Find a group of people who challenge and inspire you; spend a lot of time with them, and it will change your life.
~Amy Poehler
When I relocated from the warmth of the South back to the Northeast in 2010, I worried that I wouldn’t enjoy running without the gravel paths and early-morning ripples on the water of the Tennessee River to nudge me along. The bike trail in Knoxville was directly outside my front door. The gravel path was dotted with beautiful oak trees and benches for relaxing. Experiencing spring on that path, passing those blooming dogwoods, running under the blue skies and explosions of pink, “was a godly experience,” as our pastor in Tennessee liked to say.
My first few runs back in Delaware brought the visions and scents of my childhood rushing back. I couldn’t resist stopping to pick up pinecones to smell their sticky-scented rough edges. But running didn’t fill me with joy the way it had in Tennessee. Gone was the tree-lined gravel path, replaced by the main road. And the honking horns of SUVs replaced the quiet of the river and dogwoods.
I trained for a half marathon with my husband, hoping that training for a race would reignite my passion for running. After completing the half marathon, I found I still mourned the long runs and warm winters of the South. One day, a mom from my children’s school approached me. “I see you running in the morning. A few of the moms have a running group if you are interested.”
I perked up. Running solo had always been who I was, but lately I was finding the solitude, well, a little too solo. “That sounds great. When do you run?”
“At 5:30 a.m., so we can get home and get the kids up and ready for school.” I spit out my drink as I grappled with the notion of waking up pre-dawn to run.
She looked at me. “There are actually two groups of us, though. One group goes before drop-off, and one goes after drop-off at 8:30. You should call Deb. She runs after the morning drop-off.”
I contacted Debbie and she welcomed me into her group with open arms. “We meet at my house after drop-off on Monday,” she said. I arrived in her kitchen and met Jennifer, Liz, and Michelle. I became excited to run again, having found camaraderie in these amazing women.
Over time, members of the early-morning run suffered losses: spouses and children ailed, and some lost loved ones. At this point, the “before-drop-off group,” and “after-drop-off group” bonded in spirit. We came together to host birthdays, and one friend hosted a Running Girls Cookie Exchange over the holidays. These gatherings to commemorate our good times were essential in keeping up people’s spirits during hard times. And while I knew how important our support was, I couldn’t honestly know what the support provided — until I needed it myself.
Our running group always became a bit disjointed in the summer, due to travel schedules and kids’ camps. So it was that I found myself in New York City on a sweltering day in July 2017. My son was attending a one-day camp in the city, and my whole family had accompanied him to make a weekend of it. We were sitting at lunch in our hotel when my husband got a phone call. He raised an eyebrow and gestured with his head to the corner and I knew what that meant: “Not in front of the kids.”
We walked outside. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The police are at our house.”
My husband spoke into the phone. “Roanoke County?” My mother lived in Roanoke County.
I looked at my husband standing against the door to the hotel, the sun glistening on his tan nose.
“My mother’s dead?” I asked.
He nodded. My memory is spotty after that, the way one’s hearing works only intermittently after a loud blast. A kind concierge helped walk me into the security office in the front to give me privacy. I remember calling my brother and making sure he wasn’t driving when I delivered the news. “Sudden cardiac arrest,” I relayed.
I wandered down to the lobby and started making phone calls away from the kids. One thing I learned is that if you don’t keep your iPhone contact list current, and you accidentally send strangers a text saying “I am so sorry to tell you this, but my mom died,” you will find kindness still lingers in the hearts of many. I received several text messages telling me that, while I had the wrong number, these strangers were sorry for my loss.
I also sent a group text to my running group. “I am in New York. I am okay. Well, I think I am okay, but my mom died. I don’t know where to have the funeral. I don’t know how to have a funeral.”
Immediately, my husband started fielding calls from my worried running girls asking how I was and what they could do.
When we arrived home the following day, I made arrangements for the funeral to be held in the chapel of my high school, an all-girls’ Catholic school that my mother had loved. But as to how to make the other funeral arrangements, I was mystified.
Then a funeral program with several options for readings and psalms arrived in my e-mail inbox. My running friend Michelle had put it together and sent it to me. Once I made the choices, and selected songs and readings for my mother’s funeral, my friend Liz picked up the draft and had it printed for the service. When I called my friend Jennifer to ask for help with the menu, she said not to worry about it. Then she proceeded to find a caterer in Maryland, planned the menu, and arranged the food delivery with the school where the funeral was being held.
I was in such a fog those first few days that I didn’t even notice Liz picking up a box of photos from my husband. But once I arrived at the funeral, framed pictures of my mother were placed everywhere. Liz had blown some up and made collages of others. No one had asked her to; she just did it.
I was hosting a dinner for my mother’s friends the evening before the funeral, in D.C., two hours away from Delaware where we live. When I asked my friend Carolyn if she would come, completely forgetting that Carolyn is a doctor who had a busy schedule the evening of the dinner and the day of the funeral, she didn’t hesitate. “Of course, I will be there.” She canceled two days of patient appointments to support me.
Everyone in my running group came to my mother’s funeral. They spent four hours in the car to support me that day. And when I returned home, dinner showed up at the house for weeks. My running friend Lisa, a photographer, scanned all of the photos of my mother because I mentioned to her that I didn’t have any negatives.
Running was the constant in my life after my mother died. My running girls held my shoulders on the days that I would start crying while I ran, sometimes doubled over with grief on the middle of a gravel path. I miss the beautiful views in Tennessee, but I have learned that it isn’t the distance, the view or the pace that makes running great; it is the people running by your side.
— Helen Boulos —