Story #1: Roman Exile

Orvieto train station

Roman Exile

            I am lost in a world known as the Roma Termini train station – two months into my semester abroad, still posing as the ultimate stranger in a country of foreign words, customs, and clothing. Feeling alone on a train filled with people traveling from Rome to Florence on a Sunday night, I leave my seat to shuffle down the aisle, searching for my Orvieto group. We were split up amongst the train cars after a frantic run through Roma Termini to catch the last train home after a long day at our first Roma football match.

            I make my way through the narrow aisle, self-conscious as usual, concerned that I might bump into the wrong old Italian lady. But even with my valiant efforts to avoid touching anyone who may be spilling into the aisle, I still had to dodge the glares and condescending glances at my running sneakers and inappropriate running tights. I mean I knew these tights would bring the normal amount of Italian judgment upon me but the combination of a monastery laundry schedule and my lack of pants options left me no choice. I continue to stare at the ground, praying that Laura and Becky might be in the next car so my unfashionable walk of shame could end – or at least I would have the company of friends for the journey back to my seat. I try to squeeze by a family, only to be stopped by a shout: “ROMA! Roma!” A boy crawls out of his mother’s lap to stand on the seat next to her in order to get a better view of me. He waves his hands wildly, grabs his jacket and rips it open in the most Superman-like way, holding it wide, then pointing at me, with the top of our matching maroon shirts showing under my jacket.

            I smile back, ignoring the stares as I gesture to my shirt as well: “Sí, Sí! Roma. Roma. Sí!” He jumps up and down on the seat (which unimpresses his mother even more) and the boy’s friends peer over to grin at me as well, all saying “Roma!” I continue down the aisle, grinning like an American fool in running tights. I find Becky and Laura, and the three of us continue back to my original seat. We pass my little friend again and I’m unsure, uncertain as to whether I should smile or wave at him again or if his mother would be concerned that I am not only unfashionable but perhaps a kidnapper too. He doesn’t see me at first but his friends poke him and they point at me, whispering “Roma, Roma.” He jumps up again to smile and wave as I pass. Again, I can’t think of anything else to say other than “Sí! Sí!” I know I have more Italian vocabulary than that but I can’t think of anything, feeling so distant from a language that I can only sometimes understand.

But this little voice and waving arms breaks through the stares of foreign faces lining the train and suddenly my borrowed t-shirt makes me the ultimate Roma fan, now part of a gang of eight-year-olds who smile and wave even after I leave the train car and glance back to see if they’re still watching me. They are. Words enter the silence but they aren’t words I recognize. Foreign sounds bring me back into a world that I currently feel so exiled from – me, in my running pants and American demeanor, feeling abandoned until I hear the voice of a miniature football fan, in words that I don’t understand but with a smile that is unmistakably welcoming. 

Story #2: Bread of Life

Bread of Life

Suggested verse: John 6:35 – “Then Jesus declared, 'I am the bread of life, he who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty.” Bread. Bread. Panera Bread. Wonder Bread. Ugh, I can’t believe I just considered Wonder Bread as something delicious. Wait, no. I should be thinking about Jesus right now! Praying to Jesus, not drooling over Panera Bread and imaginary bread bowls with cheese and broccoli soup with maybe a cookie or ten for dessert. I take sips from my Nalgene and try to trick my cramped and empty stomach into believing this filtered lake water is food. No, I’m not thirsty and I am most certainly not hungering for righteousness.

Another verse: Isaiah 58:11 – “The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.” I take my pen and underline this verse. I like it. It speaks to me. I smooth the pages of my Bible, the first Bible I could call my own. But instead of tattered and bursting with post-its and highlighted verses, mine is clean. Too clean. The kind of fresh new Bible that has barely been used. The kind that reveals almost too much of me – me, a Christian girl at a Christian school that should’ve been reading a Bible since birth. Instead, this Bible was a recent gift from my field hockey coach only eight months ago on my first day of preseason. All of the freshmen get them, engraved on the front with our jersey number.

I use my pen as a bookmark and close my Bible, resting my head on it as if it were a Tempur-Pedic pillow. As I approach hour number sixty on the first fasting experience of my life, death is near. It must be. I imagine all of my friends back at home, just beginning their summer break: “When’s Megan coming back? Isn’t she on some fourteen-day hiking expedition?” “They don’t let her eat for two days! It’s called fasting.” “What! Is that some weird Christian thing?”

