Running is Mental

Live Slow

2012-01-22T00:07:00.000-06:00

They were friends of long duration.

You could see that in the handshake which lingered longer than greeting required. Their mutual gaze betrayed a lifetime of shared experience. Unrestrained smiles communicated absolute acceptance.

One lived between two 90° turns in the county road that wound its way through the rural community between their respective homes. The other would catch a glimpse of his friend at the mailbox or on the porch as the well worn pickup crept through the turn. Like a horse that already knows and anticipates the way, the vehicle had a habit of turning off the paved road and easing into the dirt drive.

I’d find them there on occasion, leaning against the pickup bed, engaged in conversation. They might be talking about when to plow and plant the wheat, or if there was time to get the hay cut and raked before the next rain, or when the cows were expected to birth their calves.

Theirs was a language born of a love for the land, the blessings it supplied, and a way of life in many ways incomprehensible to this city boy. The earthiness of it all was no less intriguing for my substantial and manifest ignorance.

The temptation to abandon errands, pull over, and spend a few minutes with the pair was strong. I resisted the urge mostly out of reluctance to intrude.

Their roadside meetings were unscheduled and conducted with no apparent agenda. There was no set time for adjournment. You’d see them there, engrossed in neighborly camaraderie.

Both were content to let the conversation meander between them and to follow where it led. While speaking freely and fully, important matters had a way of becoming clearer. Life had a way of setting its own agenda. The effortlessness of it all left me envious.

They seemed to understand better than most that wasting a portion of the day together creates a place where good things have a chance to happen. The time they shared was not an expendable commodity.

The rapport between them was born of days traveling through the best and the worst life offered. They watched families and the community grow up together and grew closer in the process. Tragedy and hardship only served to strengthen the bond between them. In a time of need you could depend on one being there for the other.

Business was conducted on the side of the road with a promise and a handshake. Commitments made while looking a man in the eye with his hand in your grasp are free of the kind of loopholes that legal contracts contain.

The necessities of friendship were more compelling than the differences between them. They worked diligently to preserve the relationship because it meant more to them than being right or nursing a grudge. Challenging one was a mistake unless you were prepared to take on both. Opposing points of view didn’t keep them from being allies.

At times they’d engage in conversation about politics or other controversial topics. Each asserted their separate convictions and went home to carefully consider the other’s point of view. Experience and a powerful respect for one another demanded no less.

Both friends are gone now. Some would say that the day of investing generous amounts of time and effort on a neighbor’s behalf passed on with them. There’s little use in grieving the demise of that which is no longer practical. That was then. This is now.

But not me.

When driving past those two sharp turns, the friends who met between them come to mind. Memory testifies that there was a time when life moved at a slower pace. People took time to stop and talk. They grew together and the things that matter became clearer.

And somehow, life was richer for the time invested in those unscheduled meetings with no set agenda and no set time for adjournment. Our unwillingness to pause and connect with one another on some meaningful level is just another way of saying that we don’t have time to live fully.

From time to time I pass the place where friends paused and conducted the business of life. It's a way of life worth preserving. A vow is made to never forget what was learned from their example.

Live slow.

Help for the Hurts of Life

2011-11-04T10:57:00.000-06:00

In my childhood it was a thing of beauty. Burnt orange metal flake paint, high rise handle bars, caliper brakes, long banana seat and sissy bar combined to create a machine of superlative coolness.

Mine had five speeds. Or was it three? I’m not sure now.

What I do remember is that the horizons of my world expanded the day Mom and Dad brought it home. The confines of our small Saint Augustine lawn no longer held me captive. A bike provides a measure of independence for a boy. Blissful hours were spent in two-wheeled adventures with minimal supervision.

We rode shirtless up and down summer sun scorched streets. Tree shaded dirt trails in a patch of woods provided a place where we raced to see who could complete the loop the quickest. We built progressively larger ramps of packed earth and executed Evel Knievel style jumps to see who could remain airborne the longest.

Were he still alive, Knievel would testify that when you go big, sometimes you come down hard. Fortunately, none of us shattered any bones or suffered serious injury as a result of our escapades.

We did return home on a regular basis with a variety of hurts, mostly skinned elbows and knees. Mom cleaned our wounds gently and methodically, removing any adhering dirt and gravel.

I dreaded the initial stinging of her loving ministrations. The antiseptic wiping and application of ointment created an agony difficult to stifle. Receiving help meant enduring further discomfort. Still, that momentary hurt promoted permanent healing.

We encounter our share of bumps and scrapes while making our way through this life. Some of those wounds are external. Others are internal. The latter are always more difficult to heal.

Some hurts are self-inflicted as a result of choosing our own way rather than following our Creator’s purpose. Others are the result of bad choices others make. Hurt people often hurt people. Either way, the injuries we suffer are real.

The One who made us tells us to cast all our care on him because he cares for us. In our hearts we know his healing help is needed. Even so, we are reluctant to let him do that cleansing work within.

Henri Nouwen said it this way: "Praying is no easy matter. It demands a relationship in which you allow someone other than yourself to enter into the very center of your person, to see there what you would rather leave in darkness, and to touch there what you would rather leave untouched."

King David found the courage to seek God’s help. His prayer in Psalm 139:23-24 is one of the great statements of surrender to be found in all of scripture.

“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”

So perhaps the woundedness incurred through daily living should be committed to the One who gives us life. Granting him full access ensures that the remedy for what ails us will be applied. The cleansing work he performs is anything but comfortable. Once the initial pain is past, the desired healing will follow.

A loving Father offers help for the hurts of life. Time with him brings wholeness to our fractured lives.

I need that help on a regular basis.

I Stand Corrected

2011-10-08T23:51:00.000-05:00

Those who wanted a record breaking summer got their wish.

The season's dying gasps resulted in three days of 103, 106, and 107 degree heat. That was enough to break the old record plus one or two to grow on. We were close to the century mark again on September 30.

Should have known. If you don't like the weather in Texas then just wait awhile. It'll change.

Nights are cooler now. Darkness comes earlier. Fall, though tardy, has arrived.

Backyards where children screamed bloody murder while immersed in poolside water wars are conspicuously silent now. All good things eventually come to an end.

Muffled music and conversation still float over a privacy fence as another yard is passed. Adults spend these last glorious weekends together in the company of friends before the arrival of cold weather. Most will soon be hibernating in heated houses until spring's warmth returns.

Something sizable rustles elbow high in the bushes along the sidewalk. Though startled, I never break stride. Nothing good could come from investigating its origin. Curiosity is not always a virtue. Best we move on in our predetermined trajectories.

A patchwork of clouds drifts overhead. Radiant moonlight adds a silver highlight to irregular edges. They spread across the sky like randomly distributed pieces of an unsolved jigsaw puzzle awaiting assembly by some greater hand.

Occupants of a car scream simultaneously as they pass on the back portion of the run. Why does a lone runner provoke that primal cry from those who barrel by?

Maybe it’s the “lone” portion of the equation rather than the “runner” that elicits their bellowing bombardment. Or perhaps wispy white hair says that this old man is no threat to the vitality of youth.

Nothing good could come from acknowledging the commotion they create. The best way to repel hostile harassment lobbed from moving vehicles is to focus on the goal before me while they speed on their way.

Through the years I've learned to listen for their approach. Mind and body deny them the involuntary panic they intend. My response is unaltered forward motion and a smile.

The last corner is negotiated and the bright orb of Venus peaks through a break in the clouds. She hovers there as though guiding me back to the car and the end of this night’s exertion.

I’m not sure what purpose this blog will serve in the days ahead. But I am running again.

And that’s a really good thing.

Ain't Settin' No Records Round Here

2011-09-05T15:56:00.019-05:00

My wife and I arrived in Texas on the tail end of the summer of 1980 when heat records of legendary proportions was set round these parts. Back then the temperature hovered at 113 degrees fer more days than folks wanted to count.

But I reckon they had to.

And because they was a countin’, that’s the summer by which all others is measured round here. The diablo’s breath wind enveloped you in a skin scorchin’ and soul roastin’ embrace that seared the life right out of you.

It was a might uncomfortable.

People’s eyes git wide and their voice gits passionate when talkin’ bout it. Never been a summer like it before. Never been one like it since. Appears the current one comes in a distant second bout any way you kin measure.

Which is unsettlin’ fer some folks.

You see, the summer of 2011 may fall jest shy of breakin’ the record for the most days of over 100 degree heat. The record stands at 69. The current count sits at 68. Close but no sarsaparilla.

What's got their undergarments in a wad?

By breakin' the record at least we’d have something to show for this summer of percolating perspiration. They fear the sustained sizzlin’ sufferin’ we’ve endured will be fer naught if the record ain’t broken.

After all, they’ve already forfeited the record for the longest strang of consecutive days over 100 degrees. They don’t take kindly to bein’ denied the record for the most total days at 100 plus at the same time.

Seems a lot to ask.

That would purdy much strip them of any braggin’ rights for survivin’ the summer of 2011. So some of ’em are a rootin' for more hot weather.

That’s right. Some people are hankerin’ fer thangs to be worse than they are soes they can talk about it longer. Some say that’s only human nature.

Crazy talk from people left out in the sun too long if you ask me.

I take no pride in the swelterin’ meltdown we’ve incurred. There ain’t nothing noble about the witherin’ draught clingin’ like a plague to the Lone Star state. Conditions are bone dry and wildfire ripe. Everythin’ is crispy brown and water starved. Whole communities are sufferin', not just the livestock.

It ain’t paradise, people.

Somewhere in the comprehensive annals of meteorological statistics there lurks a summer with the fewest days of over 100 degree temperature. Why in tarnation don’t anyone promote that prodigious milestone?

The record I'm a covetin' is fer a Texas summer where there ain’t a single solitary day of 100+ heat. Now that would be somethin’ to be skinnin' and grinnin' about. Cause for a gen-u-ine celebration.

Most of us are forced to confess that this ain’t the worst summer on record. But it has been a rough one.

Fer that reason, I’ve been a waitin’ till the temps moderated a might before movin’ back into this runnin’ thang. My outin’s this past weekend was two 3.5 mile walks. The first order of business is to lose some weight while tonin’ muscles gone unchallenged fer far too long.

What’ll take even longer is fer the lungs to develop enough aerobic capacity to sustain motion through the neighborhood. By the time that’s accomplished cool air will be caressin’ the body on the nightly excursions. That’ll feel good all over better than jest about any place else.

After the heat of this summer, I’ve made a commitment not to do no complainin’ about the cold weather that follers while runnin’ this winter. Even if we was to set the record for the most days below freezin’.

You have my word on that

Guitars and Those Who Love Them

2011-04-20T03:06:00.017-05:00

There’s a bond between guitars and those who love them. Most of us need help expressing feelings and interpreting experience. A good instrument is a powerful accomplice in that process. Whether the music is sad or recounts sweet memories, judgment is never incurred for being brutally honest.

The company of a guitar helps sort through life’s difficulties. Music has a way of soothing irritations, both large and small. Sessions together are like private conversations between close friends. Joys set to music are magnified. Troubles diminish when condensed to song.

Through the years a dozen or so homegrown compositions resulted from our collaboration. Most came into being at significant points in life’s journey as acts of commemoration or commiseration.

The instrument I’m fond of is a Gibson Blueridge acoustic manufactured in the late 60’s. The sides and back are laminated rosewood, which makes for a beautiful exterior. Some say guitars of this construction lack the interior resonance that solid wood provides. Still, it plays like a dream with the gentlest of pressure between frets. In the days of my youth I did not know anyone blessed with a finer six string.

My brother and I were around 15 years of age when Dad located the used Blueridge. He offered to pay half the negotiated price if we would pay the difference. A second instrument of the same model was located later and we struck the same deal.
　
I didn’t understand what Dad was up to at the time. Just before his sons left for college he relinquished his half interest in both guitars. He wanted us to have an instrument to take to school.
　
The selflessness of that gift is one of the most treasured memories of my father. The gesture was made knowing the joy it would bring his sons and that was all the compensation he required. Dad never thought of the guitars as belonging to him at all. From the day they were purchased, he intended for us to have them.

Daily playing sessions at college often lasted for an hour or better. A simple finger style accompaniment for singing grew out of the days when I played five string banjo. An old pecan tree stood next to the football practice field with a low slung limb. I’d climb up, lean back against the trunk and spend warm afternoons suspended in the open air playing for nobody in particular.

Over time, the glue used to adhere the inner bracing to the guitar’s top darkened the outside wood. You could see the faint shadow-like pattern on its surface. This made the instrument distinct if not desirable. Guitars are a lot like people. Each has its own personality. Time is required to understand their unique attributes. Once you do, they can be appreciated for what they are instead of what you wish they were.

The only rough patch we ever worked through began one day when returning to the dorm room to play between classes. As the case was opened the headstock fell out dangling by the strings. The neck was severed by a ragged diagonal break running through the nut.
　
I don’t know if there was a fatal flaw in the wood or if this was the result of plain meanness on someone’s part. The former would be an event rare enough to be unbelievable and the latter malicious enough to make you question humanity. Had someone confessed, there might have been some closure. No one ever did.

Dad and I shipped the guitar off to Gibson’s Kalamazoo plant for repairs which were less than impressive. When it returned, the logo on the headstock was painted on instead of being inlaid in mother of pearl. Prior to the repair I never picked up a easier guitar to play. Post repair, every chord brought grief. The sound was not as full and mellow as before.
　
The bad neck job was confirmed when the top began to bow up around the bridge and the guitar became unplayable. It was shipped to Gibson a second time and the inferior work acknowledged. A new neck and top were required to right the wrong and were installed at no further charge.
　
For a long time I complained that the Blueridge didn’t sound or play like it once did. These days I suspect that if “what it was” could be placed alongside “what it has become” you might discover the action and tone are different, not necessarily worse.

Life is like that. Uninvited sorrows and difficulties change us over time in unexpected ways. The destinations on which we set our sights are not always the places to which we arrive. Some events and experiences leave life forever altered. The life that results isn’t less precious, just different.

A good guitar only gets better with age. After 40 years the Blueridge is now entering its prime. The top and bindings have darkened and taken on the warm amber color of a mature instrument. We’ve both endured some wear and tear along the way. Hopefully it’s not the only one improving with age.

Instruments are inanimate objects that resonate with life in the hands of a musician. Sympathetic vibrations produce a welcome environment where the stories that shape who we are can be expressed and explored. They facilitate thinking, feeling, hearing and telling in ways that enhance understanding. Their unique voice helps us find ours.

The music they create accompanies our journey. We employ the beauty they supply to preserve memories collected through the process of living. If we are fortunate, others will reflect on these stories through the music we leave behind. For these reasons, thinking of a guitar as dear friend comes easy.

These days I play mostly for my own amusement and edification. The pleasure derived is considerable. The guitar’s capabilities exceed my own.

One day my half interest will be passed on to someone who loves guitars. I don’t know who that will be since my children don‘t play. The thought of it sitting alone in someone’s closet for decades is unsettling.

That would be no way to treat an old friend.

It Looked Like Glitter

2011-02-04T19:56:00.003-06:00

Oklahoma Beauty

2011-01-12T11:07:00.003-06:00

The Poetry of Words

2010-12-15T01:02:00.005-06:00

Reevaluating the reasons for writing every once in a while seems wise. One ought to be able to justify the time spent stringing words together. Considering whether or not constructed sentences are accomplishing intended purposes seems beneficial.

Every so often someone expresses verbally what you’ve attempted intuitively. Clarity came in a single sentence from Eugene Peterson’s The Contemplative Pastor.

“The poet is a person who uses words not primarily to convey information but to make a relationship, to shape beauty, form truth (page 44).”

Good writing invites a reader’s response. If not, then why write (or read for that matter)? Thoughts composed generate questions in the reader. The resulting dialogue feels something like the give and take relationships require.

And if “relationship” is too lofty a term to describe that interaction, then perhaps what results is at least more than the simple transmission of information. Some words communicate while others create community. The latter is the greater goal.

The arrangement of words to shape ideas is beautiful and intriguing. Tell a story and listeners instinctively make connections, locate their place in the plot and through that process participate in something larger than themselves. Through writing it’s possible to approach that which is profound, to move closer to the mysteries which remain just beyond our full understanding, to give expression to that which defies speech.

The skillful use of language can capture the loveliness (and ugliness) of life, elicit powerful emotions, and transmit experiences vicariously. Effective writing is a thing of beauty. Words chosen for their sound, sentences crafted for their phrasing, and paragraphs organized to convey meaning are my favorite art form.

The pursuit of truth is an ambitious undertaking. Our efforts are destined to fall short of the desired goal more times than not. We humans are fallible creatures easily distracted and sidetracked from intended destinations.

Life is a dynamic process through which we either allow truth to alter us or we spend our days attempting to alter the truth. Efforts to make it convenient or palatable only mean that what we embrace is no longer the truth. Half truths are not truth at all. Our quest is best conducted with great humility because we know less than we care to admit. We are wise to acknowledge these things. How can we recognize or arrive at the truth if we are unwilling to be truthful with ourselves?

For me, finding what is true in life is a spiritual process. Being rightly related to the One who made us is a primary consideration which impacts how we are related to one another and to the rest of creation. Naming the places and means by which those connections can be made is a sacred task. Opportunities are elusive unless consciously sought. Once found, they are worthy of our best efforts.

I am no poet. The past five years make that clear. But my desire is to become more poetic, if not by classical definitions, at least by the terms Peterson describes.

Whether that can be accomplished here remains to be seen.

Comfort Is Not Our Greatest Need

2010-11-16T21:05:00.007-06:00

Healthy relationships provide a place where we are accepted and loved for who we are. They are a safe haven in the midst of an often turbulent life. Most of us welcome and cherish the considerable comfort they provide.

A problem occurs when comfort is made a higher priority than the love and acceptance which create it. Love and acceptance are concerned mostly with what is best for others. Comfort concerns itself primarily with what is good for us. Preoccupation with self is never a good means of nurturing a healthy relationship.

In a world where hurtful experiences abound, prolonging comfort is a natural response. We long to linger in a moment where the relationship nurtures and sustains us. But time cannot be halted and we can’t live forever in what is or has been.

Most relationships reach a point where certain expectations arise. Those that are valid grow out of a mutual understanding negotiated between individuals. Those that are not are mostly the result of assumptions made on one or both sides of the relationship. Assuming begins at the point where meaningful conversation ceases. Assumptions are a sign that our expectations are being substituted for clear communication.

Assuming that the bond shared with a significant other will remain unchanged is unrealistic. Relationships are a dynamic venture between persons as they grow and share life over time. Restricting their development makes them less rather than more. Those that thrive possess a commitment and flexibility which accommodates the changes experienced through the growth of both parties.

Our preoccupation with personal comfort signals a shift in focus from what we give to the relationship to what we take from it. Selfish motives never nourish the relationship the way selflessness can. Selfless giving opens the door for others to respond in kind. A spiral of mutual generosity imparts life to the partnership. Without selfless love relationships cannot thrive.

Respecting and accepting the way people change over time is a necessary act of hospitality. Love welcomes the personal development of others out of a desire for them to become all they can be. Space is granted so life can be embraced more fully. Two people must be committed to growing personally and together over time if a healthy union is to be maintained.

