I’ve never been quite comfortable inside Sunflower Outdoor and Bike in Lawrence, Kan. My best friend Cam worked in the bike part of the store, and the way he talked about it and the general atmosphere of the shop made me feel like this place was more than just a store that wanted my money; It was more credible, more elite, more… something. Better than every other bike store in the area. Whatever it was that set Sunflower apart, it was made very clear to me — though now I’m not sure how, or by whom — that I was not the target customer.

For a while, this bothered me. I hated feeling uncomfortable delivering a sandwich or stopping in to say hi to Cam. I hated feeling like any question I’d ask would later be cause for ridicule. My worst fear was that I’d leave and Cam would get shit for what I didn’t know.

So I stayed quiet. I’m sure his co-workers were aware that I was the girl who sometimes brought cookies, sandwiches or the dog. But I had no personality. No “me.”

When Cam and I stopped talking (Don’t ask.), I started actively avoiding Sunflower. Well, I guess actively is a little strong — I really didn’t have any reason to go in there anyway. This avoidance was working out pretty well until three things happened:

1. I started gaining weight because my roommates bring ice cream, cake and other things that taste good but are bad for you into the house, and I just can’t resist.

2. I rode in a car to Axtell, Kan., and back and fell in love with small country roads.

3. Gas hit $4 a gallon.

These three factors — along with some deep-seated emotional issues — combined and created an intense longing to be on a bicycle. A road bike. For hours. Every day.

It took me about two months to figure out where the money would come from and work up the courage to walk into the bike shop without Cam and ask for help. I wasn’t sure I should or could buy a bike without his advice, but another friend — Andrew — hooked me up with his friend Jesse who talked me through the first decisions about buying a bike.

Even though Jesse was polite and helpful, I was hesitant to ask all of the questions I was labeling in my head as “stupid.” Should I feel like I’m pushing my butt off the back of the seat? Because I do. Why should I buy a women’s bike instead of a non-gender-specific bike? Is there a difference that I’m going to notice between the Trek and the Specialized? Does it come in green? I debated with myself as to whether the embarrassment of having a question come back to haunt me (or Andrew) was worth not knowing. And I figured I could find some answers online when I got home.

During the three days it took for me to choose a bike, work up the courage to slap my credit card down on the counter and have the bike adjusted to fit my body, my view of the shop — and the people who work there — changed.

Jesse talked me through deciding how much money I should logically spend (even though the $1,700 bike was pretty impressive). He explained why and where I wanted carbon fiber components. He smiled. A lot. And then he introduced me to Thomas.

Thomas made hundreds of little adjustments to a bike I didn’t end up buying, and helped me pick out a helmet that comfortably fits my ponytail. He even put up with me bringing Kate along to help pick out the right “bike outfit.” And he told me I was wrong to feel like I didn’t deserve to be wearing a “bike outfit.” He explained that my butt would thank me for wearing padded shorts and that every cyclist — even amateur — should wear proper clothing. And he smiled. A lot.

Today I asked Jesse to be My Space friends with me (well, with my band), and tomorrow I will stop by the shop to deliver 12-packs of PBR for him and Thomas (because Andrew says that’s what makes a good tip at a bike shop). I might even be wearing my “bike outfit” when I stop in. Because I deserve it.

I’m pretty sure these guys know me as more than just “the girl who delivers sandwiches.” Now, I might just be “the girl who rides a Specialized Allez.” I like that. And I’m pretty excited that I know them well enough to know that they won’t make fun of me next time I ask (what is to me) the most important question: Does it come in green?

As I was contemplating what to write about this week, my mind kept drifting back to the Fourth of July. I don’t usually do anything special for the Fourth. In fact, last year I was in Nicaragua. How unpatriotic. However, a few years ago I had an interesting experience on the Fourth of July that continues to have a profound impact on me even today. My cousin Tim was in the Army at the time, and was about to ship out to Iraq. So, my dad’s side of the family decided to have a little get-together, as Tim was home on leave for a couple of weeks. I didn’t think that I would be able to make it because of my responsibilities at the summer camp where I worked, so I didn’t even bother to ask. Plus, it would have been about a six-hour drive from Austin to Wichita Falls, Texas, and I would have had to turn around and come right back the same day. However, as I was talking to my sister the night before, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to at least ask my boss. He said “yes”.