Branches crack and I quickly sit up, only to immediately lie back down when my head spins. Our two leaders, Greg and Caitlin make their way toward my area to tell me to start packing up to return to the group. They move on another hundred yards to tell Grace the same thing, then Jacqueline, then Amy. I crawl to my knees and then fumble with my overhead tarp, tearing out the cords and stuffing them into my pockets in the most unceremonious way – definitely not the techniques of a skilled hiker. I stuff my dirty clothes, empty bug spray, and poison ivy cream into my sack and sit on it, waiting impatiently for their return. Ten days of intense hiking with people I didn’t know was exhausting and I was soon dying for this solo time, but two days without human contact soon had me craving more then food – I wanted company. Even if it meant that I would have to make small talk during the hikes. As much as I hate get-to-know-you games and basic questions like “So where are you from?” I missed the jokes and the shared complaints about the bugs.

We walk up the hill and pick up Caroline on the way. And by “walk up” the hill, I mean struggle up the hill. My eyes blur and I try to focus on the back of Amy’s head but I can feel my legs giving out. Even the hottest days of field hockey preseason or the flu or the physical exhaustion from a hard sprint couldn’t compare to my weak, exhausted body – still wondering if I’d successfully filled up on righteousness or not.

They drop the five girls off at camp and they continue on to the other side to collect the five boys. We aren’t supposed to talk until everyone is back together so I kill time by poking Amy in the back to get her to smile at me. Her face is swollen and puffy, her ripped bug net is abandoned in her hand. The boys return, slowly marching to meet us at the campfire and their beards are longer, with sickly faces and pained expressions.

Once everyone’s circled up, we begin to sing the doxology (our agreed-upon reentry song). Raspy voices are heard for the first time in over two days and they praise Him from all whom all blessings flow. I whisper the words, barely able to get a note out: Praise him all creatures here below. My eyes slowly close and I have to lean back onto Amy, worried that I’m going to collapse before we finish the last part of the song. Soon enough, the sound of Amen breaks our silence and the chatter begins. Greg and Caitlin have a meal prepared for us to break the fast, and we gather around close, sharing stumps for seats, kicking off our wet hiking boots to warm by the fire.

“Who’s turn is it tonight? Who hasn’t done their life story yet?” Everyone looks around and I pretend to tie the laces of my hiking boots.

Caroline gives me away: “Megan! It’s your turn. Share with us.”

Share? SHARE! I can’t possibly share. I mean I knew this day would come but still, somehow I hoped that maybe they would forget about me and maybe I wouldn’t ever have to talk about the four F’s: Friends, family, fun, and faith. I worry that I’ll accidently let it slip that maybe my parents aren’t “saved.” Maybe I’m not saved – I’ve never used that word before. I barely know what born-again means and after ten nights of others sharing their life stories as pastors’ kids or missionary kids, I’m lost in a sea of Christian vocabulary that leaves my life story feeling inadequate and un-Christian. Unfamiliar terms I know will sound awkward coming from my tongue. My voice feels foreign and scratchy and my palms sweat as I anticipate their questions. Caroline smiles and nudges me: “Go ahead.” I clear my throat and begin. 

Story #3: Distance Run

Distance Run

3.03 miles: the distance I travel to escape the monastery, to abandon all community commitments and passive aggressive comments about the cleaning schedule. Orvieto is a small town, but the monastery is even smaller. On this Monday afternoon, avoiding my nineteen other peers proved impossible as I bump into a few in the kitchen, a few more in the sala, another three in the classroom. And in each room, there is someone from my cleaning group, ready to comment on how my hands are holding my iPod instead of a mop from the cleaning closet. Yes, yes! I’ll do it later. I know, I know. Yeah… I’ll do it.

            Before lunch, the entirety of our hour-long chapter meeting is spent discussing the cleaning schedule for the monastery and the new rotation for the week. I sit, listen, and clutch my growling stomach and while I contemplate my hatred of mopping stone floors covered in dust. My crankiness increases as chapter meeting continues and Professor Doll gives another concluding passage from Nouwen: The careful balance between silence and words, withdrawal and involvement, distance and closeness, solitude and community forms the basis of the Christian life and should therefore be the subject of our most personal attention.

