Does God Care About Baseball?

Artwork:  Will Johnson

Yes. God cares about baseball.  Cares enough to show up at ballparks all the time. Answering prayers...often ones that have little to do with the game.

Not long ago I had an experience at AT&T Park like Ray in Field of Dreams.

A friend had convinced me to run the San Francisco half-marathon (the fact that I could run more than two blocks is a miracle in itself, story here).

I was excited to fulfill such a bold dream in the place I still call home; to run the streets where I'd lived; to run past AT&T Park where I would play hooky from work to watch the Giants.

The day of the race, a runner in front of me collapsed just as we ran alongside the stadium.  He didn't move. His chest lay flat, like there was no breath left in him.  Seconds seemed to be forevers.

"Stay with us, Eric!" his friends shouted, "Stay with us!"

I wanted to kneel next to him and breath air into his lungs but found only a silent prayer. God, please don't let him die!

There's a story in the Bible about this pool called Bethesda.  An angel would come stir the waters and divine healing would be released.

As the runner lay motionless, I glanced up at the glistening China Basin waters that flow along the ballpark's south walls.  And I saw the waters stir...

...I don't think that day was merely about a race.  Sometimes we're put in a place at a specific moment simply to whisper a prayer that changes things.

We just don't recognize life's most significant moments while they're happening.  Back then I thought, 'Well, there will be other days.' I didn't realize that that was the only day. ~ Field of Dreams

There outside the ballpark, I knew heaven had invited me into this moment; had entrusted me with the mystery of prayer. I felt His presence; a power greater than darkness or death. In that moment, I knew Eric would breathe again.

I also knew that I was supposed to finish the race. Yes, for myself - to celebrate the triumph of losing 50 pounds and restoring my health - but also for a stranger whose body failed him before he could cross the finish line.

Yes. God shows up at ballparks all the time.  Oh, I don't think He's betting on whether the Giants or Royals will win the World Series (that would hardly be fair!) but keep an eye on the waters...

They'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters.  ~ Field of Dreams

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How to Break Up and Keep Your Heart Intact

"Begin Again" Taylor Swift.

It is insanely painful. ~ Jennifer, on breaking-up

While Taylor Swift has mastered the art of channeling break-up pain through her music, when it happens to most of us, we just hurt. intensely. insanely. like we will never love again. ever.

Those of us who are the "loyal-like-Rihanna-is-to-Chris type" understand the dread of losing relationships.

It's over. Because you feel cheated. Tired of the constantly changing terms.

Sing it, Taylor, girl:

You paint me a blue sky and go back and turn it to rain
And I lived in your chess game but you changed the rules everyday. 
("Dear John" by Taylor Swift)

Endings always leave an empty space.

Recently I was walking out a very real heartache as a friend messaged:  He hurt me today deeply.

She shared of one of those moments when the earth drops out from under you – a time for tissues, Häagen Dazs and girlfriends.

Yet, amid the tidal wave of emotions, I could hear love. Demanding. Shouting. YOU WILL LOVE AGAIN.

How?  How do you mend a heart that's shattered into a million pieces?

My friend knew she'd done the right thing breaking up with a man who was not meant to be her husband.  And there in her pain, came perspective so many of us need to hear.

Even though he may be a great man, he may not be YOUR man.

Loving yourself may mean having the courage and fortitude to let go. And be alone.  It may mean eating dinners alone. Nights alone. Holidays without him at your side.

In our hearts, we know spending a lifetime with someone we're not meant to be with would be worse than breaking up.  But, oh, it is insanely, intensely painful and lonely. RIGHT NOW.

And indeed, you will have doubts every day, says Jennifer.

I try to think of some word of comfort.  Some verse of hope.  Some promise from heaven. And all that comes out is...

"Time WILL heal the wound. Life WILL be beautiful again."

...trying to decree healing where right now there's only broken pieces.

Shut the door.  Eat M&M's until your fingers turn rainbow shades. Weeping may endure for the night. But in the morning, wake up expecting a new chapter to begin.  Because that is His promise.

And when you feel like you're finally starting to breathe on your own, love will come knocking. Daring you to open the door ever so slightly.  And you will find that your heart has healed and reawakens to something new...reshaped through pain, readied to love again.

