LEARNING TO LOVE THE NAME I WAS GIVEN

Moriah \m(o)-riah\ as a girl's name is pronounced moh-RYE-ah. It is of Hebrew origin, and the meaning of Moriah is "the hill country" or "chosen of Jehovah." Also possibly "the Lord is my teacher". Biblical: The land of Moriah mentioned was a mountainous region. It is believed Abraham was directed there by God to sacrifice Isaac. God intervened, a ram was provided and Isaac was saved. Moriah is thus associated with divine providence, and known as "land of the vision".  May also be used as a variant of Maria or Mary. 

Christine \ch-risti-ne, chr(is)-tine\ as a girl's name is pronounced kris-TEEN. It is of French and Latin origin, and the meaning of Christine is "follower of Christ". Originally a French form of Christina used as an English name since the 19th century.

HORSKI PAPADORSKI

My dad grew up in the house next to Jack. I grew up playing in that house my dad grew up in, the house next to Jack. 

This winter, at the age of 85, Jack died at the hospital I was born in. This was written of him in his obituary: 

'Jack graduated from Iron River High School and then Northland College in Ashland with his Bachelor's degree in Philosophy, later receiving his teaching and masters degree. During his time at Northland, he was known as the "Ino Flash," and held the record for most rushing yards for many years. During college, he was invited to play for a professional football team - the New York Yanks, but declined. Jack was married in Iron River, WI on November 25, 1950 to Mona Henkel. In 1951, he began his teaching career in Iron River. From 1952-1988, he taught at Turtle Lake High School, teaching math and science and also coaching football and track.
He leaves us with many fond memories and family traditions such as Sunday soup, fish fries, crafts such as tip-up flags and wooden crayons, signaling Santa and the founder of the famous "Ino 200" Woodtick Races. Jack (known as "Bum-Bum" to his grandchildren) was an avid hunter and fisherman. He loved watching the birds, bears, turkey, deer and many other critters in his yard. The unconditional love he had for his family and friends was shown by his generosity of supplying them with fish fillets, blueberries, canned goods and pompushki (fried bread) and anything else needed. His students will never forget his "little people" and his love for cherry pie. Jack, as the story teller we knew, will be sadly missed by all.'

Jack used to give me some of those handmade wooden crayons, share his fish, tell stories that put a peg-legged cowboy to shame, and bellow 'Horski Papadorski!' Also, he knew the art of winking, few do. 

WHEN I MET A STRANGER YEARS AGO

'What sort of legacy do you want to leave behind?' I asked. 

He responded, 'Hopefully, a strong man, not just physically, but a strong man in every aspect. Especially in that of his character. And his faith. A man that knew when to lead and when to listen to wise counsel. A man that loved with all he had for as long as he could. A man that could give everything away to save one life. A man that had an impact in people's lives. Left an impression. And a good one at that. A man who stood for something he believed in rather than fall for anything. A man who prayed everyday on his knees for God's wisdom and help. A man who showed grace and mercy to those who didn't deserve it. And kindness to those who could offer nothing in return. A man who was not afraid to do what had to be done and a man of his word. A man people could count on, lean on, and trust. A man like that. I wanna leave that legacy. So that when people think of me, that's what they think of.'

YEARS

Listen: BON IVER - LOVE MORE

I don't think the soul can grasp time. Not well, at least. Yet I doubt if it was meant to.

Maybe that is why we feel age creep up on us, and we calculate its tide by watching the creases in our skin layer and wash themselves thin and thick over us, or our hair frizz into shades of white and loose its vigor, as too, our bodies. 

I believe our souls are eternal and that these bodies are not, however, I do believe that this soul of mine--our souls--were created for a body. A body that does not age, but grows just as our souls do.

We can feel the innermost, we can feel its growth, like the core of an oak, expanding in an outward dance; slowly, inwardly, penetratingly, words traced and tied like a river in knots. Here is what I mean, exactly: YEARS.

Last July, I was the same person in appearance, still blue eyed and 5'2", with long, unruly hair eager to be chopped. Although looking deeper, I remember a heart like an ocean gale, blowing and tossing, singing and weeping, perhaps the anchor coming undone, yet so passionate and longing. Longing to love, to give, to be like Ruth, the Ruth who said in Moab's fields, 'Do not urge me to leave you or to return from following you. For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there will I be buried. May the LORD do so to me and more also if anything but death parts me from you.'