I’m silent. I’m distant when I cross the monastery courtyard and ignore a shout from the window above: “Hey Megan – I’ll leave the mop over here for you when you get back.” The speed of my steps increase as I pass through the iron gate and (accidentally) slam it behind me, breaking into a run as I turn the corner down the main corso. A few conservative Italians disdainfully glance at my radical running pants, probably wondering what the blue lettering of “Gordon Field Hockey” means on my grey t-shirt. But Gordon Field Hockey is what I need to return to in a few months, fit and ready to lead as a captain – days of gelato and pasta won’t get me there, though.

My Asics strike the cobblestones and I eventually slow and then quickly cross the street, making my way closer to the stone archway that separates the countryside from the cliff of the town. I just barely make it past an older couple, a few tourists, and a biker, before I reach the steep path and gasp. Huge tears escape my red eyes and my pace changes to a slow jog, coughing and gasping as I sob. My chest heaves and my eyes sting, blurring my vision as I trip on a loose cobblestone. Mondays. Even in Italy, Mondays are the worst.

Guilt seeps in at once as I mentally complain about my troubles, because I know that at the end of the day, I’ll receive emails and messages from friends and family asking about how wonderful my study abroad experience must be, one month into the program. Here I am, sobbing on the outskirts of Orvieto, completely failing at my plan to complete a good workout before dinner – and cleaning.  

Is this solitude? Crying on foreign cobblestones, wondering where God’s now absent-voice is and questioning if my relationship with Him was left in America, back in the churches with open communion and English sermons. I long for friends that know me, for people that really understand me. I don’t want to pretend to be interested in the weekly cleaning schedule or work through any community problems. My silence, my distance, they amplify my anger and I crave something different. I don’t want to go home, but I miss the idea of comfort, of contentment in friendships. This task of building nineteen other relationships overwhelms my introverted self, as there is always a friendship to work on. At breakfast, at lunch, at dinner – with every bite of pasta comes a new basic question about my major, my siblings, and my home state. I’ll politely smile and then immediately check to see if there’s anything in my teeth, anxious to scare away my new friends.

I reach the opposite side of Orvieto and begin the slow turn around the hilltop town, making my way to the long stretch of cliff that will lead me back. What am I supposed to tell my parents when they message me tonight: Italy is great. I skipped cleaning and cried about how much I want to come home. Oh, and I feel lonely even when I’m surrounded by other people.

I turn onto the long, paved walking path and my breath catches. I pull my headphones from my ears and move closer to the edge of the cliff, leaning on the stonewall. Knowing that my iPhone could never do it justice, my now dry eyes widen and I try my best to memorize what I know will eventually become a blurry memory, stuck in my journal simply as “I saw the best sunset EVER!!!” I try to turn away and finish my route, but I continue to look back as the unreal landscape sits as a photo shoot backdrop. Even better than the best Google images search for a “sunset desktop pic” couldn’t rival these colors on the cliffs of Via del Popolo – one of the only streets in Orvieto reserved for pedestrians. Or in my case, reserved for runners who are avoiding their community cleaning duties.

I jog on and reach the basement studio of the monastery and knock on the door – I never run with my front door key. Tyler opens the door and shouts “Ciao Zmeg!” (A nickname they had given me after the Italian refrigerator company, Zmeg). I quickly move through the studio and up the stairs, feeling refreshed but still slightly apprehensive about bumping into anyone from my cleaning group in the halls. I dart into the kitchen for some water – much needed after my tears and sweat.

“Megan! We’ve been waiting for you! Let’s have tea time now, we made you a cappuccino.” Laura grins and motions for me to move into the refectory to sit with her, Sara, and Jenna. Jenna pulls out a chair for me and Sara passes the biscotti. I smile and thank her, feeling ready to rejoin – the best conclusion for a 3.03 mile exile from home. 

Story #4: Sacrifice

senior year :)

junior year

sophomore year

freshman year (although you could've guessed as much from this terrible picture)

Sacrifice

            “Alright, starting lineup: Heidi, Veronica, Clara. Midfield: Kuhn, Mindy, Bri. Defense: Kelsey, El, Megan, with Anna in goal.” I tug on the hem of my new Gordon College uniform. Wait. Did he just say my name? I rub my sweaty palm on my jersey and try not to look completely shocked. But I’m a freshman! Are the sophomores who used to be starters mad? I’m one of the two freshmen that are starting. The sophomore that I’m specifically scared of nudges me in the back and I turn around to see her smile. A junior on her left gives me the thumbs up. I give a small grin and turn back around, palms sweating more than ever. All twenty of us circle up in the locker room to sing: Father, we adore you, and we lay our lives before you, how we love you. The other freshman and I mouth the words and try to lightly clap at the right parts, careful not to mess up the rhythm.