Inhibiting another’s growth is never an expression of love. We assume the relationship is being protected by our actions. In reality we don’t want those we love to grow beyond us, to a place we are unwilling to go. Maybe that’s laziness on our part. Or maybe it’s fear. Relational laziness is little more than being afraid to invest our time and energy on behalf of another.

Ultimately a choice must be made. Either we grow with those we love or insist they fail to grow with us. One of those choices is healthy. The other is not.

We often assume personal choices impact ourselves alone. But our commitment (or lack thereof) to personal growth influences every relationship we know. A lack of personal development leaves us with less to contribute to all our relationships and fails to inspire growth in those we love. In turn, their lack of growth is less than inspiring for us. All of life becomes less than it should be because we fail to honor the need for growth in ourselves and others.

The converse of that principle is also true. Our personal growth has the potential to enrich all our relationships as we invest ourselves in others and invite them to follow suit.

Giving people room to become over time is a matter of generosity and mutual respect. It's one of the greatest gifts we can bestow and a clear indication of our maturity and commitment. Selfishness and immaturity are responsible for the demise of a high percentage of relationships. Those terrible twins are expressions of fear that leave us plateaued in our personal development and paralyzed in our personal relationships.

Because of the trust and commitment which exists between ourselves and another we can give them room to do new things and explore new opportunities. An unwillingness to grant that space means we don't trust their motives. Relationships cannot survive when people no longer exercise mutual trust. You cannot love people fully in whom you cannot place your full confidence. Loving or being loved halfheartedly is never a fulfilling experience.

The desire for comfort leaves us settling for relationships which are less than satisfying but which are more easily controlled. Sameness is often comfortable in the short term. When practiced long term it becomes the perpetrator of relational death.

Creating a more fulfilling bond requires that we no longer limit love to the boundaries of our assumed expectations. Providing those we love with room to grow and become brings a sense of newness and adventure to the life we share. Their wellbeing is placed at a higher priority than our personal comfort. We demonstrate a willingness to grow with them as they grow with us while making life’s journey together.

It’s true that this way of loving involves risks and for that reason is sometimes less than comfortable. But then, nothing is more comforting than loving fully and being fully loved. Comfort is not our greatest need.

Love is.

Normal Isn't All That Normal

2010-11-02T20:26:00.000-06:00

Life presents us with challenges at every stage. Hurtful realities bring changes not of our choosing. Our first impulse following an encounter with them is to return to what we have known. We long for that which is normal.

Now “normal” is an interesting concept since it’s not the same for any of us. Gather a group of people together to seek its definition. You’ll be hard pressed to arrive at a consensus.

Normal is not even the same for an individual at different points in time. What is normal in the future might look very different from the way we define it here in the present.

That’s because each moment of our existence is unique, personal and impossible to repeat. Like variations on a theme in a symphony, the melody of our days may be phrased closely enough to be recognized, but is always altered (sometimes subtly, sometimes substantially) with the passage of time.

One of the things I love about running is that every outing is different. Even when following the same route, the experience may be similar but is never exactly the same. Some are difficult and must be endured. Others are effortless and enjoyable. Each must be accepted and appreciated for what they contribute to who we are becoming as a runner.

Over the past several weeks I’ve been asking myself why a similar philosophy is not applied to other areas of life. Why is accepting life altering change so difficult for us?

Facing painful circumstances leaves us seeking refuge in the past. But time moves in a straight line rather than a circle. Yesterday cannot be recreated or repeated. Our effort to reestablish a sense of normalcy following a significant loss is the source of a good deal of lingering dissatisfaction. Comparing what is with what can never be again is not an effective strategy for contentment.

Consider also that all we know is in a constant state of change. The relentless movement of moments and days alters all things. Life is rendered temporary by time. This is one of the primary reasons we dislike change so desperately.

Relationships change because people change over time. People change because every circumstance has a way of altering who we are becoming (for better or worse). Circumstances are in a perpetual state of change because life is unpredictable. For all these reasons the quest for normalcy is elusive.

Life requires that the pain of the moment be accepted if the finish line is to be gained. The desire to finish must be greater than the desire to quit. Persevere and expended effort will result in new found strength. Growing stronger provides greater confidence that life’s unexpected difficulties can be overcome.

The course traveled alters us in significant ways. We won’t be what we were before nor will life be the same after. But these realties don’t render the journey meaningless. Though painful in the moment, they have potential to teach us what is most important and where our best energies can be invested.

The temporary nature of life means the pleasant passages don’t last forever. That’s the bad news. Circumstances change on a regular basis without prior notice. We either adapt or find ourselves at a loss when those changes arrive.

Most of the unpleasant passages are temporary too. That’s the good news. Some circumstances have to be overcome. Others must be outlasted through persistence. Still others must be accepted and incorporated creatively as part of our lives. This latter option represents some of the most challenging work we accomplish in this life.

Seeking what is normal means that we approach life with an inflexible attitude. This leaves us resisting anything which varies from previous expectations or experience. Our carefully constructed perceptions of what life is supposed to be leave us imprisoned in a dissatisfaction of our own making.

Attempts to escape or deny painful experiences often rob us of the richness of life rather than restoring it. We settle for less because of our unwillingness to pay the price which more demands. Giving less than our best never contributes to a satisfying outcome.

Choosing to cope and endure means that we approach life with a flexibility that does not attempt to dictate its terms. Energy wasted in complaining about how abnormal life seems is better spent dealing with the realities at hand. Difficult circumstances require a deeper response. Making a deeper response involves us more fully in the stuff of life.

In many ways this life is a mystery to be unraveled. The challenge is to discover what can be made of unexpected tragedies and how they can lead us to embrace life with the best that is within us.

Giving our best to the people and problems that matter most, especially in those stretches where life gets difficult, seems to be one of the secrets for living a full and meaningful life. And giving the best of ourselves is always an option regardless of whether the circumstances surrounding us are pleasant or not.

Normal isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s a fairly temporary state of existence that changes over time.

Somehow that doesn’t sound normal at all.

Just Seems Odd

2010-10-05T01:21:00.009-05:00

If girls are drawn to the bad boys, then why do they complain when those boys are bad?

* * * * *

How can a word spelled “colonel” be pronounced “kər-nəl”?

No wonder I can’t spell.

* * * * *

A local morning television show interviews a travel agent about vacation packages to exotic destinations. They urge people to get to a particular destination in Hawaii.

Why?

Apparently, the fireworks show is not to be missed.

Really?

With all the natural beauty of that tropical island state, you need to smoke the place up with the man-made glitz of fireworks to motivate people to go there?

The Deep End

2010-08-31T00:15:00.015-05:00

As a kid, successive summers brought a dread of swimming lessons. Mom determined that her sons would develop aquatic proficiency early in life.

Maybe she possessed wisdom to anticipate the fun that would be missed if movement through water was not mastered. Or maybe she didn’t want to spend anxious hours wondering if we would return from trips to the lake with friends.

The folks down at the local YMCA taught us how to float face down and on our back, how to do overhand strokes, and how to kick. Master those skills and instructors required you to swim across the pool in the shallow end.

That posed no problem. If you didn’t make it to the other side you could simply put your feet on the bottom of the pool and stand up. No damage done. When you are a beginner the urge to stop and stand is difficult to resist. You can’t become a swimmer until you do.

Graduating past that point meant promotion to the group swimming across in the deep end. The stakes are higher out there. If you mess up, the bottom of the pool is no source of support. There’s no standing if you stop.

A good swimming instructor knows when to let people flail around for a few moments before coming to their rescue. Save them too soon and they never develop confidence that the journey can be made. Sometimes people have to struggle a bit to realize their potential.

The instructor seemed rather heartless back then. She sat calmly on the side of the pool when forward progress stalled, leaving me choking on inhaled water. Arms rotated wildly in a desperate attempt to reestablish movement along a horizontal rather than a vertical plane.

Fear of sinking suffocation proved exceedingly motivational. My journey across the deep end was completed. Eventually, the trek down the length of the pool and back was made as well. They pronounced me a swimmer and awarded ribbons to prove it.

This space isn’t being neglected due to lack of interest. There are times when unexpected circumstances push us out into the deep end of life. We grow weary treading water while attempting to catch our breath. These days I long for a place to stop and stand.

My father died in June. The woman with whom I’ve shared 30 years of marriage was diagnosed at the beginning of August with a chronic and progressive condition for which there is no cure. While on vacation we learned her disability claim was denied. Last week, while out of town celebrating our anniversary, she was admitted to the hospital for a serious and unrelated health issue.

Few people make the journey through life without facing some unexpected challenges. The question we ought to be asking ourselves is not so much “Will I encounter difficulties?” but “When will my turn come?”

A protest could be offered that the woman I love is too young to be taking her turn right now. What purpose would that serve? Complaining won’t alter reality and there are circumstances we can’t control. We can determine the response we make to life’s unexpected contingencies. Sometimes the only choices we’re given are to sink or swim. Given those options, I’d rather swim.

We long to be rescued from choking realities that leave us gasping and grasping for rescue. But sooner or later you have to learn to cross the deep water of life. The difficulties we face can’t be avoided forever. And even if they could, where would that leave us? Wading around in the kiddie pool forever?

The One who made us knows our capabilities. Some think him slow to respond to the crises we encounter. Perhaps his waiting is motivated, not by lack of concern, but by the desire to see us grow and become. Longing for rescue often means we commit less than our best to life’s journey. My personal conviction is that he longs for nothing but the best for and from each of us.

So in these days I’m not praying to be saved out of difficulty. Launching out into the deep is acceptable if the Instructor is present to coach me through the experience. There are lessons to be learned out there that can’t be gained by hanging out in the shallows. Overcoming unexpected obstacles has a way of leaving you stronger and better prepared for future challenges.

Long ago folks at the YMCA taught me that something as ethereal and yielding as water offers firm support if its buoyant properties are trusted. Convincing me of that fact took longer than it should have, mostly because I did not possess the faith to believe.

And I learned long ago that the Creator’s presence brings stability to life when we entrust ourselves to his care. Sometimes that kind of faith takes a while to develop too.

Running has taught me that we are stronger than we realize. We can travel further than we suspect. We are more capable than we know.

My wife is teaching me that lesson as well. She is making this journey with amazing dignity and grace. While I am supporting her, her strength is supporting me.

So these days we’re keeping our heads above water. We’re making the journey across the deep end of life’s pool. The passage is not always angst free. There are times when that old sinking feeling returns. We’ve been tested but not abandoned. When life gets deep and there’s no place to stand, we trust the Creator to see us through.

How these events will alter and reshape our life together is not yet clear. Even so, I’m grateful to be making this passage in the company of the woman who makes every day worth living and the One who stays closer than a brother.

Thanks Mom for the swimming lessons. Those dreaded days in the pool enriched life more than imagined.

I’m still learning from them today.

Runner's Prayer Eleven

2010-08-19T22:16:00.001-05:00

Our Father

This new day comes from you as a gift to be opened. Accept our gratitude for the new possibilities it offers.

Guide us as we seek to experience its full potential. Grant that our past will not determine our future. We cannot change who we have been but we can change who we are becoming. We cannot change where we have been but we can change where we are going. Help us to find life’s best as we follow your leadership.

New thoughts will come to mind as the ground between start and finish is covered. Bring clarity of insight and fresh perspectives to our living. As physical bodies run free, liberate our minds to discover new solutions for old problems.

The testing of this day will lead to newfound strength. Through our successes and failures there will be new lessons to learn. As we give our best to this contest, help us to embrace life fully and to overcome its challenges with new tenacity.

We give thanks for new friendships that will be made and for old friendships that will grow to new depths. New records will be set and new difficulties will be faced. Through all we experience, strengthen our character and humble our spirit.

We give thanks for this opportunity to discover who we are created to be. Reveal to us the reasons you have given us life and grant us a new sense of purpose as we make this journey together. Provide a fresh sense of your presence as we finish the course before us.

By your grace help us to run this race with a sense of newness, as though for first time.

Amen.

30 Years

2010-08-16T10:17:00.002-05:00

I am the lucky guy who for the last 30 years has shared life with the most wonderful woman in the world.

Happy Anniversary Pamela.

I love you.

Memory and Meaning

2010-07-31T22:58:00.007-05:00

A strange sense of déjà vu grips me while sitting on the end of my daughter’s bed in the predawn darkness. Years ago on a morning like this, my father slipped into the room shared by twin sons bearing news of my grandfather’s death.

The immense weight of that reality rested between us in those moments like a physical burden. The ensuing silence acknowledged that our lives were forever altered by this event.

One of many steps towards young adulthood was taken that day as a portion of the sorrow was accepted. That’s the wonderful thing about family. No one is left to bear life’s burdens alone. The weight becomes lighter (and for that reason more manageable) when shared. Somehow that was understood even in my youth.

There comes a day when life’s big moments are repeated, only we know them from the opposite side. I have a new appreciation for the man who came as messenger to my room that day. Sometimes words are hard to speak because our own heart is broken. The knowledge they will break the heart of those we love makes their delivery doubly difficult.

The role of heavyhearted father is mine on this day. The moment is familiar and yet unique. Her grandfather, my father, has moved past this life, temporarily beyond our reach.

A remarkable thing happens with the death of those we love. In the days that follow we see them in every moment of life no matter how insignificant. It’s as if the heart dons new lenses crafted specifically for that purpose. Every effort to process this event leads to the contemplation of some additional and unexplored aspect of Dad’s life.

Some people find memories a painful liability. They intrude unbidden and leave us battling unexpected emotions. In those moments when life cannot be controlled we resolve that feelings will submit to our will. But denying them is unhealthy and serves no useful purpose.

The heart tells me that memories are meant to be a blessing. The past few weeks leave me inundated with stories about the man who was and always will be the greatest influence and example for my life. Each brings a smile and awareness of how greatly his life blessed mine. Remembering prompts thankfulness for the gain rather than complaints about the loss. Tears brought by emotions are an outward testimony of the love that will always remain in a son’s heart. Embracing those feelings and expressing that love is liberating.

I resort to writing in moments like this out of a conviction that every event and memory in life is significant. Too often we fail to comprehend the value of the experiences and people we encounter. Writing is a way of processing events, of carefully considering their meaning and role in shaping our future. Words flow out of a conscious desire to savor all that’s been given.

There will come a day when the mind will age and remembering may no longer be possible. The inability to access memories leaves us truly alone. The real tragedy is not that we are ambushed by memories or that we become emotional when we are. What’s sad is that we discard and forget, either intentionally or inadvertently, much of life as being irrelevant.

Memory is a way of treasuring what is precious and sacred. Writing is a conscious decision to preserve the meaning of those memories. The result is a fuller understanding of blessings bestowed by a father who mentored me through life.

A sea of memory engulfs me while composing the message to be shared at the memorial service. I am not at a loss for words. The challenge is to separate what should be said in those brief moments from all that could be said. The task becomes manageable when viewing what is offered on this day as a final gift for the man who was such a gift to me.

In the opening chapter of his book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, Donald Miller writes, “The saddest thing about life is that you don’t remember half of it (page 3).” He contends that the process of consciously trying to remember your life has a way of making you question what it means. Remembering leaves you with the feeling that life ought to mean something even if you are not sure what (page 5).

I’m not yet able to discern how varied events of life are being woven together to create a comprehensive whole. So much is beyond my current level of understanding. There often seem to be more questions than answers. While I do believe this life is preparation for the next, I can’t yet envision what that future will be like. But I do find Miller’s suggestion appealing:

I wonder if that’s what we’ll do with God when we are through with all this, if
he’ll show us around heaven, all the light coming in through windows a thousand
miles away, all the fields sweeping down to a couple of chairs under a tree, in
a field outside the city. And we’ll sit and tell him our stories, and he’ll
smile and tell us what they mean (page 8).

My heart longs for a place like that, where memory and meaning meet.

In Memoriam

2010-07-11T00:33:00.004-05:00

The good man who was, and always will be, the greatest influence and example I have ever known has completed his earthly jouney.

God in his grace allowed me the privilege of being one of his sons.

Thanks Dad, for leaving footprints for me to follow.

Runner's Prayer Ten

2010-07-05T21:21:00.002-05:00

Our Father,

Some days a pace is found where it seems we could run forever and never tire. We pray this will be one of those days. Should the body become unexpectedly weary, grant us strength of character to persevere until we overcome.

May difficulties be accepted as opportunities rather than burdens to be borne. Lead us to cover the ground of life with the same passion and determination as the distance of this contest.

As we run against time, cause us to reflect on how we spend the moments of this temporary life. Our existence here is brief and for that reason most precious. Help us to embrace each day as a treasured gift and to make the most of the years you provide.

Grant that the experiences encountered in the contest before us will make a positive contribution to the fullness of our lives. May the course ahead provide a wealth of memories that will encourage us through all our days.

Help us to know that holy respiration through which we breathe in the wonder of life which you give and exhale our gratitude for the privilege of making this passage together. May our progress be a living demonstration of your faithful presence and abiding love.

See us through to the end of this day’s journey and beyond.

Amen.

A Daughter's Gift

2010-06-20T00:28:00.008-05:00

The day is long.

Sleep creeps in unexpected. The ambush comes while propped up in bed watching the evening news.

Ten little fingers function better than any alarm clock the next morning. They dance over my ribs with great gusto.

“Hey, what are you doing?” I snap, waking with a start.

The smile evaporates from the angelic face before me, but only for a moment. It returns with mischievous glee a split second before her fingers dive for my midsection and resume their spirited dance.

“Hey, why are you doing that?”

“I just wanted to make you laugh, Daddy. You don’t laugh much any more. I just want to make you laugh.”

In that moment the source of a father’s joy becomes clear to me. Arms envelope the little girl before me and draw her close.

And then a real tickle fest begins. The giggles and laughter continue uninterrupted for the longest time.

Many years have passed.

My little girls are all grown up.

Their decisions and accomplishments make me proud. Admiration is the only appropriate response to the capable young women they have become. Their thoughtfulness leaves me speechless, and sometimes, a bit misty too.

The happiness daughters bring to a father’s heart is inexpressible. They ensure that there is always laughter in his life.

That’s the only gift a dad needs on Father’s Day.

Finishing Well

2010-06-18T13:37:00.003-05:00

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us (Hebrews 12:1).

The school of life is always in session. Those who coast through life’s race on their present level of personal development will find themselves incredibly behind before the finish line is crossed.

So how can life be finished well?

Live life out loud

In this contest victory is defined more by completing the course than by comparing performance with fellow runners. The challenge is to finish life’s race with our faith intact.

Others observe what we do more closely than they listen to what we say. Actions rather than words are where the carbon rubber outsole hits the road as this race progresses.

Keep pace with the One who gave you life. Have the personal integrity to pursue the causes and commitments that grow out of that relationship regardless of what others think.

Don’t allow the popularity polls of the masses to determine the principles which guide your life. They are a fickle crowd who change directions on a whim. Stay on course. Let your living speak more clearly than words about whom and whose you are.

