and contemplated the vastness of it all. As I looked around, still seeing no one, I lay down on my back and began to stargaze, right there in the middle of the highway. The milky way right above my head....

I snap back to my Virginia run. Finding identity has been another struggle here. For so many years I defined myself as that person who unconditionally loved North Dakota and took joy from all of it's many 'drawbacks'. I learned and taught life lessons, and always tried to be positive when things looked grim. Many people were surprised that I would move. If I went to a race in North Dakota, I would know many people there, especially those people in the top packs. Over time it became who I was.

Here in Virginia, people don't know me. I don't stand out more than anyone else, and there are tons and tons of people who not only know more about this area, but also have such a love for it that I don't yet understand. People love the beach, the Appalachians, and the supposed 'country' feel here. In all of this rests an identity crisis: who actually am I? It's something I'm working on, but the hardest part immediately is trying to have an open mind. Students, coworkers, and even my wife have all commented that I seem to be hanging on to this concept of North Dakota. Some of my geometry students recently asked me, "Is there anything here that you think is better than North Dakota?" I jokingly replied, "Nope", but when I think critically, I haven't really allowed that option to be on the table.

So how does a person keep hold of all of their cherished memories without holding them back from progress in the present? Well, if I knew that answer I wouldn't be typing this in my "North Dakota Runner" blog right now. This is all new to me, and something I never thought I'd experience. However, so far I've been able to go to the ocean, visit Yorktown, Williamsburg, teach in a new school, walk to a restaurant from home, order pizza delivered to home, and read up on new histories. This learning process is necessary, and I am thankful and blessed every day to have this opportunity and to share it with Ingrid.

So I guess I can try to find that balance between new home and old home. New memories and old memories. Still though, with the advent of fall comes old memories as well....

I woke up needing to pee really badly. I contemplated my options: I was sitting in a sleeping bag in a tent, next to my wife (also in a sleeping bag). It was cool (low 40s/upper 30s), and I had no bottle or anything to use. I would have to step out of the warmth, open the tent, and somehow hope to get back to sleep after all of the cold sucking into my whole body was finished with me. I collected myself and got up and out. As I stood to relieve myself, my eyes were attracted to something funky in the sky. I looked up and waited to see if whatever it was would come back, or if it was all in my head. As my eyes focused in, there seemed to weird, green, faint streaks of light moving through the sky. As I stood there, exposed, I suddenly realized that, for the first time, I was staring at the northern lights. I quickly finished and went into the tent to wake up Ingrid. She was not pleased, and only came out at the prospect of seeing the Aurora. At first, we couldn't see it, and I was terrified that this would be the last time she ever trusted me again (we were still only dating), but sure enough, green streaks starting darting through the sky again. It was beautiful, and we stood there, just the two of us, in an empty campground in the turtle mountains, in the middle of fall. And it was beautiful.

...

Adjustment

The house is quiet. I walk through the silent halls past boxes full of things that are not mine. Pictures, collections, records, books, household items- rooms full and still. The first hint of morning light is straining through the large windows, arriving only after fighting for space among the large trees and leaves of the forest. I slide into my running clothes and shoes and step outside. The air inside is climate-controlled at 74 degrees Fahrenheit, but when I leave, it’s warmer and much more humid. Similar to the house, all is still. The hum of morning insects and morning commuters in the distance fills the soggy air. I start running down the street.



My first stretch of pavement is gradually uphill through the subdivision hugging Lewis Avenue, off Main Street. I then take a right and slide past local businesses- a diner, the local fire department, local attorneys, and a roundabout with the old county courthouse standing tall directly in the center. I wave at a fellow morning running and take another right at the local elementary school. The sidewalk disappears and I’m on a tiny, winding, shoulder-less road headed for the local park with trails. My shirt has been swept off my body, my sweat is starting to thicken- and I’m only one mile into the run.



Even at this time of day, traffic is heavy. Vehicle after vehicle drives in the opposite direction of me, headed for jobs to feed their family. Vehicle after vehicle drives past me in the same direction, most driven by high schoolers or parents of high schoolers, headed to the park for morning cross country practice. Somewhere in the distance, the sun has cracked the horizon, but underneath the impressive canopy, light is still a rare commodity.