***

Sixty minutes on the bench. Sixty. Minutes. I glance across the field and search for my family in the stands. Mom, Dad, Emily, Grammy, and Papa – they drove two hours this morning to watch me sit on the bench at the biggest game of the year: homecoming. My new transfer friend, Kelly, makes a great play and my teammates jump and cheer. Isn’t Kelly the best? Wow, it’s a good thing we have her on defense! Tears well up as I smile and cheer along, cheering for the girl who replaced me after I played for a mere ten minutes. My new, talented friend. I sniffle some more and hope that the other subs don’t notice. They don’t care about being on the bench. But I’m a starter. I’m supposed to be out there, not with this crew on the sidelines. My coach walks by and gives me a one-armed hug (he always knows), spurring on more tears. Confusion. Why do I even play this sport? I could be making money. I could hang out with those friends who actually have free time in the afternoons. I wouldn’t have knee problems. I could sign up for the classes I want. My list of complaints continues on and I laugh at my freshman year self: playing in every single game with the upperclassmen, naive to the fact that there were ten people on the bench at every game.

***

Kelly and I sit in our apartment, making gift bags for the seven seniors. We’re swimming in tissue paper, candy, and mini Gatorades. We don’t get paid enough for this work. Really, we don’t get paid anything – we’re just living the junior dream.

“Where is everyone? Also, we might need some more markers for the posters.” Senior Day is like Christmas if you’re one of the lucky seniors. For us, it’s the most stressful day of the field hockey season. We serve as tax collectors (because we can’t fund the gifts on our own), elves that make the gift baskets, and Santa Claus himself as we get to the field early the next morning, running around to spray paint the seniors’ numbers in the grass, and hang up their posters on the fence.

“Do you think she’ll like this?”

“Ah, I’m not sure. You know she’s picky.”  We love them. We love all of them. But… this senior class is definitely opinionated. If they’re unimpressed with Senior Day, they’ll say it. Kelly and I work through the night on the scrapbooks; we blow up balloons, and disperse everyone’s individual candy favorites into their gift bags. We dream of the day when the blessing and curse of “seniority” will be gifted to us.

***

Thirty seconds left on the clock. We’re up 3-1 and suddenly it hits me that we are about to win the championship. Kelly looks at me: “Megan. Megan. Megan.” I’m grinning back at her with my huge pink mouthguard. Anna yells, “Not yet! Not yet. We’re still playing!” We look back to the midfielders as they have the final play. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Jumping, yelling, hugging, shouting. Tears. Joy. Prayer. I can’t stop grinning as tears stream down my face when I realize that those were my last few moments of college hockey but we just won the championship! We grab our champion t-shirts then Kelly, Karli, and I retrieve the trophy, taking a thousand pictures with the plaque as if it’s a newborn baby. We grab each other’s arms as if pinching the other – this is REAL! All those practices in the heat of August preseason, the November practices with earmuffs and mittens. We walk off the field for the last time as teammates, muscles sore from play and cheeks sore from smiles. I look up to the stands and quickly find them walking out to greet me on the turf: Mom, Dad, Emily, Grammy, and Papa. They take turns and hug me tight, saying, we’re so proud of you. 

Story #5: Familiar Praise

tie-dye on rainy day

Familiar Praise

The air conditioning hits our warm, sunburnt bodies as we step into the church foyer. A week of Dominican Republic heat leaves us exhausted and sweaty. Even the nicest church dresses and a liberal amount of makeup couldn’t hide our tired, red expressions. But the cool air immediately brings us back to the States and suddenly this evangelical megachurch, planted just on the other side of the poorest section of Santo Domingo, brings us home. We awkwardly travel as a group down the center aisle, bumping into each other as we filed into a row in the middle – not too close to the front but not obviously in the back. 

“Too close, too close!”

“Wait no, let’s sit here.”

“Start a new row over there.” Annoyed whispers make their way through our large group. Although our field hockey team is used to spending hours at a time together, a week in a foreign country together takes its toll on our patience with each other. Mornings are spent running a field hockey camp and afternoons are busy planning Bible study and ESL classes Suddenly the idea of “team bonding” was on par with the worst of punishments. The seniors feel old while the freshmen seem younger and younger with each morning of field hockey camp and then afternoons of Bible study and ESL lessons. High pitched giggles and their pointing fingers cause us to cringe and roll our eyes: We weren’t like this as freshmen, right? There’s no way. No way at all.

