Training for Satan's 5K

When I was in 6th grade I decided I had had enough of our physical fitness tests in school. I devised a plan to get me out of our spring half mile run that proved to be successful. I knew that if I could come up with a reason to go to the doctor that I could manipulate my mother into making the appointment during gym class on the day of the infamous 800 without her suspecting anything. I wasn't going to fake an illness; that would be too hard to pull off.  I knew my abilities and limits. I have been cursed with ingrown toe nails my entire life, compliments of my father's genetics, and that was my in.  My dad had just had one removed at the doctor and I was going to follow his medical example. Our gym teacher gave us a week or so notice for when the big event would be and then I artfully waited until two or three days before then to tell my mom that I HAD to go to the doctor to get my toe nail fixed. She said she would call the next morning. I nonchalantly suggested the day and time that would work best for my overbearing 6th grade schedule and she conformed. When we arrived at the doctor, I was informed that my ingrown toenail wasn't that bad and was sent back on my way.  I didn't care though, because I got out of running at a humiliatingly slow pace with all my classmates and my only punishment was a reprimand for being a drama queen about my toe and a B in PE because I conveniently never had time to stay after school to make up my run. I tell this story to illustrate one important point; I absolutely loath running.

I've tried to get into running a few times during my life because I wanted a runner's physique, but it never stuck. I usually give it a go for a few weeks and then decide that it isn't worth the effort. Imagine my horror when my mission president and his wife announced that we would be running a 5K as a mission the Monday before Thanksgiving. I immediately hated my life. We were given a modified Couch to 5K training schedule and cheerfully told to give it our all and results would follow. Shortly thereafter I dubbed the race Satan's 5K and didn't truly know how fitting that name would prove to be.

From the get go I knew it would be harder than ever to get into running because I couldn't bump my jams while I hit the pavement. In the past I put my ear buds in and turned up some form of teen pop music to a volume just beneath ear drum shattering in order to drown out my heavy breathing. Without upbeat melodies and horribly written, yet alarmingly catchy lyrics in my ears, I was left with only an angry inner diatribe and gasps for air to serenade my run (which is really more like a brisk walk with a bounce). Very quickly, my negative thoughts branched out and multiplied until every morning my work out included a tangled web of self loathing thoughts and lies. Not too long after we started training for our 5K, the destructive ideas started to leak past my half an hour work out and into the hour I got ready as well.

"I hate running because I'm so out of shape," lead to, "I'm never going to get good at this," which usually turned in to, "if I don't get good at running, I'll never be in shape." That line undoubtedly spun in to, "and if I'm never in shape I'll clearly never get married."  From there, my thoughts rapidly escalated to, "if I never get married, I'll be such a disappointment to my family and culture.  And if I never get married I'll never have kids and I'll never fulfill my womanly duty to be a mother. Why am I even on a mission? Maybe we are struggling to find people to teach in this area because I'm not pretty enough. I bet attractive missionaries have more success.  That's the real reason why we have to run this 5K. We're supposed to be getting into better shape so we can be more beautiful and find people to teach. Why is my companion such a fast runner; she is literally a gazelle. A GAZELLE. MAYBE AN ANTELOPE. I DON'T KNOW.  I'm so slow and she has got to hate me for slowing her down. I wish I could just fall on a cactus and break my leg so I wouldn't have to run anymore and be a hindrance to my companion. Why aren't there any cacti on our running route? I would probably be a hindrance to a husband too. I mean, I'm 23 and on a mission. Man, my breathing sounds like an angry walrus gasping for air. Maybe Heavenly Father sent me on a mission as a form of busy work, since I have approximately 60 more years of unmarried life ahead of me. Well, probably only 40 since I'm bad at running so my heart will give out." And on and on an on, for an hour and a half every single morning.

Me when I was angry about running. GRRRRRR.

My companion during her morning run.

Maybe I'm a little dramatic. I know. But c'mon...it was running! Without Selena Gomez!

When it got to the point that I couldn't sleep at night because I was dreading waking up in the morning because I knew I would have to run, and subsequently spend an hour and a half with my own brain, I decided something needed to change.

As missionaries, we reference the scripture Ether 12:27 frequently. It reads, 

"And if men come unto me I will show unto them their 

weakness [RUNNING].  I give unto men weakness that 

they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all 

men that humble themselves before me; for if they 

humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, 

then will I make weak things become strong unto them."

