running towards resurrection

easter sunday didn’t feel particularly holy at first. i wore a yellow dress from high school i hadn’t steamed and that barely fit, applied tinted moisturizer instead of foundation, and barely made it to church before the opening hymn (but with enough time to get a coffee on the way — funny how that works, isn’t it?). i wasn’t searching for a miracle, just a bit of tradition.

about fifteen minutes into the service, the air changed. chaos ensued on the left hand side of the church which i tried to get a grasp on, but sitting on the opposite side made it challenging. a woman — elderly, petite, temporarily anonymous — collapsed in her pew. the quiet gasp of a few turned into an audible wave of panic. david, the reverend of st mary’s (what i’d consider my “home” church in San Francisco though I’ve only been a handful of times) calmly came onto the mic to announce there was a medical emergency. we all proceeded to pray for the woman we now learned to be erica. people stood up, rushed over. someone called 911. someone else held her hand. paramedics arrived. then firemen. they gave her oxygen, asked her to squeeze their hands and smile for them. nothing. all the while, the organist played on, as if underscoring the chaos with some surreal soundtrack.

i couldn’t help but laugh at it all. it felt like something out of a seinfeld episode. and while I probably shouldn’t have been giggling to myself, i had the sense sense it would all be okay — whatever that really means.

after twenty minutes of oxygen, hand squeezing, and worry flooding the room like incense, the woman moved. she squeezed someone’s hand. she opened her eyes. one of the fire fighters said loudly, “there she is!” and they lifted her onto a stretcher and wheeled her away, and we clapped — not because it was over, but because it wasn’t. david returned to the front, adjusted his mic, and said, “well, miracles do happen. we just experienced our very own resurrection this easter sunday.”

it was the most bizarre, beautiful thing i’d seen in months.

the service proceeded, which was — as you can imagine — a tough act to follow after erica’s supernatural return. later, outside the church, i ran into my friend michael who was standing there in gym clothes, headphones tucked into his collar. he hadn’t made it to the service (or any service for that matter), just happened to be walking by and repenting for his far too late night, which regrettably stopped him from joining his parents for an easter sunday service in carmel. he told me he couldn’t help but take notice in how happy the churchgoers went — huge smiles on their face, he rejoiced. i proceeded to tell him the whole story.

he smiled and said, “that’s the best easter sermon i could’ve gotten.”

—

resurrection is a funny word. it conjures images of tombs and white linens and light pouring in. but i’ve come to believe that resurrection can look far less cinematic, far more pedestrian. sure, sometimes it’s a pulse returning. but sometimes it’s a runner’s high. sometimes it’s realizing — somewhere between mile one and mile four — that you feel alive again.

that’s been happening to me lately. not in a thunderbolt epiphany kind of way. more like a quiet unfurling. training for something has brought me back to myself.

for those who don’t know, i started training for a sprint triathlon a few months ago. inspired by the far too expensive bike i purchased myself last year (i lovingly call her “pumpkin” with all the orange and white hues she showcases), my desire to push myself towards a goal outside of work, and the fact my mom used to compete in them when she was my age, i landed on doing a triathlon. a “sprint triathlon” to be precise — it’s like a mini version of the real thing. i need to test the waters a bit first, of course.

it’s not glamorous. it’s not even particularly fun some days. swimming in the bay at 7 am in a wet suit? insanity. but there’s something radical in devoting your energy to the slow, gritty work of building a stronger body — especially when the rest of your life feels like a mess of soft uncertainty. ah, the joys of the mid 20s workshop i constantly find myself in!

in a way, training has become my chapel.

did i really just type that, proceed to edit and keep it in? as potentially cringe-worthy as it may be, it’s the truth. it’s given me something to work towards, move towards, and get stronger for — not for the sake of lifting or running or cycling or swimming. but for the sake of showing myself that i can accomplish personal goals i set for myself. and it’s… working! i feel clear headed, physically stronger, and i could probably compete tomorrow if i wanted. i’m just going for completion, not for time, after all.

so, i’m not sure if i believe in being “reborn” anymore. i think maybe we get little mini-resurrections. tiny pulses. quiet hand squeezes that remind us we’re still in it. and sometimes, that’s enough. maybe resurrection isn’t a one-time event. maybe it’s just the decision to try again. to put your shoes on. to show up. to tell someone a story on the street and see their face light up at the reminder that the world — occasionally — gives us magic.