Travel light

Every excess weight that would hinder efforts to run life’s race must be cast aside. Too many of us are burdened with surplus baggage that limits progress.

Worry never changes our circumstance but leaves us weary and worn. Anger does not provide a positive solution and we can let go of its considerable burden. Unforgiveness never changes the heart of the person who has wronged us and leaves us bitter rather than better. The wrong we do is never an effective means of gaining the good which we desire.

Wisdom dictates that we release these negative attitudes and actions. In doing so we conserve personal resources for the race ahead.

We can stumble repeatedly over the injustices perpetrated on us in the past (and those we perpetrate on others). Or we can rise to our feet, dust the negativity from our person, and refuse to waste precious energy backtracking in a manner that only leaves us further from our goal.

The better option is to set our sights on a more desirable future, and commit our energy to the more productive path of moving forward.

Keep the goal in sight

Runners don’t mosey or meander through the course set before them. They invest the best of mind and body in the goal of finishing well.

The course of our existence is filled with distractions. Sometimes we trade what is genuine for a cheap imitation. Too many of us become sidetracked by shortcuts that don’t lead to real happiness at all.

Many are too casual about the way they drift through life. If we aren’t careful we can spend our days reacting to people and circumstances rather than living with the finish line in view.

The limited time we are given can be spent going through the motions but accomplishing little. Some hit the wall and decide that life is not worth the effort. The temptation to retire in place is real. The real passion for living departed long ago.

Life is a marathon worthy of our passionate participation. Running this race requires a gritty endurance that that refuses to give in or give up until the goal is reached.

All of life, from the first breath we breathe to the last, is a gift from the One who made us. What we do with that priceless gift matters greatly to Him and ought to matter to us.

There and Then, Here and Now

2010-06-15T02:12:00.001-05:00

The “social-network-that-shall-not-be-named” hasn’t done blogging any favors. It has, however, enabled me to reconnect with friends.

Every so often I’m friended by someone whose name sounds familiar. On more occasions than is comfortable to admit, a face cannot be associated with the name.

School annuals pulled from storage are a valuable reference.

Notes written by friends between the covers are reread in the process. The experience is encouraging though I suppose you can’t believe everything people say in a moment like that.

Still, I wonder.

Is the man I am in the here and now half the person I used to be back there and then? From this remote perspective imposed by the distance of passing years, can I affirm that this older version has become all the younger aspired to be?

The thought that you may have peaked as a human being while in your teens is humbling.

A friend sends an e-mail. She’s a thoughtful person who often attaches a quote worthy of consideration to the bottom of correspondence. The question posed on this night parallels thoughts encountered in recent days.

"Would the child that you were, be proud of the adult that you are?"

I’m still working on that one.

Enough Said

2010-06-02T22:54:00.002-05:00

Tuesday morning's run took place here:

One

2010-05-26T00:38:00.001-05:00

I am only one,
But I am one.

I cannot do everything,
But I can do something.

What I can do,
I ought to do.

What I ought to do,
By the grace of God,
I will do.

- Edward Everett Hale

Pushing Back

2010-05-20T02:18:00.002-05:00

Complain about the hills while running. That won’t make the climb easier.

You don’t have to know why they are there or like the process. The task simply requires that you push back against the gravity that slows forward progress. With diligence the summit is gained.

Hills may not bring gratitude on this evening. The present discomfort will leave the body weary but able to run longer in the future. The smile missing now will be worn then.

I’m not at all sure that life is supposed to be easy. Some experiences must be negotiated even when they cannot be understood.

Complain all you want. Protest loudly and give ultimatums about what you will do if the situation isn’t resolved on your timetable. At the end of the day one fact remains. We all have to work through some unexpected issues whether the “why” of them can be answered or not.

I don’t mean to imply that the question is not important. The quest for insight is a good thing. It’s just that life is not always a logical process. Some events are incomprehensible. There are many experiences that cannot be understood rationally. I’m not sure we always (or even usually) get the answer in this life.

How is that a problem? If you wait to respond until the reasons for the difficulty are understood, then life’s momentum slows to a standstill. If you require that inevitable obstacles be removed before proceeding, then you may never complete the journey.

When life is free of hardship people rarely invest the best part of themselves into the story they are creating for themselves and with others. Our attempt to escape life’s demands is a way of freeing ourselves from the responsibility of response. As we become less involved in what’s happening around us, we lose confidence in our ability to overcome life’s obstacles. The fear of what living will cost robs us of a rewarding life.

Present difficulties require us to make a fuller commitment than normal if a future summit is to be reached. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though it’s not a particularly comfortable thing.

Weariness at the end of the day is a measure of the willingness to commit to the people and causes that are important to us. Feeling spent is a way of quantifying the investment that’s been made. The process of facing life’s challenges always leaves us stronger than simply waiting for some easier way to find us. Life is richer for the effort.

We tell ourselves that if pleasure came first, then the pain of hard work would be less difficult to bear. Ease and lack of effort are valued more highly than what might be learned through a more challenging path. A miracle is sought that would resolve our dilemma and exempt us from hardship. We’d postpone life’s difficulties indefinitely if that were possible.

As a rule, the pain and the payment come now while the pleasure and the progress come later. Miracles by definition are events that do not happen on a regular basis. If they did, they would be commonplace and not at all miraculous.

And it’s not that I don’t believe in miracles. On occasion my vocation allows the privilege of witnessing what cannot be expressed logically. People regularly invite me into the sacred circle of family during difficult circumstances. Every so often, in the most unexpected moments and inexplicable ways, a situation is resolved in a manner that leaves me speechless.

And it’s not that I would discourage people from seeking a miracle. There are those dear to me who could use one right about now. I’m not ashamed to pray that this might be one of those rare times when the burden that weighs so heavily is inexplicably lifted.

But I don’t require miracles to find the faith and courage necessary to embrace the difficulties of life. Many people want further proof before they believe. Life must be arranged neatly according to their expectations or they have no need of heaven’s help.

Life and breath are all that’s required to make clear how fortunate and blessed I am to receive such gifts. When you know the privilege of being and sharing being with others, what greater miracle can you ask? The difficulties of life in no way diminish their value.

Many people are reluctant to invest themselves until the outcome they desire is in sight. Sometimes we can’t see the solution in the moment when a problem finds us. The light at the end of the tunnel isn’t visible at the outset of the journey. When starting at the bottom it’s difficult to see the top. Failure to move forward because of what we do not yet understand only prolongs the agony.

Some experiences must be negotiated even when they cannot be understood. Complaints concerning their existence do not make the climb easier. Consistency in putting one foot in front of the other is sometimes necessary to move through difficulties to a more desirable destination.

Sometimes life pushes us around in ways we do not understand. Sometimes we have to push back.

Conspiracy

2010-05-04T11:36:00.007-05:00

An early evening storm leaves me contemplating whether tonight’s run will be logged.

By the time the obligatory committee meeting is over, dusky sun rays highlight a freshly washed world. Brilliant leaves are adorned with glistening pearls of moisture.

This sunset seems surreal. Clouds marking the front’s passage are tinged with pink. The world below is bathed in a golden glow. Everything seems new and pure, as if freshly created.

The air is uncommonly cool and humid when departing the house after a hasty supper. Banks of fog hang waist high over the street. Their levitation is amazing to behold. The visible vapor of each exhaled breath only adds to their contents.

Damp air conducts a multitude of familiar scents. There’s a slight but perceptible sweetness as patches of wild flowers are passed. The smell of rosemary greets me halfway up the largest incline, though the bush’s location can’t be pinpointed more precisely than that. A marshy earthiness greets the nostrils as the bridge above the creek is crossed.

The unabashed hooting of an owl in the trees to my right is a pleasant surprise. A faint response comes like an echo from a tree far down the creek channel on my left. Frogs bellow from beneath like great fog horns. This rich night music is a splendid accompaniment. I keep time with alternating footfalls.

My approach startles a young rabbit along a patch of woods. He runs parallel to the sidewalk for several strides exhibiting nervous indecision. At last he dives into the bushy undergrowth and disappears.

All nature conspires to make this evening run an unexpected gift. I’m gripped by gratitude as the body reclines, muscles relax and eyes close.

Tomorrow’s run is the last thought of the day.

Sometimes I Forget

2010-04-28T00:56:00.004-05:00

… how extraordinary the ordinary landscape can be when bathed in a milky whitewash of near full moonlight.

... how wonderfully refreshing descending down the backside of a hill into a pool of perceptibly cooler air can be.

… that there are a surprising number of people who will not only honk at you from the opposite side of the street but who will also turn around so they can approach you from behind and honk at you a second time.

… that there are also a surprising number of people who will wave you through an intersection before they make a left turn so as not to impede your forward progress.

… how the music you’ve been listening to through the day can become the soundtrack for the evening run though you left your mp3 player at home.

Dean

2010-04-22T01:50:00.013-05:00

Last summer’s running route was chosen for the hills along a newly opened boulevard through town. Running these inclines would prepare me for longer distances. The results did not disappoint.

The course followed on those sweltering evenings makes a gentle curve past a park on the opposite side of the street. A number of split level apartments lie adjacent to the sidewalk which serves as my path. Once it was nothing more than a single lane, dead end, dirt road. Now it boasts four lanes and a dividing median.

Through the summer, a friend from college days waged a battle with pancreatic cancer. As Dean’s condition grew more difficult, he and his family occupied more of my running thoughts.

Because of the changes to the area, some time passed before realizing that the apartment where Dean and his wife once lived is located on my route. This unexpected awareness provided a tangible point of contact and prompted a host of memories. Each night I prayed for his family twice, once while going out and again on the back portion of the run.

A recent trip to Arkansas found me walking the college campus where our friendship began. He was an instrumentalist majoring in music composition under Dr. Francis McBeth. I came to study religion but declared a second degree in music as a vocal major.

Music fostered a brotherhood of sorts. Classes and mandatory presence at rehearsals and recitals ensured that our paths intersected in the music building on a regular basis.

As a gifted musician, Dean exhibited professionalism and proficiency. He possessed the skills to become a performer, a composer or a college professor. The possibilities left me envious.

Dean chose an unanticipated option. He elected to attend seminary and entered the ministry. Rather than choosing his own way, he answered a call to serve the One who gave him life. We never talked about how he arrived at that decision. Having made a similar commitment, perhaps we shared a level of understanding that required no further explanation. Questioning his decision never occurred to me.

In the latter stages of our college experience he was making trips to see a young lady in Texas. A contingent from the school’s music department was among the guests gathered in the small church when they pledged their love to one another. Dean kept the commitments made on that day.

Continuing our friendship after college was a rare and wonderful gift. Our wives became good friends. He and my brother studied music, while I studied theology at the same seminary. We attended church together and sang in the choir. When Sunday evening worship services adjourned, we could be found playing board games, going out for fast food and just hanging out enjoying good company and conversation.

Dean accompanied my brother and me on an epic road trip to California to participate in the wedding of a mutual college friend. One drove, a second rode shotgun while the third slept in the back seat. We rotated positions every four hours. I remember being startled out of sleep when my brother’s Malibu Classic struck a rouge tumbleweed while making our way through El Paso.

Our weary contingent arrived in Los Angeles just in time for the rehearsal 24 hours after the trek began. The next morning we walked along the Pacific coast before going to the church for the ceremony. Dean played the flute. My brother sang. I preformed the second wedding service of my ministerial career. We were back on the road for the return trip once the festivities concluded.

Dean was cool without ever trying to be. He knew who he was and what his life was about. He was simply and genuinely himself in any venue. In spite of his many gifts, he was humble and unassuming. His laid back personality and disarming sense of humor were regularly on display in the broad smile that spread across his face.

Morally, he was a man of great stature. Some people make you want to be a better person simply by being in their presence. He lived the convictions of his heart with predictable consistency. His example was a powerful influence. Personal integrity and honesty were the hallmarks of his character.

The stability of his life and the dependability of his friendship were a great comfort. He was a reliable source of practical common sense, overflowing optimism and empowering encouragement.

Dean possessed a remarkable ability to lead without making himself the center of attention. His self motivation and enthusiasm made following easy and enjoyable. You always felt you were working with him rather than working for him.

After seminary, Dean and his family served churches in Colorado, Louisiana and Maryland. Pamela and I kept track of them through a network of mutual friends. One sent a video of him leading the congregation in worship. Watching him fulfill his calling was a joy.

When word came of his passing, I regretted not being able to attend the memorial service. Due to the technical advances of our age (and the thoughtfulness of our mutual friend in California who sent me the link), I was able to watch his Sunday morning service live via the internet. My heart was full as I stood moments later to deliver a message to my own congregation.

The way a church family cares for a minister’s family in a time of loss speaks volumes about the care he provided while serving among them. His church family was obviously aware of how Dean loved them. In return, they demonstrated how unmistakably they loved him.

So often we speak of people losing their battle with cancer if they die. But if living is the standard by which we gauge success, then there is coming a day when we all will be losers. What matters most in this life is not how long we live, but the quality of the living we do.

As feet followed the sidewalk last summer, I simply prayed that Dean would finish well regardless of what the future held. By all accounts, he completed life’s journey in remarkable fashion.

So tonight, like many previous nights, I’ll run and remember. The apartment where we made some really good memories still prompts prayers for his family each time it’s passed.

Gratitude will be expressed to the One who loaned Dean’s life to us so that we could receive lasting benefits. A sense of awe will grip me as I consider how our Creator ordered our steps in such a way that our paths crossed. The wondrous love of a Savior who offers eternal life will leave me mystified and longing for the day when this temporary parting is ended.

Many were fortunate to share a portion of life’s journey with Dean. One knew him as the love of her life. Children were blessed to know him as father. A few knew the joy of being family. Congregations were privileged to have him as minister.

I am blessed beyond measure to be among those privileged to know him as friend.

Runner's Prayer Nine

2010-04-17T22:34:00.002-05:00

Father,

Make feet and heart light
While running on this night.
To the mind reveal fresh insight.
Renew commitment to what is right.
Supply compassion for another’s plight.
Grant that deeds will be pleasing in your sight.
May life’s course be completed through your might.

Amen

So That's Why I Can't Breathe

2010-04-13T00:29:00.009-05:00

The night was perfect for running. Warm enough that there was no dread getting out. Cool enough so there would be no chance of over heating.

Perfect.

So the weatherman says a "summer like" weather pattern is on tap for the rest of the week.

That's life in Texas.

Spring is incredibly short. Summer is incredibly long.

Numerous reports indicate that the pollen counts are at record levels this year. This was made clear to me on a trip to an Arkansas lake this past week.

The day was windy. As we drove through the forest you could see explosions of yellow dust in the tops of the trees. There was a haze of particulate matter over the landscape.

The wind pushed the allergy inducing powder across the lake where it piled up in a cove. As we tromped down the hill to the water a virtual "pollen slick" lay before us.

My brother hurried down to the water's edge. He said he wanted to give a sense of perspective to the size of the hay fever sufferer's nightmare before us.

We were amazed at the thickness of the floating mass. The consistency of the stuff resembled half dried paint.

The way it wrinkled when stirred was odd.

We investigated its properties further and were duly impressed that a rock could be floated on its surface. So I’d say the reports are not exaggerated.

We did not realize till we met up with a friend that we were both wearing jeans and navy blue polo shirts. Which wouldn't be an issue for any of you.

But since we are twins it causes a scene when we're out in public like that. This wasn't our first encounter with this uncanny ability to duplicate wardrobe.

I offered to purchase a shirt of a different color at Wal-Mart considering the emergency. We agreed as mature adults that we weren't bothered by such superficialities.

Which was a mistake.

Some people express a disproportionate awe, suspecting that you share some mystical paranormal connection. Others express and equally disproportionate hilarity that borders on ridicule.

Perhaps a phone call would be in order next time we plan to inhabit the same vicinity.

Runner's Prayer Eight

2010-04-08T12:28:00.005-05:00

Our Father,

Running provides the freedom to escape the confines of normal life. We are grateful for the liberty to go where the body wills and the ability to choose the speed in which the journey is made. Thank you for this new day and possibilities it provides.

We freely confront the challenges ahead because we are unwilling to live an untested life. Teach us that we can do more than we think and can accomplish more than realize. Give us courage and faith to embrace today’s test for what it reveals about ourselves and others who run with us.

Remind us that freedom is never free and cannot exist without responsibility. The privilege of participation is worth the cost of preparation. The constraints of training have been endured with the hope that we will run unhindered. By your grace, give us the liberty to perform beyond our expectations.

Run with us as we trust in you. Free us from the baggage of the past. Help us to overcome life’s obstacles as we embrace a better future. May lessons learned on this day teach us the difference between those things which are good and those which are best. Give us wisdom to pursue what is necessary rather than what is merely pleasurable or painless.

Grant that the steps we take with you today will move us closer to the full and meaningful life you have planned for us.

Amen.

Jeremiah 29:11

Give Peas a Chance

2010-04-06T19:44:00.003-05:00

Eating your veggies is good for you. But it's rather hard on them.

("Carrot Juice is Murder" by the Arrogant Worms, preformed by YoppyKyabetsu who is related to the management.)

Motivation (and lack thereof)

2010-02-24T00:57:00.018-06:00

Motivation is a funny thing. It waxes and wanes like the moon, though its coming and going are not on any predictable schedule like the lunar phases.

Professional athletes playing under multi-million dollar contracts sometimes complain about a lack of motivation. Many amateurs give their all with no compensation required. Logic has little to do with it.

Whether you’ve run for many years or are beginning really isn’t the issue. Most of us wrestle with motivation from time to time. I seem to struggle more than most.

Sometimes we are motivated by external sources. That’s why signing up for a race or meeting a running partner can provide the necessary will to lace up the shoes and get out the door. Sometimes a million dollars can be motivational, but not always.

That’s because motivation also comes from internal sources. We run because we love the activity, because of the sense of wellbeing that follows the miles, because of the sense of accomplishment that comes from meeting personal goals.

Sometimes running seems to have always been apart of my life. That the rest of the world doesn’t run is incomprehensible to me. Miles logged are an unquestionable priority for each evening. One of the best parts of my day.

At other times circumstances make running next to impossible. Miss a few runs and in an amazingly short time running seems like a distant dream. Was I really a runner? Why was that so important to me? Seems a lifetime ago.

Motivation is that elusive force that moves life forward from a dead standstill. There is a tipping point at which personal energy begins to slide in a positive direction. Motivation is the force that breaks the equilibrium and gets things going again.

You can do one of two things. Either wait for some external force to tip things or look within and find a reason to move forward. I much prefer to be motivated by internal sources than by external ones.

Getting acquainted with a new hydration pack explains my renewed commitment to running. I’m not proud of that.

But hey, when motivation is running low you have to be grateful for anything that gets you moving in the right direction. Moving is decidedly better than not moving. Experience tells me that if a few runs can be strung together internal motivations will return.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Oh, Stop It

2010-02-19T23:44:00.008-06:00

So you build a multi-million dollar, technically advanced, state of the art, highly engineered multi-use track for bobsledding, luge and skeleton events suitable for hosting world class events like the Olympics.

Since skeleton sleds don’t have brakes, how do you decelerate their forward momentum and bring them to a stop once the run is finished?