Thinking all love ever does is break and burn and end
But on a Wednesday in a cafe I watched it begin again. 
 
~Taylor Swift, "Begin Again"

Five Rookie Tips for Your First Half Marathon

Starting line of the San Francisco Marathon. July 27, 2014 photo: GameFace Media

 Fifty pounds ago, I dreaded when the elevator in my building broke down.

You know you're in bad shape when you decide to wait at Starbucks for the repair man to fix it rather than climb seven flights of stairs to your apartment.

Now, a year later, I just ran my first half marathon! Even raised money for a charity that helps wounded soldiers.

FROM HOLLYWOOD TO THE HAIGHT
On the flight from LA to San Francisco, I wrestled with fear of being escorted off the course on a stretcher. What was I thinking?! Maybe I could tell people my plane got hijacked...

Though the nerves never fully subsided, I finished the race in 2:12; fast enough to place in the top third of women in my age bracket and in the top half of all men and women.

Considering a year ago I hated climbing stairs, that's a miracle. Still, I felt post-race letdown from knowing I'd held back - partly because of the learning curve and partly because of fear of injury and failure.

Here are some lessons I learned, as well as products I used (unfortunately no one paid me) for other rookie runners.

Friends cheering me on at mile 6 of the San Francisco half marathon

1. Drink.
I decided to rely solely on the support stations for hydration. I don't carry water when I run in LA (my routes pass lots of drinking fountains) and the race was not the time to try to adapt to a bulky water belt (Geek alert: Google tips on how to run through water stations like a pro). While this worked for me, later runners complained of dry stations by the time they got there.

Also, volunteers had trouble keeping up with demand, meaning long lines. Runners impacted by the heat - the sun made a rare blazing appearance in a City famous for its summer fog - couldn't afford to skip stations. A runner in front of me collapsed a mile from the finish line.

No matter how many support stations, best to carry your own water - just in case.

2. Eat.
I ate a simple breakfast a couple hours before the race: trail mix with almonds, cranberries, raisins, a banana and an energy bar. Enough to prevent "hitting the wall" but not enough for a full stomach.

I didn't change my eating habits or carbo-load but I did carry a power bar during the race. Discovered about mile 7 why it wasn't the best choice - felt like swallowing pebbles AND made me thirsty.

While the course did have energy gel stations, I skipped those since I'd never used gels; best not to try anything new during a race.  

Whatever you choose for fuel, make sure it's easy to swallow like gummies. Some marathoners on YouTube suggest baby food in tubes. Whatever works.

3.  Pace.
Runner friends had warned me not to start too fast; don't want to hit the wall or be in pain later.

Unfortunately, I was way too cautious.

Big races are divided into waves, or groups, based on estimated finish time. Organizers put me in the last wave (about 3 hours) given factors like inexperience, age and gender.

I made a last-minute decision to move up a full wave as the race started but the pace was still slow for me. I wasted time learning protocol on the packed course: Is it ok to run in the grass to pass people? Do I need to stay in my wave? What if teams blocking the lanes won't move?

A lack of mile markers also caused problems. I was saving energy for the hills and last half, not realizing I was way further along than I thought. I usually sprint the last stretch so got ready to "kick it" - only to find I was literally crossing the finish line!

Talk about anti-climactic.

Make sure to have a good idea of your finish time. Training in the mountains, I focus on endurance (and avoiding mountain lions!) rather than speed so I had no idea of my race pace.

A smart watch might be a good investment; makes a huge difference knowing if you're at mile 7 or 10.

Melted my heart seeing "Go, Shay, go!!!" signs.

4. Tunes.
Race Organizers didn't want runners wearing headphones - makes sense safety-wise for a crowded urban event - so I decided to skip my tunes. I did wear a fanny pack to carry my phone and keys since there was no place to check valuables.  

I really wished I'd had my power jams (Jake Hamilton's top of my playlist) in the boring industrial areas. Running with music definitely helps but maybe use one ear bud.

5. Gear.
I'm not fussy about brands - comfort is key - but did upgrade a few things for the race.

One problem is finding good running socks for small feet. Scored with Experia Thorlo micro minis. Best $15 purchase ever. No slipping socks, no blisters.

