Faith and Fitness

I’ve had three formative romantic relationships in my life. One I won’t talk about here or now because it has very little relation to the other two. But the other two… well, you’ll see…

The first of the two was in college. He was a great boyfriend, a Southern gentleman to the max. We were in that sweet spot of the early 2000s of dating, where a boy called instead of texted and where dates were called dates. He went to a school 45 minutes away in the days before cell phones, so he would have to buy long-distance cards to call me. He would set a date, then come pick me up at my dorm. We had a wonderful relationship, although we were night and day different people. He was soft-spoken and laid back. I was wound up and danced around him with full-bellied laughter. He was raised in the South by a man who was friends with George Bush (the first one). I was raised by two parents from Columbus, artsy people who met through their drama teacher. He loved country music, I couldn’t stand it other than the ridiculously ironic Gourds “Gin and Juice”. He was in “the” Southern fraternity, I had opted for a service sorority. Still, I adored him, and he adored me.

One night, as I was already dressed for a date, he called to let me know he wouldn’t be picking me up. He was done. Nothing to talk about, he didn’t want to see me ever again.

Fast forward several years later and I was now in a very different situation. I had met a guy on the internet back when that was something to be embarrassed about. We were still young and we were dating just for the fun of it. I liked him and enjoyed spending time with him, but I knew he wasn’t forever. We had casual dates where I would pick up food for us and he would play video games as I watched TV. We were fine with that. I didn’t expect anything more. But over Christmas he went home with plans to come back in time for us to spend New Year’s Eve together.

He called the morning of New Year’s Eve: “I’m staying here. I’m not coming back.”

The first was someone who was important to me because he has always been the standard by which I measure a healthy relationship. He wasn’t my forever, we had a conversation a few years later that would give me some closure. He had broken up with me because a trusted friend told him I cheated on him. It wasn’t true, of course. But the doubt was enough for him. We both agreed, our differences would have broken us up eventually. But we also agreed we would have been together for much longer. We were happy and we were young. But that phone call is one that is still imprinted on my heart. The reminder that at any moment, the bottom can fall out.

The second, well, it’s a story I tell often now. I took that breakup hard. Harder than the first. I didn’t eat for weeks and cried myself to sleep. Over what? A guy I had casually been seeing for a few weeks? But eventually this relationship is what led me back to Christ. You see, his phone call came because he had run into his ex-girlfriend. She was a solid Christian and he was not (at least not then). So when he got back, he let me know that she was not going to take him back. We became best friends. But in that time we also came to Christ. Him to impress her and me to impress him. (You know that part in My Best Friend’s Wedding where he asks her who is chasing her? Yeah, that’s this moment.) I will forever be grateful to him, and even to her, for being the catalyst by which I came back. But the question that still remained was the obvious: Why be so crushed over a man who you barely knew, barely liked, and didn’t see a future with anyway?

I can tell both of these stories without emotion. They’ve become a part of me and a part of my healing. But that’s why it took so long to figure out how these stories are related and what it means for me now.

Several years ago, in a counselor’s office, I asked if I was bipolar. She asked why I would think so. “Well,” I said, “My highs are very high and my lows are very low.”

“No, Amy.” she said. “Your highs are you. Your lows are because you’re carrying trauma and every time that trauma is hit again, you collapse into it.

In 2018 two major things happened that finally pieced things together for me. I had a coach who, for reasons out of his control, could not come to a meet. This started an avalanche of issues for us, not the least of which was that any time he wasn’t at the gym, wasn’t there for me as a friend, or even sent program late, it hit me hard. After several sit downs to talk about this, to talk about why it bothered me so much, we decided it was best for me to find a new coach. The damage had been done and the trust was gone.

Then, I became involved with someone in a long-distance relationship. Travel was a part of his job, and a part I understood well. After all, the first time we met in person was in a completely different time zone across the country. I loved his passion for his job, it was one of the things that attracted me to him. But very early into our relationship, he had to go out of the country. The rational brain part of me understood this as part of his job. The rational brain part of me understood that either way he was still not in the same city with me, and that his leaving the country made no difference in our relationship. The irrational part threw a temper tantrum.