            “Shhhh.”

Silence. The pastor moves up to the podium and looks out at the congregation, a sea of people filling stadium seating all around us. The community of believers. 

Silence and then words. He clears his throat and then begins with sounds that we don’t understand. Quick, rapid words and phrases that cause us to tilt our heads and wonder, while the congregation lets out a small chuckle. The pastor continues and people shift in their seats, getting comfortable. A few days earlier, I quickly realized that none of my mediocre Spanish vocabulary had prepared me for this trip, especially when we had to teach the game of field hockey: “Hold your stick like this,” “Put your feet like this,” “This is how you can stop the ball.” I give up and eventually I find myself making small talk about the weather, using one of the few phrases I could remember from seventh grade Spanish class. I wave my hand around and say, “Hace mucho calor!” The girls nod in agreement, sometimes giggling at my awful Spanish – probably wondering why this American girl can only say “It is very hot.”

My teammate nudges me to reach under my seat for a pair of large headphones – we all share the sparse number of headphones and listen to an English translation. Words that we could understand. A Spanish call and response echoes around us in unison as English words stream through the headphones, hurrying to catch up as the translator stumbles over a few phrases. All of a sudden the congregation begins to clap as the pastor finishes his prayer and then continues speaking. The translator hurries once more: “And we would like to welcome… uh… the students from America. They are from Gordon College in Massachusetts. We would like to… uh… welcome you all.” Everyone continues to clap and strain to catch a glimpse of us, still hiding in the middle pew.

            I look around the large auditorium and briefly lock eyes here, lock eyes there. I offer a brief smile in return to some of the large grins I receive. After a few moments of sheepish smiling, we are soon relieved from the stares when the congregation turns their attention back to the front. My coach drops his pen and it rolls a little ways in front of him. Three people jump to get up and return it to him, all smiling and nodding at his thank you, gracias. A worship band appears and a familiar song appears on the screen, Spanish lyrics with smaller English lyrics below.

            We stand and I set my headphones down on my seat, recognizing the familiar tune – one of the favorites at my home church and at Gordon’s chapel services: Dios eterno, tu luz por siempre brillaray tu gloria, incomparable sin final. My voice trips over the words and I stumble to keep up with the music, trying to be my own translator as I work through the sentences. Okay, so Dios means God and eterno means everlasting… suddenly the band has already moved onto the second chorus and I’m trying to remember my seventh grade Spanish vocab, wondering if luz means light or if luce means light. Or is luce Italian? By the second song, I’ve given up on the translation and I glance at my teammates beside me and those in front of me. Some aren’t singing, some are still listening through the headphones, and some have abandoned all concern for perfect translation, raising their hands high and humming along to the music. I glance again at their closed eyes before closing mine too, listening to unfamiliar words combine with familiar worship. 

Story #6: Lost in Translation

Tim Miller's photo

Lost in Translation

The physical space of the inside of the cathedral, the duomo, swallows up the frequent tourists. And I guess that’s what we were then – just tourists. Our first weekend in Italy begins on a Sunday at Mass, and we are unprepared for the temperature of the duomo. At home in the States, it’s appropriate to wear a nice dress to church with maybe a cardigan or a scarf. In Orvieto, one dresses for church as they would for a ski trip: hat, mittens, parka, maybe some long underwear. The lack of indoor heating in the stone buildings require a nice big sweater or two, but the massive duomo is even more arctic than any home or restaurant we’d experienced so far in Italy, only three days into our one hundred and ten day sojourn.

A man opens the door for us, giving a hurried buongiorno as we enter the space. Becky whispers something in my ear but it echoes around us. She hushes and our chilled cheeks blush. We shuffle to the back and sit down in the hard, cold plastic chairs. No one takes off his or her coat.

The priest is absent and older women in parkas continue to filter in through the heavy doors, taking seats in front of us. Metal chair legs screech across ancient stone flooring. Becky tries again to whisper in my ear, probably hoping that the murmurs of the two hundred people around us would drown out her voice this time: “How long do you think this is gonna last?” I turn and shrug, only thinking of every Sunday Mass I attended between birth and age fourteen. Catholic Mass lasted for eternity – and that was when eternity was in English. I pull my scarf around tighter and tuck my nose in, breathing deeply.