Much has swept over me, all these people; their beautiful hands that have touched me and I them... and in a corner, her remains; the plague like death to desire and feeling, all forced to ash. This penetrating change that left me tangled into myself, fighting anxiety, depression, and fear of drowning in an abyss of back-washed emotions. 

I never imagined this could grow to feel so heavy in my arms and on my chest. 

There--here: this pile of vomit, who could guess that she once had sprouted wings and left home of her chrysalis, full of wanderlust and vibrancy. See this dirty rag that led and leads to this brokenness, this ongoing surrender? This rag tied in knots and filled with holes that pulled and tugged me closer to my merciful, faithful Redeemer, to His heart that is not heavy on my chest. I look into His eyes and love how wild they are, how good they are.

I feel as if that ocean gale of last July blew me to a painted desert exploding with intoxicating mirages, but after the illusion died in the tundra of a long winter, there I was, discarded like an old dream, and inside, I was dried mud, parched and crumbling, like shattered pottery. 

Now it is July again. July, the month I was born, and I can feel the hope rising, when not so long ago, but so far since, there was very little. I am less now than I was, but He is ever more than He was before and that is something to be thankful of.

Maybe this is what years look like.

ALWAYS ENDS UP DANCING GANGNAM STYLE

Listen: RADICAL FACE / MOUNTAINS

Checker competitions where I refuse to go easy on him, but promise I'll treat him to ice-cream when he beats me. Twisted strands of duct tape between their small fingers, piecing together cardboard castles that tower until floppy feet high. Hybrid Twister in the front yard with the neighbor girl, acting like a bunch of crazies singing, dancing and yodeling. Talent shows: in an instant the living room is an opera house and there are magic shows and somehow, he always ends of dancing Gangnam Style (and somehow it doesn't get old). Solving riddles in their scavenging hunt. Two fistfuls of coins, a piggy bank and a walk to Lloyd's Drug Store for candy. Endless games of war, animal rescue, Pretty Pretty Princess, pirates, sea-monsters and mermaids, baby dragons, classroom, chef, lava monster, felt dolls, foxtail, bocce ball, and chalk tic-tac-toe. Sugar highs and silly questionnaires at a sticky blue booth in Culvers. Chopping down trees and exploring lava mines in Minecraft: one-on-one lessons from a Minecraft pro. Cheering them down water-slides and racing their tubes around lazy rivers. Twenty minute safety break after 20 minute line: learning patience. Tree-climbing in sappy pines, ropes tied like hammocks. Biking the sidewalks like cool cats. Scavenging clues. Forts to sit in where they say, 'Make it scarier, Moriah, make it scarier,' as I tell ghost stories until their eyes turn into saucers. Picnics in the field with watercolors, acrylics, and peppermints. Cutting Kirby's out of felt. Obstacle courses made up of hoses, patio furniture, and water balloons. Splashing oatmeal scented shampoo on the muddy dog in the tub with a giggling four-year-old. Losing Monopoly to a really lucky eight-year-old. Pancake disasters. Celebrating all our unbirthdays with woopie pies and singing. Taking turns designing treasure maps to find the box with the red 'x'. Losing at Mario Party.. again and again and again. Reading and reading and rereading the same books. Hours of telling and telling and retelling the same stories. Opening a lemonade stand on the corner and having only one customer: the neighbor next door. 


This is my summer job. 

AS THOUGH FOREVER

Now from his breast into his eyes the ache
of longing mounted, and he wept at last,
his dear wife, clear and faithful, in his arms,
longed for as the sunwarmed earth is longed for by a swimmer
spent in rough water where his ship went down 
under Poseidon's blows, gale winds and tons of sea.
Few men can keep alive through a big surf 
to crawl, clotted with brine, on kindly beaches
in joy, in joy, knowing the abyss behind:
and so she too rejoiced, her gaze upon her husband,
her white arms round him pressed as though forever

from the Odyssey
Homer
translated by Robert Fitzgerald

GREEN JOLLY RANCHER AND A TURKISH MAN

Eleven days ago, on a morning slathered in rain and fog, I ran along Superior in my blue Brooks, following the shores from Two Harbors to Canal Park; 26.2 miles. Chariots of Fire's theme song played from speakers at the gunshot--what a rush of energy that surged through the horde of spandex and neon clad runners, too bad that surge was short-lived.