Here is my trauma. In every relationship, particularly romantic but also otherwise, I have these thoughts: Please don’t leave me. Please don’t give up on me.

And I have had the same fantasy with almost every relationship that has ended: The guy shows up. He shows up on my driveway. He shows up at the airport. He calls out of nowhere. He is there for me.

But it doesn’t just affect my romantic relationships. If you want to mean the world to me, show up.

It took a long time to get to the point where I could put my finger on what was going on. But it’s been helpful. It’s helpful to be able to explain to people what it means to show up. It’s helpful to be able to explain to people why not to promise me you will. It’s helpful for me to process in those moments where I’m on the edge of irrational (or already there).

For me to get to this point took 4 men, 3 therapists, and a lot of prayer, and I still am not sure the originating trauma. So I don’t expect to be healed next week.

I wish I had some wisdom for you if you’re going through the same thing or something similar. I wish I could bubble wrap us all or demand that there never be a trauma again, but I can’t. What I can say is that there are therapists much more qualified than I to help. And there is a God much larger than I who will stay by your side while you figure it out.

Several years ago, I was required to read through and talk about the book Humility by CJ Mahoney.

I was upset.

Not because I felt as if I was too good to read it, but because this came in the same conversation where my supervisor at the time told me that it was visible that I lacked self-confidence. It made no sense to me that an attempt to build up my self-confidence would be to tell me to be more humble?

Now, I wince and am uncomfortable with compliments and even statements about my abilities.

I share this, possibly because what follows makes me very uncomfortable, but also to completely frame around the conversation and the realization I had through my first powerlifting meet:

Admitting your accomplishments does not lack humility. Humility means accepting the gifts given.

This past weekend, I competed in my first powerlifting meet. This had been something I had been thinking about since January. As meets in the Carolinas came and went and my squat number still wasn’t where I wanted it to be, I wondered if this would be the year or if I should just wait.

Then one night, I did it. I bought my USAPL card. Ready or not, I was committed. After looking at the calendar (there are not a lot of USAPL meets in the Carolinas), I realized I would have to go to Atlanta for Powerlifting for Pups. No big deal, since I used to live there, but still a bigger commitment than I would have liked for my first one. Turns out, it really was meant to be.

I walked in this past Saturday a little nervous. Ok, a lot nervous. I knew my original goal of 250 for squat was probably not going to happen, but I also knew my goal of 300 for deadlift probably would (I had done 295 for 2 a couple of weeks before the meet). Leading up to the meet, I studied and listened to all the first-timer advice I could find and had my perfect spreadsheet of lift attempts all lined up. Coach and I talked on Saturday ahead of time, and he thought around 240 for squat (I was thinking 243 if I was feeling ok, 248 if I felt great), 300 for deadlift (I was really having a hard time working this one out… I knew I could nail 300, but I wasn’t sure if I’d go for that for my 2nd or 3rd), and 110 for bench (I thought I could probably do more, but we hadn’t done a ton of pauses so I wasn’t confident enough to challenge him on that one).

But getting in there, all the perfect spreadsheets and discussions went out the window.

I. Was. Nervous.

The kind of nervous that happens when you suddenly realize this wasn’t going to feel “just like lifting in front of others at the gym” as you had previously thought. The kind of nervous when you get called out in line-up twice for not filling out the paperwork properly. (Oh, yes, there were several “Calling for Amy Hutchison”s called out AS I WAS IN THE BATHROOM) The kind of nervous that happens when you realize that without someone else there, your perfectly planned spreadsheet will be moot because there’s nowhere you can put it that you can get to it and make a decision in time. All that type A gone to waste!

But then there was the excitement of talking to the other ladies. The excitement of getting your rack heights and feeling the weight of the bar. The excitement of warming up and having the coach who is loading your bar for you (because his athlete was sharing your rack) say, “Wow, you must be good!”

The excitement that happens when you remember how much you really love what you do.

So it was with that excitement that I got my belt on, walked up to the bar, squatted and realized it felt so light only to realize… I got three. red. lights.

ACK.

The thoughts going on in my mind at this point were obviously along the lines of, “I thought I was at depth. How much lower did I need to go? Were BZ and Manny lying to me when they said I was hitting it?!?!?!”