Incense. The priest files in with a line of deacons. The procession moves to the altar and the thick smoke of the incense filters out slowly and moves higher and rises into the vaulted ceiling.

A call and response, a prayer, sitting and rising from the plastic chairs that seem oddly modern in the marble and gold plaited cathedral. We follow along and play the part, shivering the whole time. The Lord’s Prayer: Padre nostro (che sei nei cieli sia santificato il tuo nome). The words are lost on me but the pauses, the rhythms, sound familiar to what I’d memorized in Catholic Sunday School. My second grade self stepping into my First Communion dress, Mom quizzing me on the Lord’s Prayer as she fixed the crisp white flowers in my hair. Our Father… who art in heaven. Heart in heaven? Art in heaven? Hello-ed be thy name. I never really cared whether it was art or heart or a new word, heartinheaven. I knew that First Communion meant money and a party – two things that seemed even better than heaven.

The echoes of the Padre Nostro carry on long after the priest continues in the service. Hundreds of amen’s drift throughout the duomo and are lost in the towers, the high windows, and the side chapels. I shuffle my feet, rub my mittened hands together. Is indoor heating really not a thing here? Although we were told of the frozen temperatures, I thought “below zero” would be reserved for walking around outside, not sitting in an enclosed building.

Although this wasn’t just any building – a cathedral, built in the center of this hilltop town to house a relic. I thought relics were just body parts and clothing of Catholic saints – but my mediocre Sunday School knowledge proved wrong. This relic, the “Miracle of Bolsena,” displayed in one of the side chapels, is a cloth stained with the blood of the Eucharist from 1263. An ancient priest didn’t believe in transubstantiation, but when the wine turned to blood in the shape of Christ’s face on the cloth, he instantly became a believer.

My teeth chatter and I clench them – hoping no one can hear. Communion, the Lord’s Supper begins. Our program director motions for us to stay seated. A few students look peeved; annoyed that Catholic communion is reserved for Catholics only – a detail that was briefly mentioned to us during breakfast at the monastery this morning. I wonder if my Catholic baptism and first communion make me special. Maybe I could go up for communion. Fear of the wrath of the older Italian ladies in front of me and the possible judgment of my peers, I remain seated.

The priest and his procession move down the altar and exit. We stretch, shake our frozen arms and legs, then gather together for a quick tour of the side chapel with the relic. We shuffle – in tourist fashion – toward the front and lean in. The tanned cloth is framed on the altar. But, no blood. I look around for another framed cloth. This can’t be it. But I thought… I thought… Everyone else listens to our director’s whispered explanation about the relic and how the blood is stained in the shape of Jesus’ face. I glance over to Becky and then back at Laura. But… where is the blood? Doubt seeps its way from my mind to my face as I feel my eyebrows and my disbelief rise. No one looks at me, though. They all look at the face of Jesus while my blind eyes see nothing but a rag in a frame

Our professor’s whispers carry through the small space and suddenly the guard appears, ready to reprimand the noise in this silent place of reverence. We disperse and pause here and there to admire, appreciate the ancient art. I lap around and approach the Miracle of Bolsena again, squinting harder this time, searching for the connection that I must have overlooked. But everyone else understands, nods, and moves on. More cold air rushes in as our group heaves open the stone doors, ready to leave. I tuck my hands into my coat pocket and follow the believers.

Story #7: Power of Prayer

Power of Prayer

They tell me to “pray about it.” To pray about the decision that will take me from a college athlete to simply a college student. A decision that will free up my afternoons and my Saturdays that would normally be consumed by the never-ending event that is a track meet. To quit or not to quit. I quickly replace “quit” with the softer sounding, “retire.” To retire or not to retire. The answer is simple, they say – Just pray about it. I pray and I pray but my prayers drift into memories of my first track meets with my dad, learning about the discus and discovering that even though I was often picked last for gym class dodge ball, I could at least throw a discus, a shot put, or a javelin. My awkward shyness and fear of contact sport sent me running (well, running slowly) toward a throwing event that was more about individual progress than anything else.

But even throwing the discus requires more athletic coordination than I can handle. Sometimes the combination of the spinning, the torque, the whip, the grip of smooth soles is just too much. It’s too much to remember to switch your feet at the end, to start your spin with a slight hop to get the right trajectory angle at the finish, to release the discus from the index finger. Once it leaves numb hands, the act of watching it fly away as either a success or failure ends in a slight smile or shake of the head.