The next thing I know, I’m in my car driving to Wichita Falls, and nobody in my family knows I’m coming. That made it even more fun. I am so glad that I was able to go, because it was great to see everybody. There was swimming, ping-pong, burgers, soda, and lots of laughing. But as wonderful as it was to get to see my parents and sister, aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents, I am writing about something else that happened that day. I really think that the reason I was able to make the trip was not so that I could see my family. Something very interesting happened that leads me to believe that my little road trip was more of a divine appointment.

The route that I chose to take goes right by, although not actually through, Dublin, Texas. For those who don’t know, Dublin is the home of the best tasting Dr Pepper known to man because they use Imperial Sugar, as opposed to saccharin (I guess). The point is, it’s worth stopping for, and they only sell it with any regularity within a 30-mile radius of Dublin. Stephenville is within that perimeter, so when I hit the city limit sign, I pull over at the first gas station I see to have a little slice of heaven.

As I am going into the gas station, I notice a guy and a girl packing backpacks as if they are about to leave for a hike. I really didn’t think much of it at this point, because all I could think about was the sweet, fizzly goodness of which I was about to partake. As I got back into my car and began my journey again, however, I saw them walking along the road, and the guy had his thumb in the air. I immediately felt something deep down inside telling me to give them a ride, but I didn’t listen and just kept on driving. I even turned my music up a little bit to help me stop thinking about it. It made me uncomfortable, but it wouldn’t go away. I had the distinct feeling that I would be letting someone down if I just kept going. Then I told myself that I really did need to keep going, so I could get there on time; but nobody was expecting me. I was running out of excuses.

So finally, about six or seven miles down the road, I turn around to go and find them. I’m still trying to talk myself out of it the whole time, but I saw them before I could convince myself otherwise. Maybe they only need to get to the next town, right? That wouldn’t be so bad. Well, that was not the case. They were trying to get to Colorado, and would go as far as I was willing to take them. So here we go. I tell them I am going to Wichita Falls, and they say, “Great!” and off we go. They don’t smell very good, and I kind of feel guilty that I don’t have any more Dr Pepper to offer them. It didn’t really matter, though, because the girl was so excited that I had a CD player, and asked if she could put in one of her CDs. They tell me their names are Mark and Paula, and as we talk they begin to tell me their story. They had recently been married, and had journeyed all the way from Oregon to Texas so that Mark could ask Paula’s father for her hand in marriage. Although it sounded like a long trip to make without any means of transportation, it was obvious that Paula felt very romanced by the whole notion, and the couple was very much in love. Now they were heading to Colorado to find Paula’s sister, and I was taking them much further than they had expected to get that week. I found out that Mark fought in Desert Storm, and that Paula’s favorite band is Staind. They told me that they are going to write a book about their adventures, and I would have an entire chapter dedicated to me.

Then our conversation turned towards religion: Paula practiced Wicca, and Mark was all about Karma. I had never met anyone that practiced Wicca, but it sounded like she was more of a casual practitioner. Mark’s views were a hodgepodge of various religious philosophies, with no real coherence. So I asked them what they thought about the person of Jesus Christ, and the Bible. They had both had bad experiences with churches, and it was very evident as we discussed this topic. The pastor of Mark’s church when he was a child had embezzled money from the church treasury, and Paula had always felt judged by Christians. It seemed that most of the Christians they had come into contact with were not very Christ-like at all.

That thought breaks my heart and scares me to death, all at the same time. It saddens me because I know that there are probably millions of people who have somehow been hurt, and consequently pushed away, by the actions of someone claiming to be a Christian. It frightens me because I know that I have been that person before. I wanted so badly for Mark and Paula to be able to see what I see, and feel what I feel. I wanted them to experience the joy and the peace that I know. But I also realize that there is nothing that I could have said that would have changed their minds. I can’t come up with some deep, philosophical thought that will cause them to say, “Oh my gosh, Nic, you are so right!” I’m not that smart or insightful. All that I can do is love people the way that Christ did. So now I pray for Mark and Paula. I prayed that they would make it to Colorado and find Paula’s sister. I continue to pray that the Lord reveals Himself to them, and that they find truth.

As I pray, I wonder why I don’t do this more often. Many times I have opted not to talk to that person sitting next to me in class, or standing in line in front of me at the grocery store. What am I so afraid of? Maybe not having the right answers, maybe seeming fanatical. For the most part, I just don’t want to get myself into an uncomfortable situation, kind of like the thought of picking up two random people in a small west Texas town. I worry about my own comfort level a little too much when I should be loving others. I have already proven that I don’t have all of the right answers and let’s face it, Jesus himself was a fanatic. He fanatically reached out to and loved those that the world despised and rejected, which is something I wish I did a little more often. So the next time I feel myself getting comfortable in my faith, I think I’ll take a little road trip, and see what happens.