(emphasis and angry color choice added)

Running is definitely a weakness of mine, but I realized that my bigger weaknesses were pride and doubt. I felt that running was such a trivial thing that I couldn't pray and ask for help because Heavenly Father didn't want to hear about my physical activity woes. After I humbled myself and knew that the only way I was going to get myself out of bed morning after morning was with a lot of divine help, I went to my knees and my thoughts changed. Did I really believe that I'll never get married? No. But it is still my biggest fear, and Satan plays on our fears. When I acknowledged that I was allowing Satan to be my running partner every morning it made it far easier to change my attitude and perspective. The only true statement in my angry stream of consciousness was that my companion is literally a gazelle. I can get in shape in a thousand different ways that aren't running. I can get married without being a model (or a gazelle). I will have children at some point in eternity, because I have been promised that. I don't really want to break my leg; that would be awful. I will most likely live beyond the age of 63. Most importantly, Heavenly Father didn't call me on a mission to kill time while he came up with something else for me to do. We're never asked to do something to just occupy our time.

I was so upset at myself for letting Satan rule my thoughts and guide the opinions I had of myself. I should have known better than to let him diminish my self worth and divine nature. But that's why he's so good at what he does, he's sneaky. With a lot of prayer and a conscious effort to think of happy (or at least neutral) things while I ran, my weaknesses became stronger. When I can't think of anything positive while I'm running, I count. It's not necessarily uplifting, but it keeps my mind occupied, and eventually I find that my mind has wandered somewhere else more positive. I often think about what Heavenly Father or Jesus Christ would tell me if they were running beside me. I'm sure they wouldn't judge my slow progress, in fact, they would likely commend me for building myself up to the point that I can almost run a mile without stopping. As I pray each night and in the morning I ask for the strength to push myself a little harder and for the mental endurance to keep my thoughts positive. AND IT WORKS. Every single day that I depend on the Lord, He makes it possible for me to do something I hate. More impressive than my running triumphs, is the progress I've made in turning my doubt to faith and my pride to humility.

I can testify that the Lord will truly help us along our paths if we seek His assistance. We can expect immediate assistance and gradual growth. 

Maybe I will look like this down the road when I am 100% better at running. Except I would never wear a red head band with a pink sweater. So maybe that will just be my running aura.

Jesus Wasn't a Perfectionist

I wear my perfectionism like a white ink tattoo on the inside of my wrist.  If you're looking for it, it is definitely visible. The slightly inflamed lettering flashes into view in certain circumstances, but for the most part the inconspicuous location and natural camouflage don't draw attention to the defining art work. It peaks out more abundantly in some situations. Such occasions as when I scrub the kitchen sink with a toothbrush or when I am scrap booking. But then it retreats and stays hidden from the general public on the safe inside of my right wrist where it won't make a mockery of the girl it has always been attached to. There are days that is seems as if I've outlined the tattoo in glitter eyeliner because my perfectionism is so forthright and painfully obvious. In those moments I often reflect on why I have such a strong desire to cling to an unattainable standard of performance.

I have spent the majority of my life allowing perfectionism to cripple my talents and abilities because I am afraid to do anything in the eyesight of others that could be rated as anything less than five stars. I stopped playing volleyball in high school because I deemed myself not athletic enough. I refused to play the piano at church because I would miss a note here or there and knew that my imperfect performance would simultaneously draw too much negative attention to myself and detract from the spirit of the Sabbath. I didn't audition for music groups in college because clearly my lack of perfect pitch made me unfit for musical performance, though my years of high school experience spoke far greater of my musical capabilities. I never entered any writing scholarship competitions in college because I figured it was a waste of the judge's time to even read my losing piece of work. I even spent two years talking myself out of serving a mission because I knew my talents and capabilities would never classify me as the stereotypical sister missionary. Time and time again I decided that others would judge me before I gave them the opportunity to. 

I often justify my behavior by believing that Jesus was perfect, therefore I should strive for that as well. In fact I was told regularly as a child through Sunday School songs, teacher's words, my parents expectations, and Christian culture at large that I should strive to be like my perfect brother Jesus.  WWJD was more than the embroidery on a fad bracelet that covered my tattoo; it was, and continues to be, the driving force behind many of my actions. 