While hot weather was forecast, it was cool and foggy at start time. I made a last-minute decision to wear the official polyester race jersey over my tank since I hate running cold.

If you do start out wearing long sleeves, consider something you can literally throw on the side of the road if you don't want to run with it tied around your waist (most races donate the left-behinds to shelters).  Just know it'll cost time re-pinning your bib.

Also, a note on hair and makeup (diva!). Hair in the eyes is a big distraction but baseball caps make your head hot and sweaty. I wore a pinned up ponytail and dab of makeup (Lancôme Teinte Idole foundation, lip gloss, mascara).

Bubble! San Francisco Marathon. photo:  GameFace Media

POST RACE
Can't beat finish line food and beer!  Coconut water, muffins, bananas and Sierra Nevada in the beer garden. Make sure to get a wristband at the pre-race bib pickup so you can skip the longer line to show I.D.

I was concerned about soreness as I could feel my quads straining on the steep downhills. Two days of stretching and rest and I was back on the trails.

I plan to run another race to push my limits.  There's a verse that keeps me going: Run the race that lies before us and never give up.*

Good luck on your rookie race!

---
So how did I go from hoarding chocolate chip cookies to running a half marathon? Read my weight loss story here: Feel Rich and here When Fat is Not Beautiful

*Hebrews 12:1

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No Prayer Is Ever Wasted - #bringbackourgirls

Did you know there are bottles in heaven that hold our tears?*  I imagine some are filled with the tears of families whose girls were kidnapped in Nigeria. 

Visiting Nigeria has been on my bucket list since my family traced our lineage through DNA tests.  Before news of the kidnappings broke, I'd started researching the Kanuri tribe, where our bloodline originated.  

News that the kidnappers spoke Kanuri left me feeling sick - a sense of violation that brothers I had never met had done something so twisted to sisters I had not yet known.

As journalists, we often walk a line between our acute awareness of danger and death and yet somehow feeling "shielded" in the midst of it.

Like so many others, that is my prayer for the 230 Nigerian schoolgirls who were unable to escape - that somehow they will be shielded. And return home safely.

Prayer. Such a mystery.  Why does one plea meet with near instant manifestation of an answer and another seemingly goes unanswered?  Forever. 

I've thought a lot about prayer since covering the 2010 earthquake in Haiti - so many lives lost; so few prayers met with heaven's 'yes.'  And then on a return trip, doubt was erased after an experience that could have been deadly.

Our host had taken us to the pristine coast outside of Port-au-Prince.  On the way back, our truck broke down.  A storm was heading our way.  The sun was giving off its final golden rays.

We were in trouble.  The US State Department had warned travelers not to be out after dark due to a growing number of kidnappings.

"I have to get you off the road," our host turned to me - the only woman in our caravan of a half dozen Brazilian missionaries and an American EMT.

"I could never live with myself if..." his voice trailed off. Rape. Torture. God knows what.

I tried to stay hidden in the back seat while the men worked under the hood. It was one of those nights when you can feel evil in the air - like a pressure on your chest.  Breaths come shallow.  Nerves flinch at the slightest movement.

A man approached the truck.  Picked up a large rock.  I covered my face expecting the window to shatter.

Instead, he shoved the rock under the back tire to keep the truck from rolling.  He never said a word, just kept walking...

We found out once we had cell signals that two of us had received calls from friends overseas with the same message:  I don't know why, but I'm compelled to pray for you right NOW.

We later learned that kidnappers had abducted two people near where our truck broke down...

Will prayer help bring back the Nigerian schoolgirls?  Our prayers are not always answered in ways that makes sense to us...but no prayer is ever wasted.

*Psalm 56:8

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When the Path Looks Like a Dead End

Photo:  Seardig Photography on Etsy

You've been faithfully running toward the finish line - maybe pursuing a creative dream or losing weight - and you're finally seeing real progress. Yay!  You may only be taking baby steps but you're still moving forward.

...Only to find that your hard work and dedication has led to a crossroads:  quit or feel like you're going to die trying anymore.

You've got to make some decisions that will shape the next season of your life but you're beaten down by the sheer weight of chasing your dream. Discouraged. Broke. Too exhausted to even flash a grin at Jimmy Fallon who just walked past you at LAX (yes, that happened).