I daydream while I run. This morning, like most mornings, my mind drifts away to the badlands of western North Dakota. A zig-zagging little single-track trail carves into a hillside and disappears over a ridge. I’m running effortlessly along it, underneath the warm summer sun. The dry breeze glides over me and wipes away my puny beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I recall every creek crossing, hill, and refreshing-but-seldom shade. The smell of juniper hangs heavy over the valleys, and a western meadowlark sings its song on a nearby fenceline. There are no people.



On my run today, my sweat is starting to overtake what little dry areas I have remaining. My skin is like a salamander in the mud, and after running through two short but steep valleys, my legs and breathing labor slightly. I enter the park and head for the trails. I run past the Mathews County high school cross team, warming up and preparing for practice, staring at me as if they’ve never seen another runner on these trails. I haven’t even seen another runner here either, so it’s likely a warranted response. I run through a few impressively large spider webs and coat my glistening skin with freshly woven silk. After a short time, my watch hits 30 minutes, and it’s time to head back- to leave.



It’s hard to leave a place. My first few days in Virginia, I had difficulty with being away from my ‘homeland’ and family. However, with a positive attitude and a desire to interact with people, things started to brighten up. Through school and church I met kind, welcoming people, and was immediately accepted into tight circles. The overwhelming fear I had slowly dissipated and was replaced with a timid curiosity. I felt like a cat, who when they are introduced to a new place, may hide in one spot for quite a while, before slowly wandering around in fascinated fear. It took me more than a week before I finally left the town I was living in, but it was for a race- I needed to check out the local running scene.



As I continued down the morning road, parents were still brining their youth to practice, and other parents were driving back to town after dropping off their youth. Commuters were still appearing from their little developments, looking at me my soaked body with disinterested glances. In the quiet moments in between cars, I let my mind wander again; this time it did not rest in North Dakota. I was thinking about local upcoming races and racers I now wanted to beat. What would it take to rise to the top around here? Where are the good races? Where can a guy find some good cross country around here? It had felt good to go to a race where I knew exactly no one. Racing in North Dakota always brought some sort of expectation, because there was always someone who knew me and what I was capable of, but here I was another sweaty body at the start line. There’s still a part of me that wishes to be back in the open grasslands, but I’ve been able to focus more steadily on the world around me every day.  



As I came into town, my mind aflush with new ideas and my body aflush with perspiration, I started thinking about the day- upon returning home I had one hour to do strides, shower, change, eat, pack, and drive 10 minutes to school. I looked down at my right leg and noticed a stream of white foam coming out of my black running shorts and down the side of my leg. I guess now I can say there has been two times in my life I’ve activated excess laundry detergent in my shorts from sweat. I run past the local diner and see some old men chatting over coffee and wondered what old men at the local diner discuss here in southeastern Virginia. I turn back and head downhill to the house, the one that used to belong to Ingrid’s grandmother. She still has many things in there, and it is quiet. I haven’t seen Ingrid in 13 days, but on this morning, she’s leaving from Minnesota with a trailer full our stuff, a pickup with two confused and terrified cats, and her two parents that have graciously given us their time to assist in the move.  I finish my run and start walking. My shirt is heavy from wiped-off sweat, and my shoes make little squishy sounds from the water that had nowhere to go once my socks became waterlogged.



Everything is different here, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Life can be just as good or better here as compared to North Dakota- trust me, I’ve been repeating that to myself for almost two weeks now. Time to get ready for school, my trusty break from the quiet loneliness of the house.



Once I head outside, ready for school, I walk up to the pickup. I look at the bug-covered ND license plates, the dirt-covered sides, and the hand-written messages on the tailgates- all etched out in the gravel dust that you can’t find among all the paved roads here. I smile. I will be ok here.  