Fortunately, the second squat was good and I was on the board, but it was enough to shake me off my game and make a poor decision for my 3rd-I tried for 237, which would have been easy in the gym, but much harder in your first meet with a different bar and different plates and people watching and worrying much more about depth than usual. (One of the seasoned lifters let me know that the meet weights will always feel heavier than gym weights… I had heard this was true on deadlift because of stiff bar, but I wasn’t expecting it for squat)

Now, for the lifters reading this, you’ll get what I’m about to say. I have spent the past 6 months+ with the exact same walk-out on my squat.

Put my hands in position. Pull it back against the rack. Get under it. Shimmy a little to get it comfortable on my shoulders. Take a breath. Lift it off. Walk out. 1. 2. 3 steps. Screw my feet in. Another deep breath/brace. And GO.

Every. Single. Time.

But having people watch me do this process all the sudden made me a little self-conscious. Are they judging me? Do they think my process is silly? Do they think it’s wrong? What if I look like an idiot?

And to add to it, on my third attempt, I went to pull the bar back on the rack (a practice that does absolutely nothing in competition except to make me feel better as it’s part of my routine) and the spotter held it in place to make sure it didn’t fall off. Not his fault, but it made me more self-conscious. So when I went to unrack, that was already in my head. Walked back:1-2-3… No, wait. My foot isn’t right. Move it over. No. You need to go. It doesn’t feel right. Just go with it, you’ll be fine.

Suddenly I was aware the ref hadn’t called for the squat command, yet. I had time to still fix my feet, but instead, I stared at him as if to say, “I’m ready, go ahead and call it already.” Squat and… Nope. Don’t have it.

I shook my head, but I couldn’t feel the spotters grabbing it. I wish I had video of this moment, because this is the moment I legitimately panicked. In the gym, I’ve practiced dumping it, so that was my instinct, but I knew we weren’t supposed to do that. Still, I needed it off my shoulders. By the time I got up, I was completely out of it. I stood waiting on the rack command and it didn’t come. Finally, the back spotter said to me, “I need you to walk it back” and it snapped me back into realization of where I was and why the command wasn’t being called.

Such a weird experience and feeling in that moment. I’m not blaming the walk-out completely, although I think that was part of it, but everything felt, well, off. The weight felt heavier than normal (I’ve unracked 255 before and I feel like that was easier to unrack than the 237 in that moment) and I’m sure I lost tightness in the bottom, maybe never even had it. All of this to be said, I had just started out what I feared was going to be a very disappointing day.

Just before my 3rd attempt, several of the ladies were encouraging me. One even told me about her first meet-where she went forward with the bar and actually hit the rack. Although their encouragement made me feel better, I have put much of my identity as a lifter behind the squat. I’m a squatter. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m strongest at. So if that lift went poorly, I was certain that meant the rest of the lifts would be bad as well.

And so, I reevaluated. And by reevaluated, I mean I panicked. I second guessed how much I should throw away my type-A spreadsheet, my perfectly measured out numbers not sounding so feasible anymore.

After watching some of the guys I started warming up my bench. I went ahead and warmed up to my opener. Bench had been chalked up a long time ago as my throw-away/damage control lift, so I wasn’t concerned about burning out my arms. As I was warming up with one other, she asked me if I knew about the pause. Of course I did (have I watched every Juggernaut/Powercast/132poundsofpower podcast/YouTube produced from 2015-2017 over the past month to get ready for this? Yup!), but she said it always made her nervous when she sees people warming up without one because so few people do. This made me wonder, again, if I should reevaluate my numbers. I was opening at 95, which I was pretty sure I had with pauses, but still went ahead and did it in warm up. Yep. Still good.

Still, since I was so nervous I backed off my original plan. Originally, I was going to go from 95 to 105 to 115 (something like that… cause kilos), but I decided to pull back from 95 to 100 to 110. Did I have 115? Probably. But I am glad I took this a little more conservatively so that I could then focus on deadlift.