I’m that sweaty guy you hate to stand next to in the grocery store — quietly engaged, sliding produce down the smooth rubber conveyor belt, patches of dark moisture clinging my shirt to my back and chest. You don’t say anything for fear of being rude. It’s not like I’m reeking up the line, but there’s something gross about sweat. You may try to say something to grant personal closure, offer some remark about the heat in hope that I will respond; usually you just keep your mouth shut and wonder why the hell some man has to stand next to you and drip like an ice sculpture in Flagstaff.

Since the fuel price increase I’m reluctant to do anything that involves driving. An advantage of living in the heart of a city is the proximity of goods and services. It makes me cringe when I hear others commute a mile to work, or fire up the Accord to drive three blocks for a six-pack. I bike when I can drive; I run when I can walk. Nuts to public transports.

I will not argue with those for whom time is of the essence. We all have places to be, things to do. My occupation gives me certain freedoms (and uncertain poverty). I can make my schedule to coincide with travel and take my time to get where I need to be. But it took me 15 minutes to ride my bike five miles through rush-hour traffic last week. By car, that same trip took 20.

The lure of the buses and trains would be tempting if I lived anywhere but Atlanta. Pubic transportation in my city is a running joke that no one finds amusing. The subway flays in four primary directions and if you happen to live outside those paths then you must travel by bus to find an artery. By the time you’ve worked your way through the rambling catacombs that constitute the metro area, you’ve consumed two hours to travel 10 miles. It’s little wonder that, with such a reliable system, most locals prefer to drive with the AC on full blast.

The combination of oil prices and an inadequate public transportation system led me to my current modes of transportation. I began riding and walking short distances, mostly errands to the hardware store and frequent beer runs. With every week I extended my distance, covering miles of asphalt for simple tasks. At four bucks a gallon, a trip to my favorite gear shop adds $8 to the tab. I relish in the distance covered as well as the distain given to me by motorists trapped in their cars at various intersections. If it weren’t for the cargo capacity, I’d sell that stupid truck and invest in a handlebar basket. Maybe even streamers.

In truth, I miss driving. I miss the open air and the bustle of the interstate as I sped down its cramped lanes. My parked truck now sits for days on end without use. Its windshield is glazed with pollen and dirt from neglect. There’s a sense of nostalgia when I have to fire up the engine for a road trip, and in the back of my head I get the sense I should be dusting off some ancient relic, not starting my trusted Chevy.

Except for the occasional long trip or heavy grocery haul, manpower is my foremost mode of travel. Arriving in public venues with a soaking shirt and gasping lungs is not the ideal appearance, but the image has begun to grow on me. The fuel savings and the lack of toxic emissions help dull the strain on my aching muscles and frequent laundry loads. Besides, I’d like to think of myself as environmentally conscious, and a person cannot rally the cry for conservation If they chicken out on simple reduction.

Tomorrow, I’ll suit up and haul myself across town for nearly 10 miles to attend a small business meeting with my advisor. The pros outweigh the cons, and frankly, the luxury of driving is becoming more of a commercial façade. It’s all exhaust clouds around the silver lining, and I spend too much of my life waiting for left turns. If there was ever a good time to stop using a car, then it’s now.

Tomorrow’s trip is one I wouldn’t have dreamed of six months ago, but now it seems almost necessary. I just pray the deodorant holds up.

One of the best statements I’ve come across recently is Rob Bell’s observation that two of the most comforting words in the English language are “me too.” (Rob Bell is a fairly hip, young Christian pastor with a knack for connecting with the kids these days.)

I had a “me too” moment recently that’s left me simultaneously comforted, re-energized and challenged to action. A little background: I’m a young Catholic working in campus ministry, and I focus on social justice issues. That puts me out of the mainstream of the Catholic Church, and I struggle greatly with many of the Church’s teachings: on homosexuality, on women’s roles in the church, on birth control, on the exclusivity of the Eucharist, to name a few. I’ve been feeling isolated, lately, trying to figure out why I’m still part of a church with which I’m so often at odds.

But recently, the campus where I work held a gathering of Jesuit social ministers — Catholics around the country who, in one form or another, have dedicated their lives to issues of justice, standing on the side of the marginalized. As more than 200 of us came together, I found myself surrounded by people struggling and hoping in some of the same ways that I am. These were people with whom I could share my struggles in faith and hear a comforting, “Me too.”