Like Dorothy and her entourage on the way to see the Wizard, you've hit the deadly poppy field.  The valley of dry bones. The graveyard where it will require a miracle to restore your vision.

Seven years ago when I moved to Hollywood, I went to a workshop for entertainment industry newcomers. The speaker, a TV and film veteran, spoke to us bluntly.

"Only a handful of you will still be here in a few years," he said.  "Of that handful, only about one percent will find success."

Ouch.

He wasn't trying to kill our dreams; he was trying to prepare us for the long, competitive road ahead.  He was reminding us that the race doesn't necessarily go to the strong and the mighty - or to the rich and well-connected - but to those who persevere.

So don't quit.  Make peace with God's pace. Keep moving forward.  We'll eventually make it to the place He intended all along. 

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When Fat is not Beautiful

People who say losing weight won't change your life have probably never been fat. Really fat. Like when your company sends out a flyer about a pig roast and someone puts a picture of your face on it...

Obesity was hereditary in my family long before it became our national epidemic. Many relatives have died prematurely of weight-related causes. Stroke. Diabetes. Heart disease.

Fat is not beautiful when it is an ugly, unforgiving killer...

...like when the doctors cut off my grandmother's legs to try to save her from the ravages of diabetes. Like when I found a cousin collapsed on the stairs and thought she'd died in a fall. "When you got this much weight to carry," she said, "you gotta rest." (there were only about 20 steps). Like when my favorite uncle got burned up in a grease fire cooking foods doctors had warned him to stop eating.

About two years ago I saw a family Christmas photo and didn't recognize myself in it. Who moves to Hollywood and GAINS 50 pounds?! At just over 5' tall, there's not much room to hide the fact that you've put on the weight of a baby hippo.

But, hey, society said I could blame an obesity gene. hormones. poor school lunches. McDonald's. So I did.

Until I couldn't anymore.

One evening I decided to jog (something I hadn't done in about a decade)...made it a block and a half before I had to stop - breathing heavy, pulse pounding, afraid I might die of a heart attack on the sidewalk.

What had I done to myself?

No mystery there. High-stress job. Chained to a desk all day. Crappy diet. Lack of exercise. That stubborn obesity gene.

I've always been curvy - probably lost and gained 500 pounds in my life - but I knew this time that if something didn't change radically, I'd be the one collapsing on the stairs. 

I was at a crisis of fat. And faith.

See, I believed in God, even believed He could do miracles. But help me overcome a fat gene? Or a tub of hot-buttered movie theater popcorn? He had bigger problems than jiggly thighs.

And yet, without divine intervention, I saw myself lying in that hospital bed - body wracked with obesity-related diseases, legs cut off, heart straining to pump blood through clogged arteries.

Night after night I'd go to the beach, look up into the heavens and wrestle with my relationship with God. And Panda Express Orange Chicken. 

Scientists say our genes seal our future - sexual orientation, addict, cancer, obesity - set at birth. The Bible says with God we can conquer anything.

Scientists say for women of a certain age hormones virtually guarantee weight gain. The Bible says God is the author of our lives.

One night a story came to me. A wicked storm at sea. A boat of terrified fishermen. A ghost walking on the waves. "Jesus?" Peter, the impulsive one, is at a crisis of faith. "If it's you," Peter says, "bid me come to you." If it's you, Jesus, help me do the impossible...

"Come," Jesus says. 

We know what Peter does next...

In my neighborhood there's a place called the California Incline. For six years I'd watched ridiculously fit people run up that quarter-mile hill. 

Then leaving the beach one night, I looked up the hill and heard Peter's words echo in my heart. "If it's you, Jesus, bid me come..."

...A year later I run up that incline all the time - AND I'm getting ready for my first half-marathon!

Yes, the weight's gone but it was never about a number or a size.  I'll be writing more about the changes I made for a health and fitness website and hope my story will inspire others to wrestle with their faith when it comes to obesity.

Because losing weight may not only change your life, it may save it.

---
Seem radical to throw away your scale and quit dieting to lose weight?  How it worked for me in part 2 of "When Fat is Not Beautiful," click here.