You know how I said I have my squat walk-out completely down to routine at this point? I’m completely opposite for bench. I kinda sorta have my set-up, but as a Crossfitter, we don’t bench like powerlifters. We just kind of throw the bar up and hope it moves. So while I had watched Thompson videos, I still am not super-confident on the set-up. Sometimes my leg drive is there, sometimes my arch is, but most of the time I feel like people are probably laughing at my poor form. That day felt better, but I’m 99% sure I grabbed my third close grip. And lift off? I had only used it once during practice, so I had no clue what that was/how to utilize it. I’m pretty sure the spotters laughed at me. Legitimately, out loud, laughed at me.

So, yeah, glad I played it conservatively, but also know I’ll need to work on technique like crazy with this lift.

By the time I went to warm up deadlift, I had sufficiently put a ton of pressure on myself (no pun intended) and I was sufficiently concerned. I had made a decision in prep to warm-up with Adidas Superstars so that the weights I lifted felt lighter once I put on deadlift slippers (PS-anyone wondering about Superstars for deadlifts, that’s my answer to you… they will make deadlifts feel heavier because they’ll create a longer range of motion). This was probably the absolute best decision I made all day, and I’ll keep this as a part of my regular routine.

I warmed up to 255 for 3 (my opener was 270). It felt heavy. Nerve-wrackingly heavy. So I walked outside to put on powder and try to rest my legs. When I didn’t see anyone else outside, I got nervous that I had warmed up too early and went back in to pull 255 again. At that point, someone had gotten to the bar and had pulled off weights for their warm-up. They asked if I wanted to share, but I said no, honestly wondering if it would only make my nerves worse if 255 felt as heavy again.

Everything for deadlift happened about 2 minutes earlier than it should have on my end. I warmed up a little early. I powdered a little early. I put my belt on a little early (pro tip: I went for the prong belt so I wasn’t having to adjust with a screwdriver, but it means walking around with it tightened a little longer since it’s such a PAIN to get on…). So by that point, my nerves were flaring. To the point where I was starting to overheat and was just ready to get. it. done.

I lined up for my first deadlift, still nervous 270 was too heavy to open with, and it flew. PHEW.

Second lift, 303. I had never pulled this before, although I had done 295 for 2 with slow eccentric, so I was pretty sure this was feasible. Still, my nerves were in my throat at this point so I breathed in deep just to try and calm myself. In that moment, I was also thinking about the fact that I had played around with form too much in the weeks leading up to the meet, and that I needed to stick with what I was comfortable with. Lined up my feet, measured out hand placement, knees bent, and go.

This is one of those moments where I wish so badly someone had been videoing. Because in my mind, the bar flew. To the extent that, as I was lining up for my 3rd attempt, I wondered if it was really 303 or if I had selected the wrong kilos or if loaders had gotten it wrong. But the announcer made the comment, “Way to stick with it,” so now I wonder if it wasn’t as smooth as I thought. Either way, I backed down to 314 instead of the original 320 I was going to attempt. I wanted to end on a good note, and I felt more confident with 314, even though after all is said and done, I’m pretty sure I would have had 320. (Welcome to my competitive nature, which is never fully satisfied!)

Pulled 314 a little slow in the lock-out. Thinking about that part, it drives me a little nuts because I’ve pulled 340 off of blocks, so hip drive is something that wasn’t a matter of me not having the strength to do it, but just forgetting *to* do in the moment of it all.

That said, several of us sat down and watched the guys lifting, and the judges were NOT PLAYING on deadlifts. A couple of them were pretty easy to see, but a couple of the hitching/lockout calls we had to help each other figure out what the judges were red-lighting. Would I have gotten 320? I’m pretty sure yes. Would I have gotten it completely smoothly with zero chance of getting called for hitching? I don’t know, but I’m glad I didn’t try.

Remember how I said much of my identity as a lifter (not as a human, let’s be clear) is on squats? Well, a 314 deadlift is much better relatively than a 220 squat. On the one hand, it’s encouraging to know my leg/back strength is plenty to get a stronger squat than that, but on the other hand it means I have some form things to continue cleaning up, as well as some in-the-hole strength and tightness to work on.