On the final day of the conference, a Cuban woman approached the lectern in our chapel to give a theological reflection. As she spoke with a voice strong with passion and conviction, I felt my heart stirring to say, “Me too.”

As she said she believed that theology must come from the common people, I said, “Me too.”

As she said that she felt that theology is not just something we believe, but something we do, I said, “Me too.”

As she said she does not believe that God can solely be defined as male, white, American, young or physically able, I said, “Me too.”

As she said that she believed that love implies an absolute demand for justice, I said, “Me too.”

As she said that we cannot be about God if we are not about one another, I said, “Me too.”

It was as though this woman was articulating a confession of faith that I hadn’t realized existed in me. She spoke to why I believe, why I stay with the Catholic Church, why God is so much bigger than any one theology that we can ascribe to. My theology is only an approximation, but it is my best effort at connecting with God.

After she spoke, my neighbor, a campus minister from Kansas, looked at me and said, simply, “Wow.” I nodded a speechless, “Me too.”

In that moment, I was near tears by the power of the collective “me too” in the applause that rang for minutes after her speech. I’m reaffirmed that I am not alone in the struggle. I’m reminded that there are people out there who can articulate the best that I aspire to in my faith. And I believe that as we connect and strive for right relationships with one another, and share in our challenges in our faith and our dreams for our communities, each day becomes a little less ordinary.

I almost finished The New York Times crossword puzzle yesterday.

Almost.

1 across got me

And 21 across.

And 49 down.

But still, it was the closest I have ever come to finishing the puzzle. I’m not a subscriber to The Times, so often I forget to pick one up and thumb through to the puzzle page until Thursday or Friday. At that point I take a quick scan over some of the clues and promptly declare defeat.

You see, the puzzle gets harder each day starting with Monday. I am a Monday puzzle person. I can’t even finish the Monday puzzle. I know I don’t belong anywhere near Thursday. I’m not even ready for Tuesday.

Really intense Times puzzle people have told me the only real way to do a puzzle is in pen; I use a pencil. With pen, I’d be forced to admit it clearly on the paper when I’m wrong. I wouldn’t be able to erase mistakes; I’d have to write over it — distinctly — in pen.

I’m not ready for that kind of commitment.

I write my to-do lists in Sharpie. I write notes in my students’ agendas in pen (lest they try to erase some of their own errors). But my crossword puzzle errors are often too great and too frequent for me to be comfortable with blue or black ink clouding the little boxes that grace the bottom, left-hand side of the page. I’m not comfortable with the number of errors that can occur when I try to pull random facts out of the air. I want a chance to change my mind.

Yesterday when I nearly finished the crossword puzzle, I was writing in a black ink pen that I had snagged off my best friend’s desk before I hopped on a plane back to Houston. Had I realized I would be spending a five-hour layover in Atlanta with the Monday crossword, I probably would have stolen a pencil instead.

I was left with the choice of staring out the window for five hours or facing the looming blank spaces on the page with my newly acquired Bic.

As I got started, I was surprised to find the number of random facts stuck back in my brain. How did I know that Mark Spitz was a swimming phenomenon at the 1972 Olympics? (45 across). Or that RCA is Nipper the dog’s company? (43 across). The only thing I do remember from trigonometry in college is that COS is a Trig ratio: Abrr. (10 down). I honestly have no idea how I ever learned that that an Ecu is a bygone French coin (6 down), but there it was coming to mind after my fourth pass of the puzzle.

Before I knew it, I had just four blanks left. Although I had been forced to go back and cross out a few of my answer choices for other options as I got farther in, doing the puzzle in pen actually made me better, more focused. Knowing that I didn’t want my puzzle to turn out looking like the artwork of a 5-year-old plastered on the refrigerator, I took my time. Slowed down. Didn’t quit, but didn’t jump to conclusions. It’s amazing what you can remember when you look at something 10 different ways or 20 different times.

Sometimes the answer is right in front of you; you just have to take the time to see it.

I know that I’m more comfortable with writing my to-do lists in Sharpie and my parent notes in pen because the things I write there are things I know I can control. (Though I don’t always have control over unruly fifth graders.) The puzzle and the information placed in it are things I can’t control. I can’t even fathom where they come up with half the items that appear on the pages every day. Without that control, I’m less willing to take chances, make a guess or give myself the time to be stumped and really have to think. I’m less willing to write in pen.