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Hope, Meet Miracle.

Soon the river that runs behind my brother's house in the Midwest will be frozen solid.  Visiting for the holidays, I found myself wishing the calendar said spring already.  

Instead...barrenness. 

Still, it was almost as if the bright winter light held a message.  Wait.  Something new is coming...at the right time. 

When you've waited a long time - years, decades - for a dream to be fulfilled, that place in your heart eventually starts to feel desolate.  

Maybe, like me, you've waited for a spouse.  Barren.  

Or a breakthrough.  Barren.  

Or a child.  Barren. 

And yet...hope holds on.

I'm not one of those "name it and claim it" Christians.  Faith is no guarantee every desire will be fulfilled.  But there are some that carry a promise; those ones will come to pass.  At the right time.

But how do you know beyond a shadow of a doubt whether a dream is a mere yearning or a sealed promise from God?

At the river bank, I see a glimpse past the barrenness - to spring; forests teeming with new life.  And somehow I know, again, that I'm standing on a promise.  There is a peace that comes when you trust a matter is settled in heaven.  

And you know an introduction is about to be made.  Hope, meet miracle.

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Almost Jump Time!

Three days until the big jump!  Of course, the news would keep showing video of the 80-year-old grandma's near fatal skydive when her harness malfunctions...*

Still, we're ready (my jump partner is an EMT I met heading to Haiti after the  earthquake).  I'm more worried about the heat. It's supposed to get up to 110 at the drop zone - could be trouble for someone used to 70 degree coastal temps.

Skydiving Magazine says freefall doesn't feel like the roller coaster drop most people expect so that makes me less nervous.  They say freefall is more like "a comfortable sensation of floating; the closest thing to human flight." 

So why skydiving?  I'm still trying to answer that question but maybe it just comes down to this:  adventure.  

Whether reporting in a disaster zone or caring for orphans in a Third World slum, adventure forces me to draw on my faith in ways ordinary life doesn't.  Away from our comfort zones, we're far more dependent on God and can sense a grace higher than any adrenaline rush.

Who knows, maybe facing fear opens the door for greater grace?  And grace always precedes great exploits.  

A demon-possessed man who lived in tombs?  Grace restored.  

A soldier whose ear got cut off ambushing Jesus?  Grace healed.  

A woman caught in adultery?  Grace forgave. 

And a grandmother who almost died skydiving?  Grace saved.

Grace and skydiving? Who knows.  In any case, I like what the thrill-seeking grandma said to a reporter who suggested safer hobbies: "Knitting is boring." 

***

Grandmother's near fatal skydive:

http://www.wtsp.com/news/national/article/256956/81/Grandmother-talks-about-terrifying-skydiving-jump

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Half-Naked Neighbors and Miracles

Obstacles conspired against me as I tried to get home for Thanksgiving.  We were even forced to evacuate my building as I was packing - the piercing emergency sirens sent one resident fleeing half-naked and barefoot.

Another resident emerged seeminly ready for the apocalypse: wearing a backpack of supplies, layers of clothes and heavy boots.

"Hey, how'd you pack all that so fast?" asked a neighbor who'd managed to save only his shaggy, white puppy.  "Um, I was getting ready for a trip." 

I confess. I'm the  panty-packing, toothbrush-toting survivalist.  But let me explain, lest my neighbors think they live next to Unabomber's disciple.

One of my first big TV news assignments was covering a freight train derailment miles from civilization.  The engineer hadn't realized that a driver had somehow crashed into the side of the train and had dragged the truck for miles.  

Rescuers had found the body of the driver, a young mom, but not her baby who'd been strapped in a car seat when she left home. There was a chance the baby was still alive, maybe ejected in the crash.

I'd been on my way home when I got the breaking news call so wasn't prepared to spend the freezing night outside in the middle of nowhere; there wasn't even a 7-11 nearby to get extra gloves and snacks.  

Still, my photographer and I walked the dark tracks with the rescuers.  Maybe our camera's light might illuminate the tiny body...

Then at dawn, a miracle of sorts.  Word came that the mom had inexplicably left the baby with a sitter just before the crash--the child had been safe all night.

That long, cold night taught me to always keep a bag packed...and that sometimes miracles happen long before we can see them.