“Hey, we got this big wadded up sheet of foam here. How bout we throw that down there on the track and let ‘em run over it?”

“Yeah, that otta do the trick.”

The Blizzard of 2010

2010-02-12T10:37:00.001-06:00

This Day is Different

2010-02-11T15:39:00.005-06:00

Around these parts weathermen don’t predict snow all that often. Days when we actually see snow are few. Measurable accumulations are rarer still.

A blanket of pristine white greets me at the dawn of a new day. Where we live that’s an event. Flakes of crystalline glory are still falling in frosty profusion. It’s been snowing for hours. And for us, that’s saying something.

The world outside is decked out in its Sunday best. Porcelain highlights grace every tree limb. Leafy shrubs groan under the weight of frozen fluff. Sounds are muffled between the soft quilt spread over the ground below and a thick drapery of clouds unfurled in the sky above.

This day brings a smile. Children will gaze upon the transformed landscape with hypnotic wonder. Many will make their first snow angel or construct their first snowman. Blessed are those who introduce them to the culinary fine art of making snow cream.

The first peek outside transports me to another time. Brothers made endless flights down an ice encrusted neighborhood hill on a narrow sled that often left us sprawling in a drift. Massive orbs of rolled snow became so heavy they had to be pushed up a ramp composed of old lumber planks in order to be stacked atop one another. The result was a snowman that towered over our heads and preserved some of that snowy goodness late into March.

Years later a father teaches two little girls how to press handfuls of snow into snowballs and how to skate along a frozen sidewalk. A homemade sled built on the spur of the moment out of spare parts was not as functional as planned but provided hours of togetherness that will be forever cherished.

Call it an epiphany. What this day is made for is clear to me. It’s a day for making waffles and brewing strong espresso. This day is made for reading, reflecting and remembering. It’s a time for recording thoughts, composing e-mails to old friends and contemplating procession of days that compose life.

Living life to its fullest requires discovering the purpose of each new day. Understanding how one day is different from another enables us to appreciate its uniqueness.

While some days may be similar, no two days are ever the same. If we live our lives with a sense of mundane monotony, that’s just a sign that we aren’t paying attention. We fail to live life fully because we fail to live thoughtfully. Giving each day due consideration enables us to value and appreciate the remarkable gift it’s meant to be.

Snow days don’t come around all that often. For that reason, and others, they should be lived for all they are worth.

I hope to make the most of this one.

The Good and the Bad

2010-02-10T02:03:00.007-06:00

The good: I ordered a new hydration pack for longer runs.

The bad: The website said nothing about this item being out of stock.

The good: A representative from the company e-mailed me to say that they would honor the 2009 price once they received 2010 model if I wanted to leave my order open.

The bad: This meant an estimated month’s wait.

The good: Since I’m not running far and it’s cold, I wasn’t in any rush.

The bad: I had no way of knowing they were in no particular hurry either.

The good: Since there was also no tax or shipping charge I’d get the pack at a really great price.

The bad: A month came and went without hearing anything from the representative.

The good: A blogger friend offered to send me another hydration pack for free.

The bad: I turned them down because I'd already told the representative to keep my order open, thought delivery of the pack was eminent and try to be a man of my word.

The good: The representative got back to me immediately when I sent him an e-mail inquiring about the status of my order.

The bad: He failed to get back to me by the end of the day like he said he would.

The good: When he responded to an additional e-mail he was gracious and very apologetic.

The bad: Once again he failed to get back to me before the day ended like he said he would.

The good: When e-mailed again he shared that the new shipment had arrived.

The bad: The manufacturer had changed the “red” panels on the pack to “paprika” and he wanted to know if that was OK.

The good: I’m not wearing the thing to make a fashion statement.

The bad: Two and a half months passed before it arrived at my doorstep.

The good: This provided ample time for anticipation to grow.

The bad: As fate would have it, the day it was left on my doorstep I was out of town.

The good: A friend was gracious enough to pick it up and leave it in my office.

The bad: It's been a while since I've done a run where a hydration pack was necessary.

The good: I hope to change that.

Slim Odds

2010-01-30T23:33:00.007-06:00

The story contains the makings of a classic country and western song. Life on the rodeo circuit as a professional bull rider is hard. Through the years, 29 operations are required to repair what the bovines have broken.

The heart is shattered more thoroughly than the body. A fiancé cheats on him with another man. A night in a honky-tonk finds him seeking solace in a stranger’s company. Everything of value disappears with her before he rises the next morning.

People find their way off the highway and into the office on a regular basis. Most relate an elaborate series of events leading to their current predicament. Weaving the separate strands of the story into a cohesive whole becomes a challenge. Listen patiently and quietly. Give people room to talk. Falsehood often tips its hand.

Truth is rarely complicated. A lot of people are intent on telling a minister what they think he wants to hear. Honesty is all I require.

Most of our excuses are rationalizations meant to justify decisions we’ve made. There are no solutions for problems we refuse to acknowledge. Circumstances cannot be altered in any lasting way until we own our role in creating them.

Dishonesty is never motivational. Providing what people need is impossible if they refuse to speak truthfully. What people need and what they seek are often different matters. The line separating helping from enabling can be rather thin. Limited resources must be handled with integrity and good stewardship.

In a moment like this, a person’s life appears without any context to give it meaning or interpretation. There is only a solitary encounter and the tyranny of the moment as one life and its need intersects briefly with your own.

Investing in people is risky business. Sometimes help offered pays dividends, sometimes it does not, and sometimes you never have the luxury of knowing.

The man sitting across from me is refreshingly transparent. The broken pieces of life are laid bare with astonishing clarity. He spits words as if trying to rid the mouth of a fowl taste. Sentences emerge ragged, ripped from the jagged edges of a wounded spirit. The voice is halting and heavy, saturated with shame and remorse. Eyes are focused on the floor as if too heavy to meet my gaze.

He wonders out loud if past offenses place him beyond the scope of God’s love. If that were true then my calling would be meaningless and our time together a waste. At their best, ministers are bridge builders who seek to bring God and man closer to one another. They are too often less than this. Even so, my best efforts are committed to the task.

We talk for awhile, and as we do, the risk seems worth taking. Sometimes people need to experience a measure of grace and forgiveness in moments when they do not necessarily deserve it. Never underestimate the power of love to heal the wounds within. If a mistake is made, err on the side of compassion and generosity.

A request for my business card is accompanied by assurances that what’s provided will be returned once he’s home. Many make that offer. In 23 years only two have made good on it. The slim odds were a known quantity before we sat down together.

So tonight’s thoughts are occupied by a contrite bull rider who found himself thrown from the back of an unruly life and ended up eating his share of dirt. Did he make it safely home? Will he rein in his living and make a new start before the buzzer sounds?

Sometimes you aren't granted the luxury of knowing.

Fully Alive

2010-01-16T16:13:00.004-06:00

A person can be alive but fail to experience fullness of life. We know this, don’t we?

Many shuffle through their days like people half dead rather than fully alive. We get stuck in a rut that is comfortable but not conducive to healthy and productive growth. The environment we inhabit is too often stagnant and stale rather than fresh and vital.

We feel the weight of each new day and the burden of decisions life requires of us. Our possessions can end up possessing us instead. Too often we are like people treading water to keep from sinking, waterlogged and weary.

Irenaeus was one of the leaders of early Christianity. I confess that he doesn’t come to mind very often. Phillip Yancey’s Back Page Column in Christianity Today (October 23, 2000) reminded me of a statement from that theologian of old.

According to Irenaeus, “The glory of God is a person fully alive.”

Fullness of life has little to do with an increase in material possessions or the length of our existence (two means by which our culture accesses life). Being fully alive is more about the quality of our relationships and realizing the passion and purpose for which we are created.

So at the beginning of this New Year I’ve been asking myself some questions:

Are you fully alive?
Do you measure life by what you can hold in your hands or what you hold in your heart?
Are you living an overcoming life?
Have you discovered the joy of becoming who you were created to be?
Do you find each day an adventure as you experience the reality of the Creator’s presence?

Our response to these questions significantly impacts others with whom we share life. Through personal relationships we either help others become more alive or less so.

So at the beginning of a New Year two goals consume my focus. I want to be more fully alive. I want to help others experience a fuller life as well.

John 10:10

Making the Grade

2009-12-27T00:43:00.008-06:00

When it comes to Christmas, sometimes you have to be flexible. Mother Nature doesn’t always cooperate.

In the town we call home they had a white Christmas for the first time in 80 years. Since we are traveling, our family missed it.

Such is life.

Of course, the snow there was only a couple of inches deep and created only minor inconveniences. The temperature was 70 degrees plus the day before and the frozen precipitation was of short duration.

That's how things roll in Texas.

The town where my parents reside is in another state. The accumulations there were of greater depth. City streets are clear but we have not yet been able to scale the mountain where they live. A family member slid into a drainage ditch while attempting to coerce the van up the ice encrusted incline.

They had to call a wrecker.

A vote was taken among my clan and we opted to hole up in a motel room for the night and give the mountain a shot tomorrow. So around noon I’ll put the SUV in four wheel drive and we’ll see if the ascent can be conquered.

Insert "Tim The Tool Man Taylor" sound effects here.

I confess that when the vehicle was purchased there were only two on the lot. The color we chose just happened to have this feature. So we possess it more by accident than by conscious decision. I can count on one hand the number of times the button on the dash which activates it has been punched. But hey, it’s a good thing to have when you need it.

And tomorrow we will.

My masculine sensibilities look forward with anticipation to the challenge. What good is four wheel drive if you never get to use it? For goodness sakes, climbing nasty terrain is what it’s there for.

The feminine contingent is somewhat anxious about the prospects for our “king of the hill” attempt. If we are successful in making the grade then Christmas with my side of the family will ensue.

If not…that will probably make for a rather interesting post.

Tonight there are patches of ice along the streets where a pedestrian might run (and fall on his/her posterior). I scoped out the motel's modest fitness room and discovered a couple of rather beefy treadmills. This seemed like one of those times when an indoor run was in order.

Normally I hate running on the contraptions. But tonight I got in a good workout on a great machine. The mirrored wall which the treadmill faced was kind of creepy (in the same way that hearing a recording of your own voice singing or speaking leaves you uneasy).

So that’s what I look like? Really?

My legs are pleasantly fatigued and the mind is at peace. The temptation to order pancakes was resisted when the family elected to make a late night run to I-Hop. So I’m feeling rather happy with myself at the moment.

Mission accomplished where tonight’s run is concerned. All in all it’s been a good day.

Tomorrow we tackle the mountain

The Source of Christmas Joy

2009-12-22T23:57:00.002-06:00

A little girl was chosen to play the part of an angel in a play about the Christmas story. After receiving instructions to come down the center aisle she asked, “Do you want me to walk or fly?” The way she posed the question left the impression that if the answer was “fly” then she would gladly comply.

Many of us would like to float blissfully through Christmas on angel wings. The truth is that the holidays aren’t always that easy.

We expect a lot from this season. All the stockings must be hung by the chimney with care though the rest of life may be in total disarray. In a region of the country where significant accumulations of frozen precipitation are rare, we long for a white Christmas. A holiday gathering of pure perfection like those depicted in seasonal greeting cards is what we desire.

We insist our favorite foods be on the dining table though we all crave different things. We expect others to give us the gift we want rather than graciously receiving whatever is given as an expression of their love.

There’s the inevitable tug of war when opposing sides of the family plan celebrations in the same time slot but in separate locations. Extended family members who share a rocky history are expected to interact in perfect harmony. Negotiating the minefield of personal relationships is no easy task. When everyone gets together you have to be careful where you step or the holidays might blow up on you.

The kind of celebration promoted by our contemporary culture is difficult to attain. Reality is rarely as perfect as holiday ads depict. The potential liabilities leave one wondering if celebrating the season is worth the effort.

Our greater need is to experience Christmas as God intends. The good news of great joy which the angels declare is not about life being perfect or easy. Mary and Joseph find shelter in a stable built to house animals not humans. The Christ child is laid in a feeding trough for livestock not a cradle for children. This first Christmas is anything but a prim and proper Martha Stewart affair.

The good news of Christmas is found in Matthew 1:23. The child’s name will be called “Immanuel” which means “God with us.” That night in Bethlehem God came to earth as a child to walk among us, to experience what we experience, to share the challenges and difficulties of this life.

You see, we do not celebrate Christmas because the world is what it should be. Nations are at war with other nations. Too many people in our world are hungry and in need. Injustice and oppression are rampant. People do despicable things to their fellow human beings.

We do not celebrate the season because our lives are easy and free of difficulty. The past year has been trying for many. Our faith is challenged on a regular basis by circumstances we do not understand, questions we do not know how to answer, and problems for which we have yet to find a solution.

All these things are precisely the reason Christ was born in Bethlehem. This good news of great joy is not about life being neat and tidy. This night provides assurance that no matter how messy life gets, a Savior is with us to see us through.

The One we honor at this season of the year has overcome the world, our sin, death and the grave by what he accomplished on Calvary’s cross and through the empty tomb. In him you will find a Savior who remains when everyone else walks out.

So don’t spend an inordinate amount of time and resources seeking joy in the way our world does Christmas. You’ll likely be disappointed that your holidays are not greeting card perfection.

Celebrate instead the wonder of how God does Christmas. Find your joy in the gift of his Son born in Bethlehem’s manger. He brings light to our darkness, help and companionship for our present and hope and security for our future

We don’t celebrate the season because life is perfect. If this world was all it should be we wouldn’t need one called “Immanuel.” We celebrate because a perfect Savior has come to lead us though this imperfect world and back to God.

Commit life to him and you will find a certain source of joy.

Hello...Good-bye

2009-12-11T02:31:00.006-06:00

Last night’s run was the first in a new pair of shoes.

Soles of the old pair were worn through, exposing the gel pad once embedded in the heel. No further service was owed. They carried me more miles than any of their predecessors.

So I figured it was time to lace up a new pair.

Nothing is better than the initial outing in new, cushy, shoes. It’s a mental thing, I suppose. They are at peak performance the first time you slip them on. That knowledge makes the first strides exhilarating.

If it doesn’t, can you claim to love running at all?

Retiring an old pair of shoes is difficult. Shared miles leave me nostalgic no matter how worn. Trashing good friends never seems reasonable. Their continued existence is justified under the pretense of needing them for yard work or other utilitarian tasks.

Which is strange.

These days, someone else does the lawn around here. Most of the shoes purchased during 6.5 inglorious years of running are still in my possession. So there’s no shortage of spare footwear from which to choose should necessity arise.

A virtual worn-out running shoe museum resides behind the doors of my non-walk-in closet. They chronicle our common journey.

But who’d pay to see that?

Returning Thanks

2009-11-25T01:50:00.004-06:00

In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, people on Facebook are posting one thing each day for which they are thankful. A friend posted the following:

“I am thankful for whoever’s idea it was to post something that we are thankful for every day. I, who can too easily see the glass as half empty, am now thinking of all the things I have to be thankful for. It’s hard to choose just one for the day. I am so blessed and fortunate. Thanks for the reminder. “

Thankfulness is like that. You begin to count life’s blessings only to find there are many more to be enumerated. The blessings don’t multiply because they are counted. They are present all along. Thankfulness has a way of bringing to our attention gifts otherwise hidden from our view. Look carefully at all we enjoy and what grows is an awareness that we’ve been given quite a lot.

Receiving these blessings leaves us pondering their Source. Gifts given imply the presence of a Giver. Thankfulness is our appropriate response for the many good gifts sent into our lives. Gratefulness forms the basis for gifts extended to others. We give out of the overflow of what we have received.

Why else are we compelled to cultivate an attitude of gratitude during this season of the year? If the good we enjoy merely happens as the result of fate, coincidence or luck, then why be thankful at all? If they come to us intentionally through the generosity of One who gives us life, how can we neglect to return thanks for all we have received?

The problem (at least for me) is that unexpected blessings enter my life so regularly that it’s easy to take them (and their Source) for granted. Because good gifts are bestowed consistently and generously, I often begin to expect them thoughtlessly without returning appropriate thanks.

Thankfulness cannot be manufactured or coerced. Gratitude, like any gift, must be freely given. Heartfelt appreciation is about the best gift we have to offer in response to all we have received. Nothing inspires us to be generous to others like acknowledging what is so graciously given to us.

Thanksgiving found me unexpectedly this year though two songs. Sarah McLachlan suggests that we all encounter “ordinary miracles” each day. One listen was enough to plant a seed of gratitude within and (as she says) you “don’t need to teach a seed to grow.”

Ordinary Miracle

It's not that unusual
When everything is beautiful
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today

The sky knows when it's time to snow
Don't need to teach a seed to grow
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today

Life is like a gift, they say
Wrapped up for you everyday
Open up, and find a way
To give some of your own

Isn't it remarkable?
Like every time a raindrop falls
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today

The birds in winter have their fling
And always make it home by spring
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today

When you wake up everyday
Please don't throw your dreams away
Hold them close to your heart
'Cause we are all a part

Of the ordinary miracle
Ordinary miracle
Do you want to see a miracle?

It seems so exceptional
That things work out after all
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today

The sun comes out and shines so bright
And disappears again at night
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today

It's just another
Ordinary miracle today

May you have a blessed holiday with family and friends as you give thanks for ordinary miracles and all the other blessings of life. Oh, and the other song?

You’ll find it here.

Maybe There's Hope

2009-11-18T00:51:00.020-06:00

Monday night’s run is the coolest of the fall. Temperatures are in the mid 40’s as I exit the car.

The brisk air activates a mild case of asthma. Sometimes on cold nights I’ll take precautions before leaving the house. Because it’s a relatively rare occurrence, the wheezing tends to sneak up on me. Such is the case on this night.

Normally, the bronchial passages open after the first couple of miles. I push the pace and am well satisfied with the finishing time.

On Tuesdays a group of ministers meets in my office for conversation and coffee. These guys are a great source of support and encouragement. There are aspects of our vocation that only another minister understands. Time together is one of the best parts of my week. If the brew is good then the fellowship takes care of itself.

So following the run I make a stop at the local grocery store in search of a robust, dark roast coffee. A can of sweetened condensed milk is snagged because the guys sometimes like to add it to the cup. I could eat the stuff straight from the can.

Earlier in the week Pamela discovered the store now carries a particular brand of cinnamon cookies we took a liking to many years ago. Unavailable for over a decade, they suddenly turned up on the shelf. They are light and crispy with just a hint of sweetness. The perfect compliment to strong coffee.

I make my way to the checkout line and witness a random act of kindness. A guy and his six pack are in the process of checking out. As the cashier rings up the total he is short on cash. He apologizes profusely and indicates he will get change from his car.

A young lady stands in line between he and I. Without a moment’s hesitation she tells the clerk that she will complete his purchase. The young man shoots her an uneasy smile.

"You don't have to do that." She counters that it would be her pleasure.

The clerk hands the guy his change. He holds it for only a second when a light dawns within. He turns to the one who rescued him.

“This is yours ,” he says with a smile, depositing the change in her hand. Then he adds, “Thanks, I really appreciate that.” Then he is on his way.