I came back very excited about all of this. For my first meet, I did very well. I came in 1st in my weight class/division, with 2nd place right at my heels. This made me feel good, since 1st place wasn’t just given to me, but I had some real competition there (I went 2.5 kilos more on squat, she went 2.5 kilos more on bench). I’m grateful I didn’t know this when I was playing the numbers game (at 19, she was competing in the teen division, so I didn’t know she was competing in open as well) and could make decisions instead by feel. It’s also one thing to compete with myself, but I can get standoffish when competing against others, something that is not my best quality in competition!

When I got back, I went to my normal team to process-my counselor and my chiropractor as well as gym buddies. As I was talking to both counselor and chiropractor, they have guided me in what humility in all of this looks like.

Because for me, humility has been reminding myself that while I’m proud of my accomplishments, they still do not stand up on a national scale. That while I should be ranked top 20 in deadlift in NC, I still have a loooong way to go to be top 20 in the US.

My form of humility has been to downplay my accomplishments by comparing them to the accomplishments of others.

But when I met with my chiropractor, I told him how I had told my coach that it is as much his as it is mine. My chiropractor’s response: “Amy, he didn’t lift the weights.”

I am choosing gratitude for the team that keeps me straight. I didn’t do this alone, and I want to be clear about that. I have a meal prep service and a nutrition coach. I have a chiropractor and a massage therapist and a psychotherapist. I have a coach who did my programming and has done my programming and coaching for the past year. I have gym buddies who called me out on depth and put up with my obsessing over the numbers and the placements and the YouTube videos and the bad weeks. And for them, I am grateful, because it is a reminder that I did not do this alone.

But I also choose to admit that for whatever reason, I have a body that responds very well to strength training. I have a body that gains muscle practically just by looking at a barbell. I have a body that can be beat up for 5 or 6 days and recover quickly, even though I’m well into my 30s.

And all that has nothing to do with me or with the phenomenal team, but all of that glory goes directly to God.

As my counselor and I were talking about it, she pointed out to me that even my competitive nature was given to me by God. I don’t always love it. I know it can create frustration both in my own spirit and with those around me. But that competitive nature isn’t a problem, it’s a creation of God’s.

So while I’m back in the gym and hitting it hard hoping to one day make it to nationals (hopefully sooner rather than later), I’m also praying through why God has given me this gift. And why in the world did I discover it at 35? I know that this isn’t the end of a journey to one meet, but the start of a journey on to that discovery.

Will you pray with me?

I’m currently about 7 1/2-ish weeks out of my first Powerlifting meet.

Now, hear me when I tell you that I am not a natural-born athlete. When we were kids, I was always the type that loved to play softball and baseball (yes, baseball) and was fighting for the right to call cheerleading a sport. I ran track to keep in shape for cheerleading and was slid into long-jumping and triple-jumping.

But I never made the All-Star cheerleading squad. I was deep left field in softball. I was assigned triple-jump because there were usually only 3 people competing so I would, by default, place at least third.

And so, imagine my surprise when about 6 months into CrossFit, I realized I was actually able to hit some decent numbers in squat and deadlift (we don’t need to talk about my bench… let’s just say it still isn’t hitting much after almost a year).

I was not fast, I could not last through the 20-minute workouts (something that still confuses me with my background in endurance running), and I looked like a clumsy giraffe trying to Olympic Lift, but I could pick heavy things up and put them back down.

I was strong.

It is amazing to me how our physical bodies can tell us things about our spiritual ones.

As women, we are often told to allow the men to be strong. I remember being told not long ago that my masculine energy would never get me a man and that it would be impossible for me to be both a strong woman and in the kind of relationship I desire.

I’ll let that soak in for you a bit.

Translation: Weaken who you are so you can get what you desire.

I wondered what that would mean for me. I wondered if keeping up both my physical and emotional strength has been the reason that I am not married (personally, I think it’s because Dan Bailey hasn’t met me, yet, but whatever).

So, I decided to turn to the scriptures for guidance. I couldn’t help but be sucked into Proverbs 31, for as I was reading through it, I realized there were themes of strength throughout it.