Goin Out To Eat

In 2016, the Boston College Men's basketball team finished off their season, albeit not a very good one. After the last game, it was time to do interviews. Senior Dennis Clifford had just played his final game with the team, and he was asked what he would take away as his best memory at BC. Clifford paused, stuttered out "Probably, just like..." and tapered off. He put his head down and was motionless and silent for quite awhile. When he finally brought his head back up, his face was flushed and tears welled up around his eyes. He managed to choke out "going out to eat" before putting his head back down.

In the time following, many people made jokes out of what he had said; how can a person reduce a successful, D1 basketball career to food? In reality, it's likely that he was processing everything outside of basketball. It's easy to think of athletes only in terms of what they do in competition, or even in practice, but this ignores much of the story. A true team stays a team in all areas- competition and practice yes- but also travel, meals, class, locker room, and even the dorms or houses they share. It's likely that this man shared so many fun experiences with his teammates while eating out that he was affected most by realizing that was gone. Myself, I miss the long hours of playing foosball with my teammates in the locker room. The main idea here is that it's easy to get wrapped up in the big things, but the small things we miss a lot more.

I'm in Virginia now. This was a major change in all aspects in my life, especially the weather with it's incredible humidity right now. While I dwell in this new place, I have many times found myself wishing for or missing the little things. In terms of running, I never realized how much I took for granted wide enough roads to run on, and I definitely did not spend enough time being grateful for our chill and tame spiders back home. After a week of finding places to run in a world of skinny, winding, shoulder-less roads, I've learned that parks with trails are the best bet. After a week of covering the upper half of my body with spider webs every day while trail running, I've learned to keep my head down.

In the rest of day, I miss seeing the sky and the clouds, because the incredible size of the trees here makes that difficult; I miss gravel roads and the open countryside; and I even at times have found myself missing the blowing snow that we likely will never get here.

Leaving camp was particularly hard. With nine summers at Camp of the Cross Ministries under my belt, I find myself hard-pressed to find a summer I more thoroughly enjoyed than this one, be it the advent of lawn chairs in the front of the wellness center, where I could stop and enjoy a peaceful evening exhale, the large number of supercampers that chose to be on staff this year, the lack of shoes on my feet most of the time, or the dad-jokes that spread through camp like an infectious disease.

The little thing that affected me the most was the family atmosphere of the camp. During the first two weeks of summer, the staff spends time together in cabins during staff training, boys in one cabin, and girls in another one or two cabins across the courtyard. It's hard to understate the bonding time that comes from living in close quarters with others for an extended period of time (in fact, this summer the non-counselors had to do that all summer!) I have always looked back and missed those times of learning and fellowship. Also those first few summers for me, I would spend my weekends holed up in Prairie Rose cabin, all alone and learning about silence and peace from the countryside. I miss waking up in the middle of the night to shut the windows while thunder rumbled nearby.

Before I left this year, I took a walk, one which brought me through Prairie Rose. It was a double whammy for me, because this also functioned as the space for male staff this summer. As I stood by the back door, I looked around: dirty clothes covering the floor like carpet, unkept sleeping bags strewn across wooden bed frames, a working air conditioner uncomfortably hanging out the window, a musty boy smell wafting around. I simultaneously thought about my peace in Prairie Rose and the time of fellowship in the cabins during staff training, and slid to the ground and cried. I cried hard. They were very minor things to most people- a quiet cabin on a few weekends, and a couple weeks of time with friends, but for me it was some of my most favorite camp memories. I wept. I miss those days.

I was allowed to make my peace and say a proper goodbye. I travelled almost 1800 miles to a new homeland, full of abundant life in ways I've never experienced. My new teacher orientation has started and is a full two days in now, with two more to go. I haven't met too many new people yet, but I sure hope to. But I know that I have the ability to thrive here- North Dakota taught me that.

After our morning session today, our assistant superintendent gave us a 1 hour, 30 minute lunch break, asking us if we were ok with that. Hearing literally no objections, we picked up our things. I had resigned to go to the seemingly always-packed Chick-Fil-A by myself to use my gift card, but some teachers my age were starting to discuss going out to eat at the new Mexican restaurant in town, a very tasty one I had the pleasure of going to with family the previous week. They turned to me and asked if I wanted to go out to eat with them. I smiled- of course I would.