Around the 13 mile marker, mind pleaded with body to throw in the towel and quit the race altogether, but I looked to the sea and begged God to give the endurance: God, I don't care about my time, just help me finish this, your strength, your glory. Help me finish something for once. I was desperate for a distraction for my empty head and from my pounding feet, and that's when I was given a green apple jolly rancher and a friend; a Turkish man about my height, in his late 50's, who was running his 23rd marathon (his first was in 1983--"before you were born," he explained). The next six miles sped by (literally. Har har.) as he told me about his three ex-wives and only daughter, who was a year older than I and had been an exchange student in France. 

I had such a climaxing runner's high from miles 16-23, my pace spurred steadily by his, and I enjoyed the racer's laughing along with us as we chatted between strides and breaths. We talked about a handful of ridiculous things from the history of Greek yogurt to healthcare, and our accents clashed frequently so that we needed to repeat ourselves. After sharing some of my honey candies (shout out to Jen for being a great support and running out to give me a hug and sugar!), he asked, "What is your name?" 
"Moriah, and yours?" 
"Mehmet." 
"Mow-met?" 
"Mehmet, like the Dr. Oz." 
"Well, I am glad to have met you, Mehmet." 
"Likewise, Myrriah." 

When we reached town, the crowds enveloped us and put a beat back into my dying soul. I had an 'errk' moment when a man shouted at Mehmet from behind a tree, "I see you found your lady friend again." The crowd's energy was contagious as they cheered and waved signs that said things like, 'Smile if you aren't wearing underwear,' 'No one made you do this,' 'Chafe now, beer later,' 'Worst parade ever,' 'If it was easy, I would do it,' 'May the course be with you,' and 'You're going the wrong way.' Pretty clever stuff that unfortunately, they probably all googled. 

Under a tarp beside London Road, a group of old folks strummed cellos and banjos, and sang into loud mics their own rendition of Leanard Cohen's "Hallelujah." I laughed as Mehmet lifted and swayed his arms and belted along with the chorus. When a group of half-drunk men were spotted with a sign that read, 'High fives or free beer,' Mehmet ran off for a beer break. Didn't see him again, understandably. 

Two good friends surprised me on the sidelines with my family--their ecstatic shouts and smiles were another surge, I was overjoyed. Apparently, they had stayed up until wee hours making a sign and then had trekked up north in the wee hours so they could cheer me on. 

Near the end, my body was so weak, I couldn't spit straight, but I didn't slow down, I stretched my strides, passing people, pulling myself forward with arms and abs; legs nearly useless. Crossing that finish line was one of the best moments of my life, I was done. Done. It was finished. It was a glorious two seconds, until I realized how sick and weak I was. I leaned over the gate and looked up at my family and pleaded, "I know there will be a day when I will say I want to run another marathon. Please, remind my future self of this moment, how much pain I am in, how stupid I would be to do it again--please don't let me!" I panicked, knowing myself too well, and they laughed.  

Wrapped in a foil blanket, medal around my neck, body feeling nauseous and frigid, I collapsed on the boulevard, when a first aid lady strode toward me and spoke concernedly, "I noticed you from over there," she pointed behind her, "and you didn't look good, are you okay, would you like some medical assistance?" I opened my eyes widely as if that would assure her of my physical state and sanity, replying, "O, I'm just an overly dramatic person. But thanks, really." I walked like a eighty-seven year old man for the rest of the day and half of the tomorrow. Probably the real reason it's called the Grandma's. On the shuttle ride to the car, at each bump on the road, the passengers would moan with aching from their sore bodies. It was hysterical, I moaned too. 

So, one more thing to check off my bucket list: running a marathon. What's next? Training for a bike tour across the U.S. with some big-hearted gals with a cause. Stay tuned, I'll need your help. We'll need your help!