Maybe she just wanted to save the guy the inconvenience of a trip back to his car. Or maybe the fact that she was also buying a six pack created common ground between them. Whatever the reason, her simple act of kindness is about as generous an exchange as I’ve witnessed in a long time.

When it comes her turn to check out, she discovers that she no longer has sufficient funds to cover her purchase. She fumbles with her purse and glances back at me as I hold up a dollar and we laugh. “There” she says with a sense of satisfaction as she hands the cashier a couple of quarters scavenged from the bottom of her purse. With that she's off, grinning as she makes her way to the exit.

A smile also spreads across my face while crossing the parking lot to my car. What a different place this would be if people were always that thoughtful. It’s enough to make you think there might be hope for the world after all.

Some night’s you lace up the shoes determined that running will be the evening’s priority only to find it’s not the main event at all. Sometimes people surprise you. They leave you feeling guilty for being so cynical.

And that’s a good thing.

Blue and Black

2009-11-13T01:25:00.006-06:00

One of my favorite colors is midnight blue.

That became clear when overhauling the blog last week. I don’t have an explanation for why that became necessary. All of a sudden there was a need for something different. The call could not be denied. I’m grateful for another blogger who helped me answer that call.

So over the past week more hours than I would care to admit were spent tinkering with a new template. Getting all the bells and whistles operational was a matter of trial and error. I think they all work now. You’ll let me know if they don’t, right?

Who knew that Blogger had a new post editor? Or that comments could be added to the end of a post rather than on a separate page? What planet have I been on while all this innovation was taking place?

I learned how to create a wider header and perused articles to find solutions for a few glitches. At times the difficulty was more the result of personal ignorance than a problem with the template. There. I said it.

Then there were all those little check boxes where the colors for various components of the page must be selected. The process is tedious. Once I had them all chosen, an inadvertent key stroke reset them randomly with a single click. In an instant everything became a mass of magenta, purple and lime green.

I didn’t think you were ready for that.

While I wanted a different look, I found myself drawn again and again to the darker blues of the palatte. The reason for that became apparent while the blog was being deconstructed and reconstructed (tasks like that always get worse before they get better).

Church members driving home in the early twilight this past week might have been surprised to catch a glimpse of their pastor perched on the steeply pitched roof of the sanctuary, eyes patiently scanning the heavens. Why would he do something like that?

A friend sent an e-mail indicating that the space shuttle could be seen orbiting the earth for about three minutes around dusk. My formative years coincided with the development of the space program. I’ve always been curious about what takes place beyond the bounds of this planet.

My mind cannot comprehend the wonder of a universe with countless galaxies and billions of stars sown amid the vast emptiness of space. A borderless cosmos which stretches to infinity leaves me in speechless awe. The feeling of amazement never gets old no matter how many nightly runs are logged.

Contemplating an endless universe with limitless boundaries makes believing in an eternal Creator who is without beginning or end infinitely easier for me. Knowing that I somehow figure into the scheme of all that leaves me humbled to a degree that is difficult to express.

Under that sky that is neither blue nor black, but an indescribable mixture of the two, being aware of the presence of my Maker is somehow simplified. I sense a power that transcends any earthly source and give thanks for the privilege of being a part of all that is.

What I learned last week is that that the blue-black of that celestial canopy overhead never fails to stir my thoughts and emotions. Capturing a bit of that hue on the space where I write somehow extends what is experienced on the run. Reading what occurs to me out there on a midnight-blue background somehow seems fitting.

Even so, I deliberately chose to go with something different this time. Change is a good thing. Besides, Blogger didn’t offer a true midnight-blue on the limited dashboard color palette and I wouldn’t possess the technological savvy to know what to do with the color code for the perfect blue-black shade if someone gave it to me.

Someone will no doubt suggest that the outside border of the new template is a dark shade of blue (not unlike the blue-black that inspires me so). But that’s where you’d be wrong. It’s actually the deepest shade of green available. The fact that it looks rather midnight blue-ish is strictly coincidental.

Convenient, eh?

Thanks for Your Persistence

2009-11-08T13:05:00.002-06:00

The invitation didn’t sound inviting in the moment when extended. An elderly lady requested that I join her for lunch in the cafeteria at the retirement center which is now her home.

She tried to tempt me with the knowledge that they employ a gourmet chef. “The food,” she said, “is really tasty.” I remained unconvinced, mostly because of my inability to associate the words “retirement center” with a four or five star dining experience.

Enumerating the number of weeks that pass before her request is accepted would be embarrassing. A hectic work schedule is offered as justification for my procrastination.

There’s no shortage of people who want the pastor to be involved in their circumstances. The decision about where you spend your time isn’t as simple as choosing between black and white. There’s lots of gray mixed in there.

My friend is nothing if not persistent. Over time she wears me down with her gracious persistence. When I knock on her door on the appointed day, the joy her broad smile communicates is in complete contradiction to the quiet reluctance within me.

The conversation is lively even if our pace is not as we start down the hallway. She’s a thoughtful person with a thorough grasp of her mental faculties and possessing clarity of conviction. Her frankness is refreshing as opinions are expressed on one topic and then the next. You never have to wonder about where she stands.

People at surrounding tables speculate about the identity of her guest. This delights her no end. Some assume I am her son. There is something motherly about the way she guides me through the gauntlet of food as our trays are filled.

Humans are a predictable lot. A discernable yet unwritten etiquette determines who sits at what table. This is not unlike the way members of my congregation tend to sit in the same seat each week as if their names are engraved there, though they are not. The experience is a like playing musical chairs and I cannot help but wonder who my presence will displace.

We are joined by two ladies who take chairs on either side of me while I sit facing my friend. After obligatory introductions are made I offer to return thanks to the One who makes every meal possible. To my surprise, the quality of the food is not exaggerated.

Conversation reveals that the lady on my left came to live at the center after her husband died. With the help of her daughter she made the move from her home in the country. Shortly thereafter her daughter became ill and passed away.

One of the most tragic experiences with which we cope in this life is loneliness. I’m convinced we are created to share life in community. The knowledge that you are absolutely alone is an unbearable weight none of us is meant to carry.

Moments listening to her story seem to provide a blessed, if brief, respite from the wrestling match with that formidable opponent. Within me there is a fullness of spirit not present when sitting down.

The lady to my right was born in Russia. She and her husband immigrated to the United States before I was born. He entered med school while she became a nurse. After years of preparation in California they became medical missionaries.

For years they help run a hospital in a troubled nation where people have limited access to medical care. She tells of the blessing of obtaining surgical equipment from departing U. S. forces which were superior to the crude instruments they’d been using. They worked diligently to obtain resources to keep the doors of the institution open.

They pursue this calling out of love for the One who made them and because of the great need of the people they served. Her story is related through a strong Russian accent and an even stronger sense of conviction. She speaks as if their service was the most important work in the world.

We are fortunate in this life if we find a reason for living that requires nothing short of the best within us. If that work also leaves the world a better place, then we are twice blessed. Life doesn’t get any better than that.

If I live as long as my friend on the left there will come a day when I will likely face the foe she battles. My prayer is that there will be someone who, by their simple presence, will bring a measure of relief from the weight of loneliness. In the economy of this life we are present for others with a hope that someone will be present with us when our time comes.

The new friend on the left reminds me of how causally I often regard the days given to me. My desire is to spend the limited time here engaged something significant. I’d like to finish this life with the knowledge that my best was invested and that others somehow benefit from those efforts.

Things are not always as they appear. Life is unpredictable. We mostly think of this in terms of the unexpected difficulties we face.

Life is also filled with unexpected blessings. On this day I am the recipient of an unanticipated gift through the presence of three women who accept me into the circle of their friendship. One thought comes to mind as I bid my gracious host goodbye.

Thanks for your persistence.

More Food for Thought

2009-10-30T00:26:00.002-06:00

Following a late night run the body cannot go to sleep, but following an early morning run the body demands a nap.

What's up with that?

Food for Thought

2009-10-27T21:49:00.005-06:00

Have you ever noticed after a few nights of not running for legitimate reasons, that illegitimate reasons for not running somehow begin to look more legitimate?

There are Reasons Why the Posts are Sparse

2009-10-13T01:00:00.010-05:00

Sometimes life throws you one of those curves you didn’t see coming. The story is a long and I won’t relate it here. Suffice it to say that there have been some challenges of the non-running variety to be confronted in recent days.

On top of that, this is one of the wettest falls I can remember in these parts. Normally I don’t have to run in the rain in Texas. Apparently that is about to change because it’s raining every day.

So there hasn’t been a great deal of running as of late.

On top of that, we made a trip this past weekend to see my daughter in a program at her university. The good news is that we spent a blissful couple of days on a houseboat on the most beautiful lake in Arkansas courtesy of my daughter’s boyfriend’s family.

The bad news is that somewhere on the trip my laptop was damaged, though I can’t figure out how. It was nestled all snug and safe in its padded compartment in my backpack.

The screen was cracked in two places. There were dark patches were the goo in the center of the LDC display had oozed out of its normal confinement. The image began to flicker and then it seemed that only the vertical pixels were working. Then it faded out all together. It was the kind of awful lingering death you’d never wish on anyone.

I read a while back how a fellow blogger changed the display on her computer. So I figured it could be done. Actually, I rarely have difficulty taking things apart. I’m gifted that way.

So my laptop is now resting in a ga-billion pieces awaiting the delivery of a new display. There were times when a considerable amount of angst gripped me when considering this project. But instructions can be found on the internet if you ever find yourself in a similar predicament. I weighed the risks against the potential savings and decided it was worth a try.

Hopefully Federal Express will cooperate and expedite the delivery while I still remember what goes where. Ordering the replacement screen was actually more work than disassembly. Here’s hoping reassembly goes as smoothly.

When there’s little running going on and the laptop is on the fritz that doesn’t bode well for blogging. Just thought you should know.

Note to Self

2009-10-09T06:44:00.001-05:00

You can run 5 miles in less than 10 minutes per mile.

Hills?

Nobody cares. So hush.

It’s all just distance to be covered. And it can be covered.

You know this.

You beat that mark handily three times last week. And tonight’s run was completed in the same time. Sure it was .2 of a mile shorter. But there was a stiff breeze and it was 12 degrees warmer.

Give yourself a break.

It’s all just a matter of how heavy you are willing for the lungs to heave. They’ll get over it.

Eventually.

They always do.

This Morning's Run

2009-10-03T11:49:00.007-05:00

Taking a camera with you isn't a good idea if you are seeking to log a run at a fast clip. I forgot about that when I picked mine up just before heading out the door this morning.

However, if you want your attention to be drawn to stuff you would otherwise never notice, it's just what you need. For instance, I noticed this morning that there is a conspicuous lack of consistency in the colors chosen for fire hydrants in our little town. What's up with that?

Dear Mr. Suburban Driver Guy,

2009-10-01T01:21:00.007-05:00

Please do not pretend that you did not see me running along the side of the road tonight.

Even if it sounds plausible in the moment that we pass, when the policeman arrives to inspect my bruised and bleeding body lying on the warm black asphalt, this excuse won’t really hold water. We are both intelligent enough to know this.

Aren’t we?

Besides, I was wearing a white shirt. Both my shorts and shoes are equipped with a reflective stripe. You momentarily blinded me by switching your headlights from low beam to high. I’m pretty sure my presence was unmistakable in that awesome display of candlepower.

It’s not like I was running down the center stripe for goodness sakes. I wasn’t even running in the center of your lane for crying out loud. I moved into the gutter where the grit and the gravel collect. The concrete there is slanted at an uncomfortable angle.

What more do you want from me?

I am traveling six miles per hour at best. You are traveling 40 miles per hour at minimum. So it’s not that I don’t want to alter my direction. Because of the speed differential, it’s just more effective when you alter yours.

My frame is slightly below the build of the average contemporary American male. It’s no threat to your multi-ton behemoth.

We both know this.

As a driver, you have absolutely nothing to gain by failing to yield the right of way to a pedestrian. And as the pedestrian in this equation, I have everything to lose.

They don’t give awards for “the most people run down out here in the dark.” In fact, I have it from a reliable source that local authorities tend to frown on such activity.

And if they don’t, they should.

So please resist the temptation to engage me in a game of “chicken.” You’ll only demonstrate that you are a bully at heart. Everyone knows that bullies seek to compensate for feelings of personal inadequacy by an inappropriate show of force. You don’t want that.

Do you?

Besides, if we were to pass one another in a coffee bar or fast food establishment we would likely acknowledge one another with a friendly nod. In that environment, you might hold the door for me as I enter. Or I might hold the door for you while you exit.

Everything would be perfectly civilized. So there’s really no legitimate reason for us to be enemies out here on the street.

Is there?

In the future, I will endeavor to stay out of your way. In return, please make every effort to allow at least a foot of clearance between your side mirror and me. More room will be greatly appreciated if you can spare it.

And I’m pretty sure you can, if you want to. So tonight I’m wondering.

Why wouldn’t you want to?

It Was A Good Day

2009-09-22T01:09:00.006-05:00

The story is not really mine to relate. Though it's a great one. Worthy of a thoughtful and careful telling. You can find a fuller version here.

When Runners and Non-runners Fail to Communicate

2009-09-09T23:57:00.006-05:00

Me: I ran a half marathon the other night.

Them: Really, you ran a race?

Me: No, you don’t have to enter a race to run 13.1 miles.

Them: You sure you went that far?

Me: I’ve driven the route several times to be sure. Do we need to re-measure?

Them: Did anyone run with you?

Me: You mean someone to validate the distance? Or did you want to run with me?

Them: No. I couldn’t run around the block.

Me: Oh. I see.

Them: Were you running or just jogging?

Me: Well, at what point does jogging become running?

Them: I don’t know.

Me: Well, if 11.6 minutes per mile is running then I ran it. If not, then I guess it was just jogging. I’ll let you decide.

Them: Did you run all of it?

Me: I made one pit stop and paused a couple of times to get a drink. Does that invalidate the rest of the run?

Them: No, I don’t guess so.

Me: That’s a relief. I’d hate to have gotten all sweaty for nothing.

No Carefully Crafted Story Here – Just the Facts

2009-09-02T22:27:00.002-05:00

Last week’s running ended with a 13.1 mile run finished at 1:04 a.m.

Don’t think of it as running late. Think of it as running early.

The goal was to finish in 2:30. That required that each of three loops be finished in 50 minutes. I felt great the first two times around. The watch read 1:39 as the third loop began.

The first 11 miles were enjoyable.

The last two? Not so much.

For the first time ever I felt nauseous before the run was done. There were a couple of hotspots on the right foot but no blisters. The knees were feeling less than stellar.

Things wrapped up in just under 2:33.

Though a bit stiff shortly after the run, I felt really good the next morning. There was no soreness.

All I need to do now is learn how to run twice that distance.

Wow.

Knowing and Being Known

2009-08-28T01:22:00.013-05:00

He waits as my descent is made down a long hill on the “out” portion of the run. Sitting on the railing of a bridge, he leans forward, hands stacked atop a cane, chin resting on gnarled knuckles.

The figure before me is thin, almost painfully so. White hair is cropped short. Many decades line the face.

The bowed back straightens as my approach is made. He returns a grin as I initiate contact.

“How are you this fine morning?”

“I’m real good.”

The exchange takes place with only a momentary change of pace. I pass and the journey continues.

The bridge is clearly visible from the turnaround. The solitary figure has traversed the span. He rail-rests again, poised for a second encounter on the opposite end as the “back” portion of the run begins.

“I’m afraid it’s going to get hot out here before long.”

“Yes Sir, but early this morning it felt real good.”

“You’re right about that. Are you Ok?”

“Yes Sir, I’m just fine.”

His use of “Sir” takes me by surprise. Respect engenders respect. The difference in our relative ages dictates that I’m the one who should be employing that term.

There’s a nagging feeling within as forward progress continues. Several miles pass between shoes in motion and a sidewalk at rest before the source of this uneasiness is pinpointed.

There aren’t any houses in the direction the man is heading, only open fields. His intended destination eludes me. The bridge is a tenth of a mile long at best. If resting is necessary over that distance, I wonder how he will fare when there is no longer a place to sit.

We possess a cultural reluctance where interacting with strangers is concerned. Their presence is acknowledged with a nod and a socially acceptable “How are you?”

Most of the time, there’s a mutual understanding that we aren’t asking for information. We are simply fulfilling an obligation to be polite. There’s no real investment of self in that. Compassion has too little to do with it.

There’s always a measure of risk in knowing others and being known. Revealing one’s name and learning another’s has a way of personalizing the encounter. People take on a unique identity instead of blending into the generic mass of humanity. When we begin to see others for who they are, compassion often follows.

Something about that process extends and communicates a measure of worth to an individual. Valuing and being valued can be affirming in a most powerful way.

The nagging feeling carried to the end of the run and beyond is eventually named. On this day, mere acknowledgement deprives me of a potential acquaintance. Provided an unexpected opportunity to know and be known on a personal level, I opt for something less. Questions about the man’s wellbeing remain unanswered because they are unspoken. Regret is the unexpected companion sharing the ride home with me.

A multitude of things in life are more important than running. The people we encounter often hold a greater potential for enriching life than the simple act of logging miles. An opportunity to be a blessing, if chosen, is often the greatest blessing of all.

This morning’s run leaves the body invigorated while the spirit feels a sense of loss. A chance to know another and to be known sat before me.

And I passed.

It Was Both

2009-08-08T23:29:00.024-05:00

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us….”

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

Sometime before Thursday night’s run I began thinking “long.” My mind settled on combining two out and back routes with a loop around the neighborhood. I had never run them all at once.

Along the way, an impulsive right turn was taken into a well lighted subdivision. Few homes have been built there. I had no idea where the road led or how much distance this would add to the run. Optimism left me feeling that all four sections could be completed in spite of this ignorance.

Correction.

I was thinking “epic.”

When you are going long it’s probably wise to know for certain the distance you are covering. What you don’t know can kill you. You will finish, after all, at the threshold of exhaustion and hopefully not too far past it. Indiscriminately adding hills when there’s no reason to do so is foolish. I did succeed in finishing the four sections while running farther than ever before. But the last couple of miles were sheer agony.

I am an idiot.

Need proof?

Feeling good about surviving my epic run, other forms of insanity were considered. Like how far I would have to run to finish with my first 30 mile week. The number seemed doable. I took an afternoon nap, donned the hydration pack, and headed out around 5:15.

Only I didn’t consider that it was still 95 degrees. Or that there is a great difference between running at that temperature and the 85 degrees to which I’m accustomed at night. Or that the radiant energy of the sun is capable of heating the skin’s surface to a temperature that exceeds the surrounding air thereby draining the life out of you.

There was a 15 mile per hour breeze blowing and low humidity. This combination apparently caused most of my sweat to evaporate rather than accumulate. I wasn’t nearly as damp as expected but was drinking water like crazy.

Fortunately, there is a Wal-Mart at the most distant portion of the run. Months ago I had the wisdom to place a $5 bill in the plastic bag along with my cell phone in the pocket of my hydration pack. So I popped in to buy a bottle of sports drink. The air-conditioning was a blessed relief.

