Jars of Hearts and Fishing Lines

 Another day, another 5-mile walk in the autumn sun. I've said it before and I'll say it again: what a privilege.

There was a time I would have taken that for granted--not just the walking, but the friendship and camaraderie that comes with the miles spent exercising with friends.

What seems like a lifetime ago, I was a runner. Running for me was a solitary activity. And this was just how I liked it. It gave me time to myself and space for my thoughts. Pounding my burdens into the pavement was my therapy. 

I began walking with friends once I bought my first home and had a few kids--that's when I discovered the joy of friendly female companionship, and I learned how doing something hard together--specifically,  something physically demanding like exercise--can solidify and strengthen relationships.

But then the business of motherhood, the noise of life, began crowding things out, and my near-daily walks with friends was sacrificed on the altar of "more important" things.

In 2012 I suffered a traumatizing miscarriage and fell into a depression. Aaron lovingly suggested I find a hobby to help me out of my funk. I decided to certify in group fitness and began teaching a Pilates and yoga fusion class I called Mix Method. I later added on High Fitness as a way to grow my crowd and have more fun by including cardio classes.

Putting myself out there wasn't easy at first, but I was so proud of what I created as week after week my class attendance slowly grew. I had my regular ladies who showed up for every class, along with several who popped in and out when their busy lives allowed. I had the privilege of meeting new people and learning from them as we spent years sweating side by side. I called them my friends and hoped they felt the same. Like I said, doing something difficult--especially something physical--has special bonding qualities.

But it all ended.

Oh, that cursed day in October of 2021 when my heart decided it could take no more. I will forever rue that day.

With my ARVC diagnosis, It was no longer safe for me to teach fitness classes--doing so could lead to a sudden cardiac death. I was a literal ticking time bomb. But teaching group fitness was my social life. I felt I had no value outside of providing classes to my friends and community.

At one point, I was tasked with writing an email to High Fitness to cancel my membership and close my instructor portal--I would never be able to teach aerobics safely again; my heart was broken. It is customary in one of these emails to explain your reason for leaving and closing your account, so I told them what had happened, that the situation was dire, and that I needed a heart transplant. The response I got was, "That must be scary for you. Have fun in your next adventure!"

Now, I'm not sure the exact response I was expecting, but it certainly was not that one. I felt dropped like a wet brick from what I thought was a caring community of friends.

There have been times in the last four years when I have felt deeply alone. I'm sure it must be a common feeling for someone who has gone through something as traumatic as a heart transplant. There aren't many people who can relate, and as such, some people keep their distance. I also recognize my conversations frequently go back to my health--also common for someone who has recently gone through something traumatic--and that can be both not relatable and boring.

Two years ago, almost exactly, I was sitting in my car, tucked inside my garage feeling utterly destitute. I could feel my health deteriorating and knew that my days driving were coming to an end. That morning while taking my daughter to school during a dizzy spell, I had driven directly into the path of a dump truck as I turned into a roundabout, narrowly skirting death by taking the immediate next right turn and getting out of the way. I had to admit I was no longer safe behind the wheel. By this time I had been waiting for a heart for more than a year and had come to the dismal conclusion that in order to get better, things were going to have to get so much worse. I needed a miracle. I cried and I prayed. I prayed and I cried. 

And I felt so alone.

I asked God to send me someone, anyone, to help me. I asked Him to send a friend to distract me to ease my burden and help me feel less alone. The answer to my prayer was clear. No.

Surprised? I was too. It seemed like such a simple request. I wasn't asking for an earth-shaking miracle. I wasn't even asking for the heart I needed. I was simply asking for someone--anyone--to reach out to ease my loneliness.

The answer was no because I had lessons to learn. One of them being to recognize people for how they  were already showing up and appreciating the little things they were already doing.

This is actually one of the reasons I collect heart-shaped rocks.

On my kitchen counter I have a jar of heart rocks. Most of them are collected from nature--little gifts from a loving Father in Heaven who wants to give me the opportunity to see miracles every day. And some of those rocks are gifts, little trinkets from people in my life, typically accompanied by a note that says something like, "I saw this rock and thought of you."

My son, Aiden, served a mission in Ghana. Fishing is a big part of life where he served in Cape Coast. Fishermen take large nets from the beach and cast them out into the ocean. At the end of the day they pull the nets onto the beach to see what they have caught that day. The nets are huge and can't be hauled in by one man alone, so others from the beach will take up the line and help haul in the net. This was exactly the scene he came across one day as he and his companion were walking on the beach. Naturally, they decided to lend a hand to the effort. 

They pulled on the line for an hour before two of the fishermen began arguing about something Aiden couldn't understand. To his surprise, everyone else suddenly dropped the line and walked away. No fish were hauled in that day.

In life we all have our own lines we're pulling, our own responsibilities, our own messy lives we're trying to manage. And at the same time, we're trying to show up for our people. The great thing is we don't have to haul in our nets alone. 

 In leaning in to recognizing how people show up in big and small ways I've concluded that a sincere "how can I pray for you?" or "you are in my prayers" goes a long way. Faith-filled prayer on behalf of someone else followed by acting on any promptings is one of the most charitable things we can do. After all, in the final hours before His death, that's exactly what Christ did for all of us.

I am happy to say that I've been blessed to notice all the great and small ways people are there as God's angels taking up my line and helping me haul in my nets. Offering a prayer, silent or otherwise. Noticing a rock, or a cloud, or a Pringles potato chip shaped like a heart. Texting in the morning "Walk at 9?"and then filling the miles with words and laughter. What a privilege.