Come Away to a Quiet Place

This morning I got my sad sorry bottom onto the treadmill for a jog. (I know much better than to call it a run.) It was the first time in…oh…

Let’s see.

When was Anthony conceived again?

I blame my current inactivity (read: sloth) in part on some postpartum issues. Simply stated, it hurt to run, and I’m wondering if it was at least partly due to the epidural.

(There she goes again—blaming that darn epidural for her life problems.)

Anyway, this weekend I was at a whole foods drop-off with my good buddies Ruth Ann and Tina. There was much lifting (which I avoided) and some running, which surprise surprise doesn’t hurt anymore!

Except there goes my excuse.

So yes. This morning’s “run.” I managed to go for 20 minutes, which at my snail-like pace equates to 1.5 miles. I was thinking about going for another 10 minutes when I heard—just barely, above the pump-up-and-run hum of the classic rock on my iPod—the cries of my son in the living room above me.

(Don’t think for an instant that the rest of the family responded. It was 7:00 a.m. and they were dormant.)

So I got to take my massively sweaty self upstairs and nurse an infant.

That was pleasant.

Anyway, this story has a point. I’m sure of it. Did any of you take comfort in this Sunday’s Gospel reading? It was the one from the 6th chapter of Mark where Our Lord invites us to come away to a quiet place and rest for awhile.

I know, I know. I started out this post by running. Bear with me.

A couple of weeks after Anthony was born, we were spending a ton of time on the go driving Joe to play practice. Remember? It was pretty much my own private glimpse of purgatory (okay, I exaggerate) and I was stressed out all the time.

Although there was this beautiful thing called a Minnesota summer going on at the time…

And the play practice was held on the beautiful campus of a Catholic college…

Why not talk myself out of this stress? I wondered. Why not pretend that it is all okay?

Because it was.

That afternoon, after dropping off Joe, I let the kids go play while I nursed Anthony on a lawn chair. They ran to clamber up a metal sculpture and were instantly engaged in a game of “House.”

And I mean instantly engaged.

I smiled and thought, “How do they do that?” And then I glanced down at the arm of the wooden Adirondack chair and saw the words that were engraved there. “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.”

Remember, this was a Catholic college.

Like a balm for my soul, those words took action. The stress—so unnecessary—was lifted up and carried away, and the only things left were the birdsong, the breeze, and the laughter of my children.

“I didn’t expect that at all,” I murmured.

An unspoken prayer.

An answer.