Only the sweat began to pour off of me the longer I stood in line. I’m talking at an embarrassing dripping-on-the-floor rate. My heart rate was still elevated. My breathing was rapid. People stared like they’d never seen someone wearing a hydration pack before. I just smiled and nodded “hello” knowing how odd I must look.

Once past the check-out line, I stood in the entry way by the coke machines and downed the sports drink. The bottle was tossed in the trash and I headed back out.

Though feeling somewhat refreshed, alternating walking and running was necessary to get back to the car. My legs were not quite ready for a second epic performance in one week.

I have a lot to learn.

Technically, I was moving out there for 30 miles this week. Subtracting today’s walking distance still leaves me with more miles than previously logged in a single week. I also succeeded in logging the longest run I’ve ever done.

But there was more suffering involved than expected due to some bad judgment and inexperience. Then again, experience is sometimes the result of bad judgment, I suppose. The only good thing about bad judgment is if you learn from it.

It was a good week, it was a difficult week; it was a thing of beauty, it was the epitome of ugliness; it was a dream come true, it was a superlative nightmare; it was the product of extraordinary effort, it was an act of lunacy…

Offerings

2009-07-28T02:48:00.003-05:00

Questions about how we will spend our days are easier to answer if we’ve predetermined what is important to us. Life invariably revolves around something. We either choose that which is at the core of life and gives it meaning, or life gravitates to some unchosen center by default.

Leave the matter to chance and before long you can find yourself making careless contributions to people and causes which may not be worthy of your generosity. We too often spend the resources entrusted to our care on people who have no intention or ability to appreciate them.

We all make daily offerings. These personal contributions form the substance of our living. Giving of ourselves is the means by which we participate in this existence and thereby live a life. There are people to whom (and causes to which) we ought to give ourselves freely and generously, without hesitation or reservation. The gifts we give have a tendency to prompt a similar response in others which yields unexpected dividends. The offerings we make leave us richer rather than poorer in the process.

The best gifts we bestow come from within and represent a significant personal investment of who we are. We are finite creatures. We do not possess unlimited resources. We cannot do everything for everyone in every situation. For this reason, how we spend the resources we do possess matters greatly.

Too many of us give too much of ourselves to others too quickly. Our inability to say “No” leaves us surrendering our best to the tyranny of mediocrity. There plenty of people who make it their business to take what’s precious from those who give themselves thoughtlessly. Because they are takers by nature, this process is repeated in serial fashion as they move from relationship to relationship.

Intimacy is never a casual gift. That perception is formed when we value ourselves too little and create a self-fulfilling prophecy. When we dole ourselves out too freely it’s tantamount to saying that we don’t value or respect the offering extended from our lives. If what we give and to whom it’s given doesn’t matter to us, then how can it matter to others? One can offer pearls before swine but that never constitutes a fulfilling stewardship of the gifts we’re given.

Those who take advantage of us are often blamed for making us feel as if our life and its gifts don’t matter. I fear we are the guilty ones for allowing ourselves to be used and abused in such a gullible fashion. Life feels cheap because we choose to sell our best to the lowest bidder.

Many too casually invest resources in material things. We justify this by reasoning that since our resources are limited, they wouldn’t make a difference, and therefore where they are expended doesn’t matter. Because we cannot do all that is needed we excuse ourselves from doing anything. Instead we hoard our offerings and spend them on ourselves.

We fail to envision the generosity our gifts might inspire in others. When we find something worth the investment of our talents and resources, others will likely come alongside to add their own contributions. Before long, the momentum of a community begins to rise to the challenge.

The limited nature of our resources necessitates thoughtfulness in the way they are spent. The only way our gifts can be maximized is if we are discerning and deliberate about investing them in the causes and people that matter most.

We are often willing to adopt a short-sighted perspective that embraces immediate pleasure rather than a longer view that considers the potential good born from more worthy pursuits. In our quest for popularity and notoriety we choose what is expedient but not necessarily wise.

Talents and abilities achieve less than they should because we are motivated more by public praise than personal convictions. We’d rather be known for independent achievements than for contributing to the common good. We settle for success rather than seeking significance. We become preoccupied with self-absorption rather than participating generously in the community at large.

We make offerings of ourselves to people and causes on a daily basis. Our resources are limited. That shouldn’t lead us to conclude that what we have to give is unimportant.

This reality simply means we have to be intentional about the offerings we make. What and how we give are crucial if we are to maximize the impact and influence of what we’ve been given. Only through thoughtfulness will our gifts be channeled in such a way that they matter as much as they should.

The offerings we make must matter to us or they won’t matter to anyone. And they ought to matter.

A lot.

The Way It Is

2009-07-25T00:25:00.005-05:00

The cool front predicted for this week did arrive. With it came not only lower temperatures but also needed rain. No one was happier about that than yours truly.

I had every intention of taking full advantage of this relative cold snap. But life has a way of happening differently than we imagine. Some people who are dear to me are currently facing some major life struggles. They need and deserve the best a pastor can offer. My desire is to meet those needs to the best of whatever abilities the Creator has given me.

As a result my weekly running goal was in jeopardy. The responsibilities looming ahead for the weekend were charted and would not afford space for the full compliment of runs.

Creativity took hold and began to imagine ways in which the miles could be logged. Doing two nights work in one run would keep me on track. Combining two out and back routes never run on a single evening would do the trick. This flash of inspiration happened to coincide with an evening in the low 80’s. Perfect.

In spite of a predawn trip to the hospital with friends and the fact that my wife took me out for a heavy meal of barbequed ribs, thoughts of going long were still appealing. And compelling. So after dinner I came home, napped for an hour, and was out running at my usual time.

The night air was a bit humid but refreshing. Funny how a few nights of extreme heat enable you to more fully appreciate weather about which you would otherwise gripe. When the family asks how the run went I reply with a single word.

“Done.”

So the week’s mileage has been salvaged. I’ll need one more run. That’s doable.

Now, I know there’s nothing earth-shattering about this post. But it seems I’m in good company these days. Last week some time was invested in surveying running blogs in search of thoughtful people writing creatively about their running experiences. Time to listen to some new voices and seek out some new ideas.

My informal survey leads me to conclude that there are probably more abandoned running blogs out there in cyber space than those being kept current by regular posting.

I regret that it’s been awhile since this space has received my best efforts. Blogging for me is equal parts running and writing. I’m doing more running than writing at present.

At present, that’s just the way it is.

Can't See The Forest For The Trees

2009-07-22T00:17:00.009-05:00

Coping Rather Than Complaining

2009-07-17T02:04:00.011-05:00

In the days when graduate work brought me to Texas, I also worked part-time for the federal government. Each worker was allotted a prescribed number of hours per year.

Put in all your hours before your anniversary date and you found yourself looking for some kind of work to tide you over until your hours renewed. Of course, the government also had to look for workers to replace you during the time you were away (which doesn’t make any more sense to me now than it did then).

The father of a close friend was an industrial arts teacher who roofed houses during his summer vacation to make extra money. Necessity caused me to accept the invitation to work with them. After the first day of tearing off shingles it became apparent to me that roofing in the Texas heat is no way to spend one's summer vacation.

One of the guys who signed on the crew was a former football player who was twice my weight. He generally threw himself into the work and by noon was exhausted. I instinctively paced myself so as to be able to work at a steady rate throughout the day. This was a constant irritation to my well-muscled coworker.

There was a short period when I found myself feeling sick shortly after climbing back on the roof after lunch. We were dining at a local cafeteria for most of our mid-day meals. One day as we reached the end of the serving line I realized there was as much food on my tray as on his. The subsequent decrease in my noon nutritional intake resulted in a proportional increase in my wellbeing in the afternoon heat. Sometimes less is more.

There have been a few weeks of less than stellar running of late. There was the week before my daughter’s wedding when I missed some runs. There was the week after her wedding when we were in recovery mode. The week after that, some time was spent in a local emergency room with a family member (and yes, everything is fine).

I still managed to run a couple of times each week. To tell the truth, when the regular schedule was resumed the body didn’t feel any worse for the short mileage. The light weeks may have actually done me good.

Back to back days of 100+ degree weather are proving to be a challenge. The bad part is not just the in-your-face blast furnace of afternoon heat. At night temperatures only get down to the mid 80’s and morning temperatures rise quickly. This time of year there’s not much relief to be found no matter when you lace up the shoes.

On one recent night the temperature was still around 97 degrees when I left the cool comfort of the house at 10 p.m. I haven’t had the heart to check the temperature since. There will be one terribly disappointed Texas runner if the cool front predicted for this weekend does not arrive.

I’m currently running a route that allows me to log 5.8 miles each evening. Like in my roofing days, I’ve found it necessary to pace myself so as not to overheat on the “out” portion of the run. The prevailing breeze in these parts is at my back. My meager pace is sufficient to negate its cooling effect. Who knew?

As the turn is made on the “back” portion of the run I’m able to pick up the pace considerably. By that time I’m drenched and running against the breeze feels heavenly. Miles in summer’s heat leave me less interested in writing after my return to the house. I’m also slightly more fatigued the next morning than when running winter miles.

Like back in my roofing days, I eat a light supper most evenings. The earlier, the better. Otherwise my stomach feels heavy and uncomfortable the whole way. I find myself looking forward to a full dinner on the nights when no run is scheduled. Running determines whether each evening is feast or famine.

The CamelBak has been a constant companion. Hauling more water than you think you need is a good thing. The extra weight can only make you stronger and you can always pour out what’s unused at the end of the run. Wishing for water you do not have is not the least bit refreshing.

Texas summers are not my favorite time for running. Even so, learning to manage discomfort is not a bad thing. The realization that you can do something you thought you couldn’t is a bonus.

My goal is to hang out at the 5.8 distance through these dog days. When the blessed coolness of fall arrives the miles of summer running will serve as a solid foundation for longer runs. I’m feeling stronger. A few pounds have been shed. My doctor and dentist tell me how amazing my blood pressure and heart rate are “for a guy your age.” That’s still a plus. I think.

My energies are focused on coping with summer’s heat rather than complaining about it. So far, that philosophy is proving productive. You can’t change the fact that it’s summer. You can only change your response.

I have.

Runner's Prayer Seven

2009-07-03T23:38:00.003-05:00

Our Father,

We rise each morning to face many challenges. Some are freely chosen. Others arrive uninvited.

We come to this event seeking the best that is in us. Because of our faith in you and the abilities you provide, help us to run this race and all of life with an overcoming attitude. Teach us to confront adversity with diligence so that we may emerge victorious.

As we face the challenges of this day, relieve us of all that is wasteful. Free us from negativity and pessimism. Remove from us anxiety and fear which would sap our energy and burden our spirit.

Give us vision to see your purpose and plan for our lives. Grant us wisdom for the decisions that lie before us. Help us to run with determination and resolve. May there be nothing half-hearted about the personal investments we make in this endeavor.

Neither this contest nor the journey of life is easy. We do not ask you to make our way free of difficulty. Instead, we ask you to supply resources adequate for attaining difficult goals.

When the distance is covered and the pain is past, we pray that our efforts will honor you and that our joy will be full.

Amen.

A Walk to Remember

2009-06-29T00:39:00.015-05:00

She is an absolute vision as the offered arm is taken. But then, as her dad, it’s not an objective observation. We begin the short slow stroll down the aisle with a mutual smile.

Her beauty has nothing to do with the dress she wears, or make-up applied, or styled hair. The loveliness before me is all about who she has become and the joy radiating from within. That’s what makes her stunning.

The church is filled with family and friends. Every eye is on us. Even so, what I sense most is the pleasant pressure of her palm resting in the crook of my elbow. For these brief moments there is no one else but she and me in this narrow space bounded on either side by pews and spectators. I have her all to myself.

A tightrope of emotions must be traversed on this day. Being her father is an inexpressible privilege. A multitude of joys flood the senses and threaten to overwhelm me. Gratitude at being selected for this sacred assignment overflows.

There’s an additional calling to preform. Through the years she is reminded that my most significant role on this day is to be her dad. She responds that I am the only pastor she has ever known. The request cannot be refused.

The task before me is impossibly difficult. In the few moments allotted, how can one celebrate the child who has always been yours and the young man who has become family? How can one adequately communicate who they have been and envision what they will become together?

The few carefully constructed paragraphs shared on this day are the product of late night reflection. An attempt is made to speak personally and from the heart. The minister is calm and collected, while the dad struggles with sentiments that challenge composure.

From the time we learned a child would bless our home, her mother and I prayed for the young man who stands beside her though we did not know his name. When she came home in the second grade talking about this boy in her class, we had no way of knowing that those prayers were already being answered.

The one who stands beside her has become a man of integrity and trustworthiness. In word and deed he exhibits a maturity beyond his years. His full commitment to the One who makes life possible enables her parents to fully commit a daughter into his care and keeping.

There is no hesitation or reservation in a father’s heart as the minister pronounces what the two of them already understand. They are bound as one from this day forward by the Father’s work and their love.

A few months after her birth, I became aware that there are two ways to carry a child. One is to hold them so that they are facing you. In that position, ignoring the little face that looks at you eyeball to eyeball is impossible. You pretty much become the center of their world. It’s an intimate and exclusive kind of experience. In more selfish moments that’s all any parent desires.

Another option is to hold a child so that they face outward. They are still close and secure but can see what’s going on in the larger world around them. I don’t know if the decision has any real impact on either of my daughters, but from an early age the habit of holding them in this outward facing position is adopted. They look and I provide commentary. Things they might otherwise miss are pointed out. Time spent toting them from place to place is transformed into a teachable moment.

Intuition taught me then what is known by experience today. Our children do not really belong to us. They are entrusted into our care for short time. Our assignment while they are on loan to us is to prepare them to embrace life beyond the boundaries of our love.

In the process of fulfilling that task, they bless our lives as we seek to be a blessing to theirs. If we are successful, we send them out to be a blessing to others. We release them into the world to make their own contributions.

I have always considered life’s most significant work to be the children that will remain once I’m gone. My prayer is that the commentary offered while she was young will be beneficial as she travels her own path. I trust a comforting voice will still reverberate within reminding her how deeply a father believes in and admires the capable woman she has become.

Fathers are supposed to be a source of strength and support for their daughters. Comfort is found in the knowledge that when an earthy father has done all human hands can do, there is a loving heavenly Father who will keep her in his watchful care.

In countless ways she has also been a source of strength and support for her dad. Love invested has been returned in fuller measure. In the economy of our Creator that giving and receiving makes life incredibly fulfilling.

So on this day there are no tears. There is only joy for all that has been and all that is yet to be. A sacred space will always be shared between the two of us, bounded on either side by all the other commitments and relationships of life. She will always be my daughter and I will always be her dad.

In that awareness I am content.

Where Have You Been?

2009-06-19T04:16:00.003-05:00

Answer:

One event: Wedding.
Two roles: Father of the bride and minister (in that order).
Three runs: May be all I can get done this week.
Four words: I am incredibly blessed.

Verification

2009-06-13T19:07:00.001-05:00

Telling people about a long run is sort of like making a hole-in-one golfing. A witness to verify the event is a huge plus.

Just because you believe you can go the distance doesn’t mean others share that conviction. They smile and nod politely while the information is related. Behind some eyes you see flashes of a dimly discernable doubt. They won’t be true believers until your story can be corroborated.

That would be one good reason for entering a race. Fill out the entry form, finish the course, and the results are posted in black and white. The result is an easily accessible, objective demonstration of your accomplishment on a given day.

Unfortunately, I have never done that. So for now they’ll just have to take my word for it. Or not.

On Thursday evening a debate rages about the best time to attempt another long run. At this point in my development the chances of completing ten miles during the daytime seem slim, what with the heat and all.

I elect to do the extra distance in the dark where the odds of survival are higher. The halfway point does not find me as fresh as on my last attempt. The night is warm and humid. The mind is determined and the body drenched. After massive gulps from the park water fountain I’m off on the second loop.

The car eventually comes into view again. 10 miles are covered in a time of 2:05. That’s around 4 minutes slower than the previous attempt. Considering the difference in temperature this doesn’t bother me.

I finish the week with a five mile run this morning. No walk breaks are necessary though the sun shines brightly and the humid heat increases steadily as the run progresses. Back at the park I stand in the shade near the water fountain taking in liquid as fast as it can be swallowed. It oozes out every pore of my body as if going through a sieve. It’s a fitting conclusion to a 25 mile week.

The previous long run was not a fluke. I’ve proven to my satisfaction that the distance can be covered.

I just can’t prove it to anyone else yet.

Don't Know What Got Into Me

2009-06-03T01:59:00.020-05:00

My future son-in-law asks on a recent evening how the run went. I reply, “Felt like I could have run forever.”

The statement was not a lie.

Last week, while embarking on my third run in as many nights, the thought that I could do a 10 mile run began to coalesce. A voice from within whispered, “You could do that tonight.”

Tempting.

But no.

Another option was negotiated. I rested Saturday, took a short nap Sunday night after church, drank a stiff cup of espresso, donned the hydration pack and drove to the neighborhood where runs are conducted.

My goal was to travel 10 miles or run for 2 hours which ever came first. My long runs over the past few weeks have increased to 1.5 hours. I felt pretty sure these goals were obtainable.

After one five mile loop a water fountain at the park with insufficient pressure left me carrying less life-giving refreshment than when I arrived. Confidence that the run would be completed remained undiminished.

There was still some bounce in my step most of the way. I felt good the whole distance. Not until starting the last mile was I ready for the run to be over. I finished in 2:01 with a smile. This equals the longest personal distance ever run.

My legs were a bit stiff that night. They felt a bit heavy the next day. The anticipated aches and pains never arrived. I felt really good.

So good that on Monday that same inner voice whispered, “You could do your regular run. Easy.” This time the mature part of me balked, insisting on taking the night off instead.

What have I learned from this little outing?

Feeling stronger is not a delusion. Another injury has been overcome and running continues. Shoes and orthotics are working well for me (the shoe company will no doubt graciously update their product). Running out of a sense of confidence is preferable to running with a nagging sense of doubt. Attempting that which might seem improbable is sometimes a good thing.

The week ahead is laced with commitments. Getting all the runs in will be a challenge. So tonight, at the end of the run, I elect to go another 2 miles. Having that option is nice. Getting a good start on another 20+ miles is a good thing.

I only have one dilemma.

Who’s the guy wearing my shoes?

Running out of Cool

2009-05-30T22:22:00.000-05:00

This spring was made for running. Temperatures for the past few months have been unseasonably low by Texas standards.

Even though yesterday’s high reached 90 degrees, a refreshing coolness lurked in the low lying areas at the bottom of each hill during the evening run. A smile accompanied the sensation.

I’m so focused on getting miles logged that my camera is left at home on a few morning runs. A better blogger would chronicle digitally the time out on the road.

Wild flowers are still blooming. They sprinkle small meadows with an impressive variety of color. A small herd of horses is unfazed as I run along their barbed wire fence close enough to touch them. Part of me wants to pause for that purpose.

There’s the guy push mowing his yard with a toddler perched on his shoulders. Her hands clasp his forehead, legs dangle around his neck. Seems he felt the pressure of marking the chore off his “to do” list but could not leave the child indoors alone. The wisdom of the decision is questioned. Even so, they are an interesting pair making concentric circles across the yard.