• “works with willing hands”
• “provides food for her household”
• “considers a field and buys it”
• “girds herself with strength, and makes her arms strong”
• “Strength and dignity are her clothing”

Nowhere in these passages does it say for a woman to seek strength from a man. In fact, quite the reverse. The imagery in here is of a woman who is self-sufficient, making her own way for a living, who gets herself ready for all battles, and who works with her own arms and hands. Yes, she cares for her children and her husband, but not at the expense of being strong by her own devices.

In fact, the Hebrew word “hayil” is repeated three times, symbolizing that “strength” is important in a woman (this word can also be translated as “capable” or “noble things”).

Unfortunately, somewhere since this passage has been written, despite its being repeated in many Christian circles, women learned that to get what we want, it means losing strength. Or, at the very minimum, to veil our strength under a veneer of make-up and hair extensions. (Just look up the hashtag #strongwomen on Instagram to see what I’m talking about).

Now, don’t get me wrong, men have their own issues when it comes to strength. They learn that strength comes in the form of covering up their tears and insecurities.

And don’t get me wrong, I get really excited when I have the opportunity to put on heels and eyeliner and if I didn’t know I would be mocked incessantly by gym buddies, I may even be tempted to wear both to the gym.

But it does sadden me that the creation God made to push a human being out of their bodies with incredible force is also seen as less of a woman if they show strength elsewhere.

But I also have hope in how many women I see breaking down those barriers. In how many women I get to surround myself with who are strong in every sense of the word and don’t have a problem showing it. I have hope in the men that surround them and lift them up.

And I have hope in the God that decided to create women to be strong.

I was just visiting my local Starbucks and had forgotten the ashes smeared on my forehead.

“Is it for that Catholic holiday?” the young barista asked. “What are you giving up?”

It’s the first question many of us are asked: “What are you giving up?”

Some use this as an excuse to finally discipline our lives out of drinking soda or eating cookies. Some use this as a way to torture ourselves in hopes we can somehow relate to the torture Jesus went through. (No, friends, giving up McDonald’s is *not* like being killed on a cross).

Over the past few years, though, I’ve been convicted that it isn’t about giving up something for us to torture ourselves, but embracing God in some way we haven’t been already.

So this year, I’m giving up and making room.

I’ve decided to give up TV (oh, don’t you worry, I will catch up on “This is Us” on Sundays) in order to free my time at night for reading and reflection and maybe even sleeping.

I’ve also decided to really tackle a project I’ve been saying I want to do for years. That is creating YouTube content discussing the faith and fitness connection. There are many many many resources out there for fitness, but as I have dug through, I’ve seen a huge gap out there for this kind of content. The challenge for me is that I hate (hate hate hate) being on camera, so posting every day will help me lean into that challenge. If you’ve noticed, I’ve tried on Instagram to post more videos of me lifting-this isn’t for my own ego, but to help me try to get used to producing this kind of content and to get beyond the simple embarrassment of setting up a camera in the gym. The other challenge for me is that when I tried to do this about a year or so ago, I wanted everything to be perfect. Posting daily will mean that some of the content will be a little messy. Some won’t look the way I want it to. And I’ll have to deal with that!

So, for the next 40 days (minus Sundays), I’ll be posting daily videos discussing some part of that. I’m posting this here so y’all can keep me accountable!

I’ll go back to using my personal Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/user/abhutchison00 if you wanna follow along! I’ll video tonight, but I may not post until tomorrow because it’s gonna be a long day!

The most powerful words a coach can give are: “You can do it!”

The first time a coach got me into a handstand, “You can do it!”

That time I was about to give up with 20 more reps to go, “You can do it!”

The first time I put 165 on my back, “You can do it!”

They are words that I need to hear, more often than I would care to admit. But they are powerful words, it’s true.

I try and remember these words as I coach in my own role. I remember my first truly momentous pastoral moment, when I had a group of college students responsible for guiding new students in our ministry. One night, our church was having two conflicting events, which put our team into extreme mode, and we needed to add about 10 more to our team. I picked 4 of our students to lead in particular sections, and each of these 4 not only recruited more students to help, but they were so awesomely amazing at their roles that I was barely needed.

I wonder sometimes what would have happened that night had I told them I needed to do it because they couldn’t. Instead, I believed in them and they rose to the occasion.