(And the half-naked neighbor? Well, we all escaped the stove fire just fine.)

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Haiti Film Underway!

Actor Nikki Storm prepares to film a scene in "Eyes to See" at Blue Cloud Ranchi

Filming has started on the movie inspired by our Haiti team! Eyes to See stars Matthew Marsden (Rambo and Transformers) and Garcelle Beauvais, a native Haitian known (NYPD Blue, Franklin & Bash).  The film is about a photographer forced to choose between doing his job and helping people after the earthquake.

Nine months after the disaster, orphanage workers tell us the children are coping despite immense suffering. Grief though, finds a way to assert itself. unstoppable tears. pain. anger.

Grief still feels foreign to me.  Being a reporter demands staying emotionally disconnected in order to handle the violence and death of the lens through which we see the world. 

A few years ago the news reported that a mom had thrown her three babies into the San Francisco Bay. The tide swept away the tiny bodies before anyone could save them.  Divers were searching by the Golden Gate Bridge near where I lived at the time.

I walked the Bay half-hoping to find a miracle. "God, you've made me unfit for news," I wept. Away from the crime beat, I was discovering tears I'd never shed no matter how many murders I saw.

Today I was thinking about something a friend wrote while keeping vigil at his dad's bedside. "Jesus wept," he'd written, "but not tears of despair."  

Jesus wept. The shortest verse in the Bible. 

And a thought came to me that made grief ok: sometimes tears precede miracles.

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Navigating Love

As friends pray for a miracle to save their dad's life, I'm amazed at the strength of their faith. It's made me think about family. Love.

Back when we owned a big, white Buick and no one wore seatbelts, I loved being my dad's navigator on road trips. He'd let me read the map even though I'd sometimes get us lost.

I remember a near-miss one winter. Icy roads. A car plowing through a red light. A thick utility pole. My dad's split-second decision - throwing his body across mine, trying to save me from the impact.

Another memory...one trip where my dad entrusted me with his big bag of coins for the tolls. Leaning across him, I'd toss our fare into the bucket. 

"Pay the toll," he said at the second plaza.  

"But I paid it last time," I said. 

"What do you mean?'" he demanded. 

"I already paid it," I insisted.

Not knowing the coins were meant to last us through three states, I'd emptied the bag into the first toll without him noticing.  My dad dug out his wallet to pay the fare.

I eventually grew up, bought my own car, moved cross country to work in TV.  Family took a backseat to career.  Dad and I struggled to navigate love far apart.

One foggy day, a near miss. A car swerves into my lane. I pull over, shaken. A memory from years ago. Icy roads. A utility pole. My father shielding my body with his. 

"Your dad would do the same thing all over again," I sensed God saying.

Our car had stopped inches from the pole that day when my dad had been willing to sacrifice his life for mine. Pain and distance melted away. I was again navigating safely at my father's side.

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Hindrances to Haiti

"Search teams refuse to abandon hope after two children were pulled alive from the rubble." AFP

I write this post not knowing if I'll have to cancel my trip to Haiti in these hours just before take off. I'd had a sinking feeling when our departure was delayed several days that other deadlines could prevent me from going.

Honestly? I didn't want to go to Haiti when the head of Transformational Development Agency first asked me to help her team with media and logistics support. 

I'm not a doctor or a nurse or a rescue worker. I couldn't see myself working among dead bodies, surviving in horrendous conditions, facing machete-wielding mobs reported by some news outlets.

But as I saw the destruction and heard of friends' missing loved ones and wept at the suffering, I kept thinking about a quote I'd heard years ago by Dwight L. Moody. 

The world has yet to see what God can do with a life fully yielded to Him.

And so I said yes. Because maybe my life is that one.

My blog's title, Blot Your Lips!, was appropriate when I was writing about the journey to Hollywood - not Haiti. But as I've embraced what somehow feels like destiny, I've become filled with expectation.

Nehemiah rebuilt a wall that should have taken months or years in 52 days because God touched the work. Like the miraculous rescue of the children pulled from the rubble more than a week after the quake, maybe God will put his touch to Haiti.

So even though today brought obstacles to my trip my heart still says, "Yes."

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