If all goes well, tomorrow night I’ll finish another week of 20 plus miles. I’ve tried to make the most of these unusual evenings. Soon the heat will intrude and the coolness will evaporate. I’ve begun carrying hydration in preparation for what is to come.

I resolve to be grateful rather than complain when these mild evenings run out. My running has been unhindered by heat and humidity while reclaiming what was lost through injury. Legs are feeling stronger. Routes are getting longer. Asking for more seems greedy.

When summer’s heat arrives, I’ll remember gifts received in the rare and prolonged season preceding it. In the midst of sweat and labored breathing an attitude of gratitude will remain where the cool used to be.

My plan is to run until the heat runs out. These cool nights will return.

When they do, I’ll be here to greet them.

Out of Africa

2009-05-27T00:38:00.007-05:00

A year and a couple of months ago I returned from a trip from Tanzania, Africa. Some close friends and I spent 17 days speaking in churches and leading a training event for pastors and church leaders. The experience proved to be one of the most significant of my life.

This week another group will be making a similar journey. Over the next couple of weeks my thoughts will be half a world away with friends who are seeking to be an encouragement to a people who are committed to their faith but lack many resources.

My daughter is getting married in June. For this reason I will not be part of the team departing on Thursday. I hope there will be another opportunity in the near future to return to Tanzania.

On our previous trip my commitment was to be of service to the people who gathered for the conference. This was reflected in the series of posts published here (the links are on the sidebar).

In hindsight, there were many pictures of the Serengeti which I never posted. I confess that while I’m glad to have experienced the safari, it was clearly of secondary importance to me.

So over the next couple of weeks I’ll likely post a few of those photographs. I don’t plan to provide much descriptive commentary as I think the pictures will speak for themselves.

One thing I learned is that the compact camera I carry with me while running does not have near enough zoom to capture the wonders of the wilds of Africa. Even so, I hope they will communicate something of the land to which my mind currently is wandering.

Transportation

Sunlight on the plains

These guys look odd dotting the landscape

Hyrax

Hippo

Hyena

Zebra

Food stealer

Chronological Advancement

2009-05-18T23:58:00.031-05:00

Last weekend the family posed for pictures to be included in a pictorial directory produced for our church. My oldest daughter’s wedding is a mere month away. These might be the last photographs the four of us make as a nuclear family.

Nothing chronicles the relentless march of time like these portraits taken at periodic intervals through the years. The girls have grown through childhood to become mature young adults. The photographic evidence of this reality is undeniable.

At their age I harbored an assumption that life would become progressively easier. Over time salaries would increase, expenses would decrease, people would grow up and get along, life’s problems would diminish, and the journey would become less complicated. Somehow this anticipated utopia of relative ease never materialized.

The idea that life requires less effort with the passage of years is a myth. There are continual changes with which to cope. Unannounced transitions must be negotiated on a regular basis. Each stage presents unique challenges.

I am tempted while looking at the progression of photographs to compare the man of five decades with the younger versions depicted before me. That backwards gaze can leave a melancholy feeling if we let it. But it doesn’t have to be that way.

On one hand, time has a way of reminding us that we will never again be what we were. Comparing physical appearance in the present to that of youth can be sobering. We do not always carry the strength of early days into our latter years. Recovering the former glory of some previous stage of life is an unrealistic expectation. I do not ask for life to be what it was.

On the other hand, opportunities abound at any age for those committed to seek them. The succession of years provides experience and understanding inaccessible in earlier stages of life. New possibilities confront those willing to grow, adapt and apply diligent effort. Life presents us with many options. Finding the will to exercise them is the greatest challenge. At my present stage of development I remain optimistic about what the future holds.

I am not into agriculture. No one ever accused my thumb of being green. In spite of my ignorance I’ve learned that farmers in these parts hope to harvest more than one cutting of hay during the growing season.

A good year will yield at least two cuttings. Sometimes, when there are enough warm days and the right amount of moisture, there will be a third cutting. This late harvest is an added blessing which cannot be expected but only gratefully received.

So these days I’m looking for the next harvest. My focus is on the journey ahead. I hope to become the best possible version of myself regardless of age. Hopefully the fruit of my living will make some meaningful contribution.

Years ago, I conducted the funeral of a dear friend. He used to stop by the office unexpectedly. I felt welcome when dropping in at his home. We’d get a cup of coffee and spend a couple of hours talking.

He gave me advice I didn’t ask for when he thought I needed it. I told him what he ought to do whether he liked it or not. He didn’t always comply with my expectations and I did things that frustrated his. Sometimes we laughed and sometimes we cried. We got mad and forgave one another.

I became aware when reading his obituary that he was old enough to be my father and yet we were the best of friends. He taught me much about making the journey of life with my Creator and with others who possess this miraculous gift. I’m grateful for the harvest planted in my life by his. The relationship continues to bear fruit years after his passing.

Some people are beginning to look at me as being chronologically advanced. They do so though I do not feel the least bit ancient. No attempt is made to reason with them. That would be pointless. My only response is a resolve to live life fully.

A daughter’s graduation from college brings awareness that her parents have achieved a life goal. Nothing is more fulfilling than watching a child work diligently and seeing their achievements acknowledged by mentors and peers.

Soon we will gather to celebrate her marriage to a young man who already blesses our lives. The family will be enlarged and our joy will be increased. That event will also leave inevitable realities and transitions in its wake.

Life doesn’t get easier while growing older. Even so, each step of the journey can be rich and rewarding when our best is invested in the process. I gratefully share each stage with the One who makes life possible.

His presence makes all the difference.

Psalm 71:17-18

Runner's Prayer Six

2009-05-06T23:46:00.008-05:00

Our Father,

Because you are present in all of life, we acknowledge you are with us on this day. Though unseen, we ask that your presence will be more real to us than any other.

We seek a communion with you while running that transcends verbal expression. Be our friend and guide, our helper and sustainer as we seek to complete the distance before us.

Though you are unseen, the work of your hands is evident. Accept our gratitude for the privilege of running through your creation. Give us greater understanding of your plan and purpose for including us in all you have made.

Standing at this place of beginning, we recognize that even the persistent demands of training are a gift from you. Help us to find joy in the fruit of our labor while giving our best effort to this chosen task. Supply grace and endurance in sufficient measure for us to finish well in the face of adversity.

Our common love of running brings us together on this day. By your will and purpose the path of our life intersects with others in this event. Bless all who compete with us. Grant that we may know a sense of solidarity and the bond of community as we run together.

We express thanks that in your wisdom and love we do not make this journey alone. Make us mindful of your presence as we run.

Amen

Before the Deluge

2009-05-02T15:49:00.022-05:00

The run is not pretty. But then it’s daylight out and this runner has nocturnal tendencies. My biological clock is not set like normal people.

In fact, my favorite time to do long runs is on Thursday nights. In theory I’m supposed to take Fridays off but usually only manage half a day. Still, the last day of the work week is generally a light one. So it doesn’t really matter how long I’m out there the preceding evening.

I use qualifiers like “usually” and “generally” because my schedule isn’t predictable. That’s one of the things I love about what I do. It’s also one of the things I dislike about my vocation. Ministers are terrible people to have as friends. They have a tendency to cancel on you at the last minute when a need arises in someone’s life.

All that to say, I don’t always get the anticipated time off. I’d rather stay out as long as it takes on Thursday and have my Saturdays free. Things don't always work out that way.

The plan is to travel 7 miles. A fine mist is falling as I exit the vehicle, adjust the heart rate monitor and gather my hydration. Rains of several inches are predicted for this evening. That’s what it takes to make the pale one venture out into the light.

Laura Fabian is belting out ballads on the mp3 player as the run begins. Her voice is soulful and played like a fine instrument. That’s followed by the soundtrack from The Man From Snowy River, one of my favorite movies. Australia, incredible scenery, beautiful horses, glorious music and a love story combined in one flick. When the music swells to a full orchestral rendition of Waltzing Matilda I always get chills. This morning is no exception.

The mist grows heavier the longer I’m out there. It pricks my face like cold needles, the sensation intensified by contrast of heat generated through exertion. The percipitation saturates my shirt and shorts which should have a cooling effect. At least that's what I tell myself. Despite efforts to create positive spin, the lack of wind and enveloping moisture feels more stuffy than anything else.

This 7 is not like the 7 run last week. That was smooth and easy. This is not. In the end I’m four minutes slower. Still, a sense of accomplishment greets me as I return to the SUV.

One of the things I like about the vehicle I drive is that the headrest can be pushed down on the top edge of a beach towel which is then spread over the seat. My wife wants to know about dealer incentives. My needs are more modest. Will the headrest hold a towel in place on the sweaty drive home from running? That’s what I want to know.

As I cross the bridge and turn to get on the freeway, emergency sirens are going off at the local golf course. Clouds of a darker hue are advancing in the distance. Weather alerts broadcast warnings of possible hail and tornadic activity. All I can do is smile.

My work is done before the deluge sets in.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsor...

2009-05-01T02:37:00.012-05:00

The e-mail crept into my in-box unsolicited. The contents were puzzling.

The communication was from a marketing director for a New Balance outlet. She wanted to send me a free pair of shoes to run in.

Free shoes people.

I’m a skeptic at heart. That seemed too good to be true.

In exchange she asked that a link be posted on the sidebar of the blog for a year. She also requested that a post be written about the shoes once I’ve run in them awhile.

That didn’t seem like too much to ask.

One thing I couldn’t figure out. Why me?

There are plenty of you out there who are bona fide runners. You possess way more experience and log way more miles. Now that it’s racing season you spend your weekends participating with the masses in the sport you love.

I, on the other hand, have never run a single race. Dressed in a shirt, shorts and a pair of running shoes, my main task is chasing down random thoughts which float through the head once the body starts moving.

My current goal is less than impressive. I’m closing in on 20 miles a week after working through a particularly persistent iliolumbar ligament strain. I run 4 or 5 nights each week. These days my bread and butter run is 5 miles. The longest I’ve run thus far in my comeback is 7.2 miles.

There may be a time in the past when I’ve enjoyed running more than this spring. If there is, I can’t remember it. The nights have been mostly cool and dry. Every workout leaves me feeling stronger and more alive.

I’d elaborate poetically, but some of you are about to gag.

I reread the e-mail a couple of times and found the only thing which approximated an answer to my question.

“We love great blogs, and want to support active runners building online resources and community. We would love to give you a free pair of shoes to show our support.”

Apparently, it’s as simple as that. Regardless of how the shoes work out, I appreciate a company which offers that kind of encouragement.

So Katrina, if you are reading, thanks for the shoes. They arrived today. I couldn’t resist taking them on a short cruise through the neighborhood this evening.

While I’m no expert, a post will be forthcoming once I’ve had an opportunity to put a few more miles on them.

On another note, I have never solicited support or correspondence from Drymax Socks. To this point they have not contacted me.

Which doesn’t puzzle me at all.

Donald and Olga have spoken so highly of them that I didn’t spend a lot of time reading the wealth of technical information posted on their website. I moved fairly quickly to the “where to purchase button” and purchased the last 5 pair of Drymax Running Lite Mesh No-Show Tab Socks in my size at Running Warehouse for $6.50/pair (they indicate another shipment will be in by May 4). That seems to be a pretty good price as many stores were selling them for between $8 and $10/pair.

I’ve been running for the past five years in socks made out of Coolmax material. After all this time, there's not a hole worn in any of them. Though durable, their appearance ceased to resemble anything approaching clean long ago.

They were purchased at our local Target for next to nothing. The store promptly discontinued them after my 9th pair was purchased. When you are that deliriously happy with a product (and hopelessly undisciplined when in its presence) for some reason retail stores assume it’s their duty to save you from yourself.

Drymax Socks conform to the foot, especially in the arch area, which eliminates slippage. Though the sole of the sock is thin, the material especially dense. This seems to give a bit of cushion without the normal bulk. And of course, the feet stay dry as a bone.

There’s more that could be said. But remember, this is my unsolicited and completely uncompensated opinion being expressed here.

So I can afford to stop now.

Creative Runners

2009-04-25T16:02:00.004-05:00

When running and creativity mix the result can’t help but be good thing. Kurt over at Fast and Far has combined a love of running and music. The result is Runner’s Blessing.

Go give it a listen and while you are there check out some of his other songs. He provides a generous sampling and the songs can also be purchased for download.

In Runner’s Blessing Kurt weaves together so many things which running brings to life. There’s the solitary pleasure of embarking on a run before dawn. The comfort running provides is like a “mother’s voice” (there’s a good post loitering around in that thought). The rhythm of pace and opening of stride cause one to glide over the ground like “water over stone.”

The beauty of nature is present in the winding path and wet autumn leaves, the meadow of tall grass under a clear sky. He captures the spiritual aspect of running in the idea that the Word is living and in motion wherever it’s heard.

Runners understand that “old familiar burn’’ where you’ve committed more of your personal resources than previously given. It’s a paradox that leaves you feeling spent yet fulfilled.

The lyrics struck me first on the first listen. The melody is kind of like meeting a person for only a few moments but immediately having the impression that you’ve known them all your life.

I tend to like songs that tell a story and take me on a journey to a new or familiar place. Runner’s Blessing is a journey of the familiar kind.

* * * * *

On another note, our buddy Robb is hosting a one hour radio program for three radio station’s playing Christian music in Canada. The program airs from 4:30 to 5:30 Atlantic time. You’ll have to calculate the start time where you are.

I caught a listen the other day at 2:30 here in the Central time zone. I set my sports watch alarm, clicked the link for the radio station when it beeped, and then clicked the “listen live” button. Just that easy.

Robb’s post on the topic is rather low key. As I sat listening at my desk I tried not to let enthusiasm get the better of me. I was not completely successful.

Take a listen to his resonate voice and dulcet tones and see if you don’t think this guy is a natural.

Relatively Speaking

2009-04-22T21:11:00.014-05:00

Speed is a relative concept.

Think in terms of being fast and of necessity you have to ask the question, “Compared to what?” Without some objective standard against which a measurement is made, speed has no meaning.

The 2.2 mile loop around the neighborhood is being covered multiple times on most evenings at a pace which is quick for me. No need to share the miles per hour here since, in comparison to all of you, my speed would seem slow.

See how that “relative concept” thing works?

Most of my running is conducted at night under the stars. Because of this, the mind often gravitates to various parts of the universe. The spatial drift challenges my Earth-bound perspective on a regular basis.

The Earth rotates on its axis at 1037.5646 miles per hour at the equator but slows the closer you get to each opposing pole. A precise rotational speed corresponding to where you live and run can be calculated. Just take the cosine of the latitude where you reside and multiply that by the rotational speed at the equator.

Don’t ask me for help. That's what the internet is for. Besides, math was never one of my best subjects.

Let me save you some time.

Before this is over you will see that the difference in rotational speed (due to the fact that speed is relative) becomes rather insignificant in the scheme of things. Some of you will be way more stoked to learn that you weigh slightly less at the equator than at either pole (around half a pound for an individual weighing 150 pounds). That’s just another good reason for lounging around on a beach in some tropical paradise.

No need to thank me. What are friends for?

Sometimes when tired, a mental game is played where I imagine that the friction between my shoes and the ground makes the globe spin. Each toe-off is a push that has the same effect as a gerbil running on his wheel. The Earth becomes a spherical treadmill. Hey, when you’re running on fumes sometimes resorting to mental games makes you feel powerful enough to cover that last mile.

The earth is also rotating around the sun at an approximate speed of 67,000 miles per hour. That trip takes 8,760 hours to complete. By my calculations the distance traveled during the course of a year is somewhere around 587,000,000 miles. Which boggles my mind. But then, maybe it takes less to boggle my brain than other people.

Relatively speaking, of course.

Our solar system, located in one of the smaller spiral arms of the Milky Way Galaxy (the Orion arm), also rotates around the center of that galaxy. Scientists estimate that our solar system is traveling at a speed of 490,000 miles per hour. An astounding 200-230 million years (some say as long as 25o million years, but what’s a few million years between friends?) is required for our sun and planets to complete one circuit of the Milky Way.

And who knows what our galaxy rotates around? At least one source says that the Milky Way is traveling at over a million miles per hour. Our galaxy is growing by colliding with and absorbing smaller galaxies. The greatest collision is projected to take place in 2 billion years when we, while hurtling through space, will collide with the Andromeda Galaxy. That’ll be some show.

So do the math.

When circling the block each evening my pace might seem slow to many. In reality, I’m actually traveling in excess of 1.5 million miles per hour. But then technically, so is every other person on the planet, whether they are running or not. The speed at which we run tends to become inconsequential when you consider all the other movement going on in the universe.

Still, traveling that fast is nothing to be sneezed at. Unless you consider that, despite the immense speed at which you are traveling, you are only moving at roughly 5% of the speed of light.

So maybe we shouldn’t make such a big deal about how fast we run. That’s the case I was trying to make when this all got started.

After all, the notion of speed is a relative concept.

Psalm 19:1-4

This Week's Top Ten Enjoyable Things About Running

2009-04-18T02:01:00.004-05:00

Note: Blogger and I had an unfortunate confrontation this week in which the midweek post was eventually deleted out of frustration while most of you slept. After tonight's seven mile run a sufficient state of peace has been regained for another attempt.

10. The first few runs in a pair of new shoes.

9. Running in shoes that are 2 ounces lighter and infinitely less clunky than the previous pair.

8. The “springy” feeling in your legs lasts all day.

7. Runs are getting longer while distance around the waist is getting shorter.

6. You think “rapid turnover” and it works.

5. You could have gone farther.

4. Three runs logged before midweek.

3. A hot bath, sliced strawberries and banana, and a cup of hot tea following a successful run.

2. You lie down and realize that you’re breathing slower and more deeply these days.

1. Tomorrow will end well because you’ll be running again.

The Post That Wasn't

2009-04-11T22:33:00.017-05:00

Have you ever started a post (say, for instance, on being discerning about the personal offerings we make to others and life) which for some reason never quite came together? Ever had one get downright contrary and refuse to cooperate?

Writing began on Monday. Best efforts were invested through the week. Generous doses of time and attention were applied. Every attempt was made to coerce it into submission. All to no avail.

The outcome reminded me of that portion of an artist’s pallet where all the colors run together and form a bland puddle of gray. I haven’t deleted it yet, but the icon representing the place on the hard drive where it is stored seems more a tombstone than a sign of life.

Ideas have a kind of mental momentum. Go with them in the moment they occur and they can take you to unexpected places. There’s a sense of adventure in following where they lead. If they are ignored, you’ll never know what was missed. I fear people in our day are missing a lot.

Some ideas are compelling. They assert themselves upon the psyche and demand expression. In the intense heat of inspiration a post will virtually write itself. Fingers are applied to keyboard and paragraphs are translated effortlessly from mind to computer screen.

Like water under pressure, sentences gush freely. You work fast and furiously lest the streams of babbling awareness either overflow (resulting in spillage that cannot be mopped up) or dry up completely (lost opportunity’s more desolate flipside).