                 Women’s discus was included in the first Olympics of 1928. My first Olympics was in 1992. My dad would pick me up out of my soft pink crib, cradling my swaddled newborn body down to flick on the summer track and field events, watching­­­­­ Attila Horváth and his 226 foot discus throw as my watery cries subsided at two in the morning. I’m not sure why the sight of a huge Hungarian man and his discus yell calmed my week-old self.

                  So I have to pray about it, as they say. Is my time well spent if I don’t enjoy most of the practices? When does individual glory trump team success? The curse of a sport so individual where it doesn’t really matter if your teammates do well or not and it doesn’t really matter if you have a team. No longer the awkward middle schooler terrified of gym class team sports, I long to work together with teammates on a field, not to travel to track meets only to feel as if I’m competing alone. But in that strange sport of track where you are on a team but you don’t work together to score goals, I am competing alone. I have no one to blame for a bad throw but myself. I’m torn between my retirement and my love for the discus, an event that is more than just an obscure Frisbee-like object to throw at track meets.

I pray about it. I gather advice from almost everyone I’ve even known, searching to hear God’s voice through friends, roommates, and field hockey teammates. Wondering if this is it. Wondering why the decision to leave a sport that I’ve been a part of for so long feels like the hardest decision I’ve had to make.

My pros and cons list is interrupted by the shout of a teammate: Megan, it’s your turn. My fingers are numbed by the thick chill of a Saturday morning in February. My sleeve is yanked down over my fist as I breathe hard little huff huffs on my immovable, bent fingers. Prying them open, I roll back my stiff shoulders and position my feet the way I would set up my fifth grader feet—always the same. Whirling through the motions with little focus on everyone watching me through the clanging iron cage, I release it. Index finger still tingling, I squint. Standing motionless in the circle with my arms limply dangling, I watch as my discus cleanly soars up and arcs down before the clouds hit the tree line.

            Practice ends and I approach my coach with the speech I’ve practiced in my head all morning. I ask to talk to him, my hands shaking in my pockets.  I want to tell him that I think I need to focus on school. I want to say that I’ve made up my mind.

            “You’re not going to continue with the outdoor season, am I right?” Stunned, I look at him but he’s not looking at me, he’s still shoveling snow from the sidewalk next to the track. He tosses the snow away.

            “Oh… well, I wanted to say… no. I mean, you’re right. I’m not going to continue,” I stutter and anxiously look around to see if any of my teammates are listening.

            “To be honest, it doesn’t matter to me if you are on the team or not. You’re talented, but it doesn’t really matter to me.” He continues to shovel the snow away and my jaw drops. Pretending that I wasn’t offended, I quickly nod and choke out an okay, great.

            “Feel free to give us your throwing gloves or throwing shoes, we might have other people who are looking for new shoes on the team.” Once again, I squeak out an okay and continue to stare at him, shoveling. There’s nothing else to say to fill the silence and feeling dismissed, I gather my things, walking across the track and crossing my field hockey field to leave. I choke on the cries that I’ve been holding in for the past month, cries that ruin my perfectly calculated decision to abandon my identity as a thrower – and as a senior in college, leave behind my identity as a college athlete in general. Now I am just… a student. A retired student athlete. I don’t even know what students even do in the afternoons or during Saturdays from dawn to dusk. Do they study? Do they talk about how much free time they have, chuckling as student athletes pass them on the sidewalk. Students that carry both a backpack and a gym bag, decked out in sweatpants but still wearing a nice top.

            I reach the parking lot, feeling the sting of nostalgia for the middle schooler who I had once been when I followed my dad around at track meets, deciding that I could do without teammates, especially when I had a dad to hang out with.

I sit in the car, unsure of where to go from here. I think of my last meet (although I didn’t know it was my last), a few weekends ago: I exited the throwing ring, disappointed with my throw, and shuffled over to my dad. He smiles, squeezing my shoulders. I tell him that I forgot to switch my feet, and also to spin quickly when I started my second turn. He hugs me tight and says, good effort; we’ll get ‘em next time. I put the key in the ignition and continue to cry, frustrated at my decision to abandon my throwing shoes in exchange for time better spent on work, on leisure, and on friends. A decision that was supposed to be easier because I prayed about it.