In my short 4 1/2 years of full-time ministry, I’ve been able to see how powerful these words can be. How they become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I can either tell someone they can, and they’ll rise to the occasion. Or I can tell someone they can’t, and they’ll fail before trying.

God’s grace is that God tells us often, “You can do it!” You can be the person I created you to be. You can love the way I showed you love. You are worthy, you are awesome, just because I created you to be.

You can do it!

For 7 years, I was just about as anti-CrossFit as you can get. I’m an endurance runner. Runners don’t do things that take away from their perfectly planned Hal Higdon schedule. And getting injured from falling on a box or dropping a barbell on your head? Yep. That’ll knock you out for a few days.

But last spring, I burnt out on running for many reasons. I raced too much. I wasn’t progressing (in fact, my numbers were getting worse). My running community had become a source of stress. I found myself breaking down emotionally on runs instead of getting my emotions out. But mostly, I just didn’t love it anymore.

When I moved to Charlotte, though, I thought: new start! I’ll find a new running community, join a gym where I can do some group classes from time to time for cross-training, and I’ll be set!

And then, someone in my new running community told me about ClassPass. It was a great way to add some cross-training to running. I could jump from boxing to yoga to spin class. And CrossFit was included. I thought, “Why not? What do I have to lose?”

Eventually, I stopped going to boxing and yoga and spin class, and instead was bouncing around to different CrossFit gyms so as not to go over my once/week allotment at a particular gym. It was getting exhausting with all the driving.

During this time, a partner competition was coming up, and I wasn’t going to be able to participate because I wasn’t really a member anywhere. Sure, I could have grabbed someone random in one of the (4!) boxes I was rotating between. But I realized I didn’t really have my “tribe”. It was time to make a decision.

I weighed the pros and cons of each box within 15 minutes of my house. I looked at which ones of them had specialized classes in Olympic weightlifting and gymnastics (because, as a runner, I have no clue what I’m doing there). I looked at price tags and membership options (could I just go twice a week to one and then keep my ClassPass membership to continue rotating through others?). I analyzed why I was wanting to join and which place would be best for those goals. I still had no clue.

It came down to my last week and I had narrowed it down to two boxes. One of the boxes was sponsoring a community event. I was in my last trial workout (the GM let me do a few… which I’m so grateful for because I still was stressing!) and someone asked me if I would be her partner for the event the next weekend.

I signed up the next day for the event and for a membership. I had found my tribe.

In ways, it was a complete fluke. Most of the boxes I visited were extremely friendly. They asked me where I was from and how I got there. They helped me when I picked up the men’s bar instead of the women’s. They greeted me with a smile even at 6 in the morning and were patient with me as I floundered through a confusing EMOM.

But this was the first time someone invited me to really be a part of what they were doing. Not just in the time period that I was paying to be there, but the time outside of the gym as well.

And that was all I needed to know where I was meant to go.

We’ve been talking a lot about hospitality inside our church, lately. With 1400 in attendance on an average Sunday morning, it’s important to talk about. We do worship well. Really well. But we know church isn’t just about worship, it’s about family and inviting others into the family.

So we equip and empower our membership in the form of greeters and parking attendants and ushers and hospitality team members. We station people around the church to help answer questions and guide others to Life Groups and the bathroom (sometimes, equally important).

But hospitality means taking it a step further. It means opening up our homes to the stranger. It means inviting the newcomer to something outside of the normal church hour. It means not only saying, “you are welcome inside our walls” but also “we want you to know you are included outside them as well.”

I feel passionate about hospitality because I’ve been the newcomer many times in my life. And it’s hard to be the newcomer in a place where people have known each other for years.

But it doesn’t take much. An invite to lunch or a movie night. It won’t cost you anything, but it may mean the world to one who just wants to find their tribe.