I made a special trip to a coffee shop today to buy myself the Tuesday edition of The Times. I wanted to know how successful my closest puzzle finish had actually been. Save for the four I left blank, they were all correct. Every last one of them. Even the ugly penned-over ones whose correct answers had come to me three hours into the puzzle.

I checked my answers, cut out my puzzle and hung it on the fridge. This is an accomplishment I want to remember. Then I grabbed my stolen pen and the Tuesday puzzle and got to work.

It’s time I realize that I’m only a Monday person because I’m afraid to fail on Tuesdays. I’m only a pencil person because I too often lack the courage it takes to write in pen.

Judging from the light filtering through the thin walls of our tent, I could tell it was early. I dared to move as stiffness and pain shot through my body. The packed dirt had provided no cushioning for us, and I had forgotten our pillows. (Thank goodness my husband is forgiving, and that I am innovative with a backpack of clothes, which I divvied up into two pillow-size piles the night before).

“My neck and back are killing me,” he croaked with a chuckle.

I nodded in agreement. Dew plopped from the trees above onto our tent, rolling down quietly to the ground. We listened to Sugar Creek, swollen well past its usual height, rolling just as faithfully over the rocks as it had all night, lulling us to sleep. We could make out small shadows inching across our tent walls. Cody pointed to one that looked like a caterpillar. I smiled, and we watched it lazily make its way around.

“WAKE UP, CAMPERS!!” I heard our friend Paul shout from his tent. We could hear giggling and sleeping bags rustling.

“SHUT! UP!” Chuck yelled back.

And all was quiet and still for a couple more hours as we ignored Paul and slept in as much as we possibly could. I loved not having a schedule. I loved that I didn’t have to look at my watch, didn’t have to “dress to impress,” didn’t have to be clean or ready for anything in particular. Out here, nothing mattered but the stillness and sharp beauty that surrounded us. I was free from the stifling hard-walled box of my schedule, responsibilities and never-ending Post-it notes and lists.

I never camped as a kid. I’m not sure if it’s because we never asked to camp or if my parents weren’t campers. Either way, as I got older, I felt I had missed out a little bit.

I remember feeling deeply settled when I was outdoors as a young girl. Our home was up against the woods with trees surrounding our house like a horseshoe. My brothers and I made trails zigzagging through the trees as well as a dirt bunker, complete with a plywood board over the top with grass planted on it. It was invisible to the unassuming eye. I would sit in the bunker, essentially in the dirt, and watch life continue around me: Dad mowing the lawn, Mom cleaning the pool, my big brother throwing walnuts at my little brother and my little brother crying or playing in the sandbox.

In those years, the seasons provided unique and changing backdrops to the outside world which I took the time to heed. In the fall, I would let the slow motion of the clouds carry my eyes in patterns as I listened to each dry leaf rustle and sway to the ground. The capricious summers offered the glee of a summer afternoon and the startling suddenness of a storm. Winter spawned vast sheets of snow that seemed to glitter like pools of diamonds under a full moon.

I remember praying often during these seasons because nature was always equated with prayer. Maybe it’s because nature always seems to be more of a friend than a setting. It seems to be the manifested image of a God who appreciates rest, peace and beauty. If I was feeling frazzled or stifled, I could go outside and instantly have space. If I was feeling fragmented, I could find the boundless presence of the sky. If I was feeling unbalanced and fragile, I could find the steadfastness of the rocks and the trees.

Of course, as I got older, I got busier. There was no time for quiet moments outside because there were more important things to do. My clock replaced the sky. My car replaced my walks. My planner replaced the guidance of the sun. My rigid four walls cubed my falsely-lit space in which my thoughts hung around my head like anvils on strings instead of flying up into God’s hands.

Those times before that had provided so much for me passed, unnoticed and unappreciated, as if they had never existed. Over time, I realized that the less I allowed myself to connect with the dirty and beautiful fundamentals of the world outside, the less I allowed myself to connect with the One who made me from it.

So camping takes me back. It’s a way to be a kid again and to grasp the child-like faith that my heavy adult heart sometimes craves. It’s a way to watch bugs innocently crawl along the walls, to see the nighttime sky all night long, to eat gooey sugary midnight snacks and to watch the story of a sunrise.

I’ll take the sticky sweat, dirty feet and fingernails, smoky-smelling hair and the no-makeup naked face any day. It’s how I was made anyway.