Here's the thing though, Jesus wasn't a perfectionist.

per·fec·tion·ist: a person who refuses to accept any standard less than perfection.


He was definitely perfect.

per·fect: having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be.


But never was he a perfectionist.  

Jesus spent his entire life surrounded by some of Heavenly Father's most imperfect children, yet he loved them all.  Further, he came to Earth with the single goal of bringing to fruition His father's goal, "to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man" through his selfless sacrifice (Moses 1:39). We were commanded to be perfect, but we were never commanded to be perfectionists.  Being perfect includes helping our fellow men, loving God above ourselves, and not killing people.  Being perfect doesn't require that we pin every hair perfectly in place on our heads or that we spend over 20 hours on a 10th grade literature project that only required an hour or 2 of labor (I may or may not be speaking from personal experience...). 

Being perfect requires relying on Heavenly Father and Christ; there is simply no way to do it alone.  That is where perfectionist ideology completely dies.  A perfectionist will do all that is required of her without the assistance of anyone or anything. We are told, "Yea, come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness; and if ye shall deny yourselves of all ungodliness, and love God with all your might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for you, that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ;...that ye become holy, without spot." (Moroni 10:32-33).

Through the flawless and redeeming act of Christ's suffering in Gethsemane and crucifixion on the cross, we may all be made perfect in him.  His grace will be sufficient to make us clean, whole, and perfect. No amount of intelligence, skill, practice, or exertion can compensate for the grace of God through Christ's atonement. I will never be a perfect pianist, singer, sister, missionary, culinary artist, friend, or athlete, but neither will anyone else. I can become a perfect daughter of God though, and that is all my father has ever expected of me.

It's My Blessing and I Want it Now!

A little over a year ago my younger brother proposed to his now wife.  This took place on the eve of my 22nd birthday month and 8th semester of college.  I was an unhealthy mixture of irate, depressed, confused, and bitter.  I often hid my desire to be married through the early years of college because I didn't want to be pegged as a girl who went to BYU to find a spouse and not to attain higher education, but I was starting to get nervous that my anti-marriage facade was the reason I had never found anyone.  The combination of my college career quickly ending and my younger brother popping the question before I had even ever seriously dated someone lead to a quarter-life crisis.  I was the oldest.  I was the only daughter.  I was the kid who was almost done with college.  I was the child that went to BYU.  I was the teenager who abstained from everything and strictly adhered to curfew.  I was the good example.  I was the Poppe child who deserved to be planning a wedding and a future.  I. I. I. My life quickly became a J.G. Wentworth commercial where instead of "It's my money and I want it now," the thought, "It's my blessing and I want it now!" often circulated through my inner-dialogue.  My attitude about my brother's upcoming nuptials was so sour that I couldn't even find a small space in my heart to be happy for him.  One day I was studying trials and read Jeffrey R. Holland's talk, The Laborers in the Vineyard, and was immediately chastised when I read, "We are not diminished when someone else is added upon."

My brother was getting married to a wonderful young woman and I had spent months being bitter because he found happiness before I did.  I knew the trials he had gone through in life and the struggles he had and saw those as making him unworthy of the one blessing I wanted but wasn't receiving.  I failed to notice that getting married was a blessing, but more importantly it was the motivation my brother needed to come back into the fold.  While a spouse was something that sounded nice to me, it was much more to my brother.  It was a symbol of repentance and the mercy of God.  He found someone to grow with.  We don't always know why things happen in life.  I don't know why I'm almost 23, single, and on a mission while my brother never served one and was married shortly after he turned 20.  I do know that he being blessed with a beautiful wife doesn't diminish me in any way because "the worth of souls is great in the sight of God (D&C 18:10)".  Marriage didn't make my brother any better than me because we are both equal children of the same Heavenly Father (well, and the same earthly father).

How often do we compare our blessings with others and dwell on how Heavenly Father put one more shiny toy in someone else's basket than our own?  Haven't we all received the most important blessing in the form of Jesus Christ?  All the other blessings we receive are just trifles compared to the salvation offered to us through the faithful sacrifice of God's Only Begotten.  All the other gifts we receive are just stocking stuffers compared to the real present, the Atonement of Christ, under the tree. 

June 8, 2013.  My brother, Bryce, and I with Brandon and my beautiful sister-in-law, Brianna.