My favorite mornings, I wake up at 5:15 am. I roll over, pretty groggy even if I have gone to bed at 8:30. I search for my dog, and on great mornings it’s not much of a search because she has already hopped into bed moments before. I stumble downstairs, load and hit the Keurig button (which, of course, was already full of water) with a perfectly clean coffee mug. I pull on my shoes and smile that I left my gym bag in my car since I knew I’d need it the next day. My dog at this point has come downstairs, hearing the rustling as I open up a Larabar. I make her sit and give her a treat. She stays still as I grab my coffee, head out the door, and make it into the gym 5 minutes before class starts, enough time for a little extra mobility work and some friendly (albeit groggy) chat with the people I am grateful to spend my 6am workout with. I power through a great workout (of course it’s powerlifts and box jumps… because I’m relatively good at those) and I finish first. I do a little extra work after class, because, you know, I’m that serious. I go home, shower, get ready in enough time that I can sit in my office for a few minutes reading my daily scripture by myself before turning to just a few e-mails that need to be answered before working on the sermon for the week (of course, it’s only Tuesday and I’m already working on the sermon a month from now). A little lunch, some phone calls to the new faces we saw Sunday morning (and all of them love Weddington!). I go home, cook a perfectly Paleo meal for dinner and then snuggle on the couch with my dog and a good book, before getting to bed promptly at 8:30 to start it all over again.

And then there’s reality.

Most mornings, I hit snooze 5 times. I cannot find my dog anywhere and panic for a minute that she has snuck out into the street before finding her rolled up on the clothes I was planning on wearing. Those clothes are now covered in dog hair, so I’ll have to find something else when I get back from the gym. I hit the button on the Keurig and realize there isn’t water. I pour water into the Keurig, hit the button again, head to the bathroom, and hear the sound of coffee hitting the kitchen counter and floor since I forgot to put a coffee cup under it. As I get into the car, I realize I forgot my lifters (why did I bring them inside?), go back into the house to grab them then back to the car, realize I forgot my coffee, go back into the house and grab it, get back into the car, realize I am starving and forgot food, go back into the house and grab the empty Larabar box… a banana will have to do–no time for almond butter, either. I return to the car to find my dog has decided to get into the car, since I left both the doors open. I can’t get her out. I finally do and shove her back into the house. I get to the gym 3 minutes late. Burpees. Of course it’s burpees. Why burpees?!?! (Can we ban burpees?) 15 burpee box jumps in, I clip my toe on the box. I finish last. I go home, shower, realize I still have the problem of the dog-haired clothes. Nothing in my closet. I’ll have to do laundry later, but for now I piece together something that looks somewhat normal. I get into work later than I’d like, so I skip my devotion. Already there’s someone standing at the door with a question. 9 o’clock comes and I still haven’t started my sermon. Have I mentioned it’s Thursday? I get home around 9:30, search the empty fridge and settle on a mix of fruit, eggs, and chicken that I really really hope is still good. But I have Friday off, so I can afford a bout of food poisoning, right? I go to bed at midnight.

Anyone else have days like these? Anyone else wonder where their days have gone in the midst of the busy? Anybody have dreams that your perfectly scheduled day will look exactly like you plan?

Yep. We all do.

And yet, for some reason we feel challenged to have it all together. We feel as if the grace of God does not cover us if we didn’t spend exactly 2.5 hours in Bible study before our feet hit the ground running.

Seriously.

But here’s the thing. On days when my shins hit the box and I bail a back squat that I really really (REALLY) wanted to nail that day, I chalk it down as a process. I move on. I come back the next day and try it all again.

And you know what? Banged up shins still got some work done. Dropped back squats still strengthened muscles. And your quick prayer as you shovel food down your mouth coming through the driveway is still a connection to God. Albeit small, it’s there.

So give yourself grace today. God sure does.

For years, I posted about random musings around life, theology, and threw in some Jesus every now and then.

I have found over the past few years a passion for fitness and through exploring that passion, have seen how it relates to discipleship. (Not to mention, turns out your body can affect your soul and vice versa. Who knew?!)

So, I wanted to start fresh. Not the least of which because I realized I was spending a ton of money on hosting a blog that nobody was reading… not even me! So I’m back to the basics with WordPress and hopefully a few words to go along with it.

And hopefully soon… some day really soon… I’ll even get the whole YouTube thing down for ya! Baby steps.

Glad to have you here!

As always, love in Christ and love in body,

Rev. Amy