When this happens, writing is a sprint to the finish which leaves you winded and spent. You look back in amazement at how much ground you’ve covered in so little time. You can’t help but wonder from where the raging torrent of concepts and application came.

This first scenario often leaves me reluctant to accept credit for the end product. Words strung together in rapid bursts seem dictated by some unknown inner voice. I read what’s committed to the page and wonder, “How did all that get there?”

Other ideas are more passive. They throb in remote awareness like a dull headache. You sense their presence but have no idea why they occupy space in an already crowded cranium. Nor do you initially comprehend their meaning.

Some thoughts must be coaxed out of the head and onto the page. They ooze out of the mind like refrigerated molasses. Like the fermentation of a fine wine, their development requires constant observation and cannot be rushed.

Random ideas are collected one by one and committed to print. Like individual pieces of a jigsaw puzzle their jumbled mass gives no clue to the collective outcome to which you are laboring. Each is turned over in your mind as you consider their unique shape and implications.

Patient effort eventually bears fruit. Connecting places between thoughts materialize. The creative process yields new discoveries. With time and diligence, bits of broken sentences and ragged paragraphs are pieced together to create a comprehensible whole.

The verbal image you are creating begins to materialize. Words are employed as servants to your purpose. Thoughts are made pliable and bend to your will. You are the craftsman, molding and sculpting until the mass of letters and punctuation melds into a seamless whole.

Writing is more work in this scenario but the outcome is no less fulfilling. In the same way that a builder steps back and admires the house that is the product of effort and perspiration, you know that what’s composed on the page is the product of your persistence.

Writing is a lot like running. I really don’t care whether a good run happens unexpectedly like a gracious gift or is wrested by force of will like a hard fought victory. A good run is desirable no matter how it is achieved. Some posts arrive through inspiration and others are formed by painstaking effort. I’ll take them any way they come.

When a run goes bad, thoughtfulness often identifies the factor that sabotaged the outing. There are, however, those rare occasions when mulling things over fails to reveal the source of poor performance. What went wrong isn’t readily apparent.

This week’s post was a casualty of the latter sort. I tried to breathe life into something that refused to live. A composition meant to take wing and soar instead crashed and burned. The quest for depth and passion ended in shallow indifference.

Perhaps the forward momentum was lost and it expired where it came to rest. Maybe I do not yet comprehend the intricacies of the topic sufficiently to speak with clarity. It’s possible that the distance left to travel before conclusions can be attained was misjudged and I just haven’t completed enough loops of the neighborhood.

This week, a post in which I had great hope died. I don’t know why or how it happened.

I only know that it was not for lack of effort.

Taking the Plunge

2009-04-03T02:21:00.009-06:00

A smile spreads across the face as the mouse click opens an unexpected e-mail from my youngest brother. He is, in some ways, a bit eccentric. Always has been. It’s one of his most endearing qualities.

One of his hobbies is making musical instruments from unusual materials. Among other things he’s made flutes and trombones out of pvc pipe, a bass out of a wine box, and a cello banjo made from the spokeless rim of a bicycle wheel.

Once produced, he delights in performing a rather eclectic collection of music on them (you haven’t lived until you’ve heard Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody performed on a ukulele mixed with twelve full tracks of vocal harmony). What can I say? He’s a creative guy.

He and his cohorts exchange videos of their musical menageries regularly on YouTube (there are enough people out there making these unconventional instruments that I am paranoid they are secretly planning to take over the world). They are likely not only enabling our culture’s addiction to entertainment but are also contributing to its demise.

Either that, or they just provide a healthy and harmless escape from reality that is incredibly therapeutic. The jury’s still out on that.

His considerable wit is expressed though an expansive vocabulary. I always look forward to communiqués bearing his e-mail address as the point of origin. He could not foresee how the brief note, once sent, would transport me back to the days of late middle school, not so much because of what he said, but because of personal associations involuntarily assigned by me.

Once the e-mail is perused I’m left standing on a bluff overlooking Greers Ferry Lake in north central Arkansas. The summer afternoon is warm. A group of boys still in early adolescence (but making every effort to appear much older) are milling around that lofty overlook. All have donned cutoff blue jeans and tennis shoes.

The distance from our rocky perch to the water’s surface is around 30 feet. Small talk is exchanged while tentative glances gage the gulf between us and the water below. We wait to see who will be the first to muster the courage for that leap of faith, surrendering the body to the accelerating force of gravity and the exhilarating embrace of cold, deep water.

While we engage in small talk and other manly pursuits, a van pulls into the picnic area. Doors fly open. As if mechanically ejected from the side of the vehicle, out pops a tiny blond girl, hair pulled back in a pony tail, dressed in a peach one-piece bathing suit. She moves at a dead run towards us while pulling an inflatable plastic ring over her head and shoving it down around her waist.

As she approaches I calculate that she can be no more than five years of age. Like a gymnast committed to her vault she never breaks stride as the edge of the cliff nears. She launches off the precipice, points her toes towards the water, and splashes down. The sound of girlish giggling greets our ears as she floats on the water’s surface looking up at us.

Things are strangely silent on top of the bluff. No words are necessary. All comprehend the meaning of this turn of events. Awareness is written on each face. Before that tiny sprite sprinted off the edge there were options. Now there are none.

With a shrug, the first of our number steps out into insubstantial air. One by one, others drop over the edge and take the plunge. A few seconds later we are reunited, bobbing on waves created by our own impact.

My brother’s e-mail?

Inside was the profile of a female runner who completed the marathon held annually in the city of my nativity. The name corresponded with that of my sister-in-law. I promptly wrote back and inquired if this was for real. There were reasons for my skepticism.

My brother has a quirky sense of humor (reference the opening paragraphs above). His wife is a petite woman who can’t be much more than half my weight. She spent some time in the hospital and in recuperation this past year. I had no idea she was running much less entering a marathon. She made up her mind to do the race in November and completed it in March. Gym exercises (weight lifting, lunges and “bunny hops thrown in just for fun”) are credited for getting her ready for this run. Who knew?

Completing 26.2 miles says a lot about a person. I’m immensely proud of her accomplishment. Within her small frame beats the heart of a warrior. She possesses the grit to go the distance. The commitment was made and she followed through. Many stories might serve as inspiration but they are never more compelling than when derived from people you love.

Maybe you can understand why it feels like I’m up there on the bluff again, flirting with the edge, while someone unexpectedly throws caution to the wind and bails off into oblivion. Perhaps one day I’ll give in to compulsion and join her.

Let’s be clear on one thing though. I am not a “bunny hop” kind of guy.

I don’t care how fun they are.

Blogging, Social Networks, and Corollary Questions

2009-03-28T00:03:00.009-06:00

Some say blogging is a dying art form in the process of being replaced by the rising popularity of social networks. I hope those who advance this idea are wrong. I fear they could be right.

Something called “life streaming” is being advocated by some. In that format one’s personal experience is chronicled by short snippets of information. These bursts of personal information are easier to update and more easily consumed by readers than lengthy blog posts. Some have pages that scroll horizontally rather than vertically thereby approximating a virtual timeline of one’s life.

In our hectic and fast paced world many seek that which is increasingly brief, easily produced and quickly ingested. It’s a light version of communication which enables contact with more people with less work. Just as our culture often chooses fast food over more substantial fare and seeks light versions of the real thing, even so we want our relational exchanges to be abbreviated in a manner which makes them more manageable. I don't intend for this to be negative criticism so much as simple commentary on what is.

Social networks do seem to have put a dent in blog post productivity in recent days. The time between posts is getting longer on the handful of blogs that I frequent. Finding thought-worthy words to occupy the mind is becoming more challenging. Change is afoot, at least in the backwaters of blogosphere in which yours truly circulates.

Some are now posting on both blog and a social network. I don't know sometimes where to leave comments. On one? The other? Both?

I have no desire to pass judgment on the decisions others make about their technological communication venue of choice. Social networks and blogging are very different animals. Each critter serves the purpose of those who manipulate it in a manner which satisfies their need. And I can’t and don't fault anyone for that.

Some people remind me that social networks offer the means to do most everything that a blog does. Technically they are right. But for some reason I can’t imagine posting there the kind of stuff that appears here.

Blogging affords a place to converse with a smaller but therefore more intimate audience. Bloggers tend to be thoughtful people interested in an exchange of ideas rather than simply exchanging greetings or brief descriptions about what they are doing at a given moment. They tend to return and read regularly. Over time a deeper level of understanding and appreciation is achieved between reader and author.

I often wonder if there is not some venue which would provide better stewardship of the hours spent developing posts. A larger audience is something that must be earned. Given the choice between conversing at a deeper level with a few or less deeply with the masses, I seem to generally choose the former.

Though sometimes posting feels like a burden, the weekly writing sessions provide a kind of discipline and accountability. They are a way of cultivating an awareness of life as it happens. That awareness seeks to understand the significance of events and people as they are encountered. This awareness contributes meaning to life as experiences are interpreted through written words.

Writing is good for the mind in the same way that running is good for the body. My thinking is enriched from comments contributed by readers. Every once in a while an honest to goodness conversation takes place which becomes more than the sum of its parts. Blogging doesn’t get any better than that. I have yet to encounter anything similar on the social network I frequent.

Over the past three years the disciplines of running and writing have become intertwined in my experience. Running stimulates thoughts for writing and the thoughtfulness writing requires contributes to the mental discipline necessary to run farther. They feed one another in a symbiotic relationship which makes each more productive.

Though the previous post is a couple of weeks old, I am continuing to consider those corollary questions “What is most important” and “What do you want?” This past week they have been applied to the discipline of writing. I don’t have the answers in hand as yet.

It’s a work still in progress.

Corollary Questions

2009-03-10T14:01:00.003-06:00

There’s never a shortage of material to read. The list of books I plan to experience is always lengthy. I pay for some periodicals to be delivered to my desk. Others arrive unsolicited.

Staying current on any one subject is a challenge, much less staying up to date on all the disciplines that impact the way a pastor relates to a congregation. That doesn’t begin to address what’s read purely for pleasure.

Deciding what to read and what to delete, what to skim and what to ponder, is a relentless task in this age of information overload. While an attempt is made to be intentional in making these decisions, sometimes the process is more random than I like to admit.

Such was the case last week when reading an article composed by a pastor in another state. We are not acquainted. The few simple and carefully composed paragraphs detailing his personal experience were read more by chance than anything else.

He shared how some “down time” was endured (the wording is telling) while recovering from recent surgery. The admission that this is a rare commodity in his line of work is an observation with which I readily identify.

While the hospital stay wasn’t necessarily enjoyable it provided an opportunity to reflect on what matters most in life. His thinking produced a list of people and causes representative of what might appear on a similar list compiled by any average person. I won’t bother reprinting it here.

What maters most?

The question must be answered by each of us. We can’t and shouldn’t determine what is important to someone else. Discovering our own set of priorities is essential if we are to contribute collaboratively to the life we share with others while preserving the true essence of who we are. What is most important to us influences how we relate to other people and to their list of what matters in life.

Without a sense of what matters most we will tend to simply conform and follow the priorities expressed by someone else’s list. The things they include may not be a good fit for us. If we never own what’s on the list (be it ours or theirs) then it cannot be an authentic expression of who we are and what we desire. Merely important entries often compete with the things that matter most. Recognizing the difference between the two is crucial to who we are and what we do.

For the past week, as a result of reading that random article, I’ve been contemplating what matters most to me. More specifically, a corollary question has occupied my mind.

What do you want?

Knowing what you want is essential in deciding life’s direction. Much of the aimlessness of our age is due to our inability to articulate in a few simple sentences what we want. We do not know what we are after. As a result, we lack an understanding of what our life is about. To be handed this precious gift but not know what to do with it is one of life’s greatest preventable tragedies.

Knowing what you want is necessary for another reason. The answer will reveal when you have found that which you are seeking. Discerning the difference between complacency and contentment, between surrender and success, between settling for something else and celebrating the real thing are only possible as we gain clarity about what is important to us.

I’m currently applying this question to various aspects of life. My present discontentment, as it relates to running, is that I do not know what I want. The lack of direction experienced in recent days is a symptom of this not knowing. In turn, the aimlessness of my efforts contributes to a chronic lack of motivation.

So I’m currently in the process of asking the question, “What do you want from running?” Hopefully the answer will reveal what I need to do and provide a sense of direction. In a perfect world that new sense of direction would generate a fresh motivation for lacing up the shoes and getting out the door each evening.

On those nights when desire and motivation are running low that’s the new tactic that will be employed. I’ll ruthlessly ask this one question in response. Anything but an honest answer will be rejected as unacceptable.

What's most important? What do you want? I’m confident these questions could be applied to other areas of life with beneficial results.

Sorting through piles of reading material might be a prime example.

How to Have a Great Run

2009-03-04T00:48:00.004-06:00

Running this week has been good.

Not great. Just good.

On Monday night I e-mailed a friend which, among other things, confirmed that a run would be conducted even if it killed me. That this was necessary is not a source of personal pride. You’d think after running for several years you’d get to the place where self-motivation is a given. It’s not always.

I am not in the habit of speaking untruths to my friends. Writing the words for someone else to read created a sense of obligation. The shoes were laced up as a matter of integrity. If that’s what it takes to get out the door and on the pavement, so be it.

It wasn’t a great run though it was surprisingly good. The only problem occurred on the backstretch. My exercise inducted asthma kicked in when the kick to the finish should have been delivered. The wheezing incurred during the cool down grew in intensity after arriving home until my inhaler was located. Fortunately this doesn’t happen often.

Tonight’s run was relatively uneventful. Muscles burned while making the long steady climb on the steep side of the course. Being out there felt good. It was a good run. Not great.

You can never tell when the best runs will turn up. Not all of them are great. You can’t expect them to be. Otherwise before long they’d all just feel good and “great” would lose its meaning. Only the most exceptionally good runs can be categorized as being great.

Finding a great run seems to be primarily a matter of stringing together a series of good ones. Do that for a while and a great one is bound to turn up. That’s the strategy I’m ruthlessly pursuing at present.

Even if shameless e-mailing is necessary to get it done.

I Always Wanted One Of These

2009-02-27T10:56:00.007-06:00

This one is conveniently parked in a neighbor’s pasture along the fence line for me to look at longingly every time I pass by.

I wouldn’t want that car. That would be coveting.

But I wouldn’t mind having one just like it.

Turns out it could be mine. For a cool $26,000. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about the coveting thing.

My daughter’s comment? They want that much for an old car?

I did not paint a picture for her of the rush of adrenalin which courses through the veins when you stomp on the accelerator of a beast like that and all the horses under the hood are unleashed, running like thoroughbreds toward the finish of the Kentucky Derby. Nor did I speak of the trill of feeling the g-forces pressing you back in your seat as the car leaps forward at your command while your body tends to stay at rest.

There was no mention of how the thing looks like it’s exceeding the speed limit while just standing still. Nor did I tell her how exhilarating it is to simply sit in the driver's seat and feel the rumble of the engine as pistons, valves and sparkplugs create multiple controled explosions. How do you explain that a car can be a work of art, beautiful in its simplicity while simply being beautiful?

I did not tell her how a car, like an old top ten hit (from, say, Three Dog Night, Chicago, or EL&P) can make you nostalgic for the days of your youth. I did not attempt to communicate how sleek lines and aggressive paint can define a generation and transport you back to a time which only exists in memory.

I did not enlighten her as to how a piece of automotive machinery can remind you of wearing army fatigue jackets with “ecology now” and “peace sign” patches while sporting shoulder length dark hair. Or how a triangle of cloth can be sewn into the inseam of bell bottom pants to make their flair so extreme as to completely cover the shoes.

There is no way to adequately communicate how a vehicle reminds you of the glow of black light posters. She would not understand why the sweet smoky fragrance of burning incense fills the senses whenever driving past.

I didn’t tell her, because the day will come when she will understand. The trigger for her probably won’t be a car. But some day, something will enable her to access memories which were all but lost. Something will bring to mind a time of life that she would relive again if the opportunity presented itself. And the closest thing to that kind of opportunity is that which makes us remember.

In that moment she will smile. The way I smile and get lost in throught when passing that vintage Camaro.

So $26,000 doesn’t sound excessive to me. Because when I cast longing glances while going to or from work, what I see is way more than a car.

Runner's Prayer Five

2009-02-25T02:15:00.015-06:00

Our Father,

We run, not because of the coercion of others, but because of the compulsion of our own hearts.

Accept our gratitude for providing a land that affords the liberty to choose our pursuits. As we freely choose to run, we pray you also will freely bestow your blessings upon us.

Remind us that true liberty is the result of investing ourselves fully in life while encouraging others to do the same. Grant that we may give our best to this contest and to each other without hesitation.

Help us to breathe deeply of the wonder of this day. Remove that which encumbers our spirit. Energize us with possibilities and potential. May our hearts be passionate and our minds be alert.

Accept our thanks for the sense of release running brings to life. Help us leave behind the confines of hectic schedules and the burden of stressful tasks. May the load of life be lightened as we willingly embrace the weight of the challenge before us.

Free us from the constraints imposed upon us by the opinions of others. Release us from fruitless negativity which speaks of what we cannot do. Liberate us from small thinking so that we may achieve greater goals. Teach us through running that we can do more than we think and accomplish more than we realize.

We acknowledge that freedom can not exist without responsibility. We have counted participation’s privilege worthy of preparation’s price. The constraints of training have been embraced so that we may be free to celebrate this moment.

You are our Creator. As we embark on this day’s journey, help us appreciate the world you have made. Remind us that we too are your creation. Give us the capacity to cherish the uniqueness of each individual who runs with us.

Grant that our love of running will also reflect our gratitude for the One who makes it possible. May both the Giver and those who receive freely commune so that when the finish draws near, we also will be drawn closer together.

Amen.

Willpower

2009-02-20T04:12:00.011-06:00

Administrative note:

Apologizing for the length of this post isn’t really necessary, is it? That would just make it longer. And we all know I wouldn’t really mean it.

That’s what I thought.

A luscious aroma wafts through the open door and greets the nose as I return from the evening’s run. The mouth instinctively waters as the threshold is breached and interior air is sampled more deeply.

That.... smell…. is…. so.... familiar.

Fried pies!

They are not health food. In my defense, this is the way things are done in the land of my nativity. Chalk it up to heredity.

You see, I’m from a part of the South where anything stuffed in pastry, fried to a golden brown and sprinkled with sugar is classified as one of the four basic food groups. In fact, such delicacies occupy the foundational tier of the food pyramid. The more the better.

People where I come from will baptize anything in hot grease. If that’s offensive, console yourself that folks by and large no longer use hog lard like they did in the good old days. They got all civilized and switched to Crisco years ago. Pamela won’t even stoop to that level.

Only pure peanut oil for her.

All this constitutes a dilemma of monolithic proportions. The weight loss benefits of a four mile run can be negated by the consumption of a single golden brown crescent of flakey dough inhabited by a warm but still a bit crunchy, sweet but still a bit tart, cinnamon infused apple filling.

Up until my late 40’s it was not unusual for minimal portion control to yield a loss of 7 pounds in a single week. Weight loss did not involve suffering. Don’t hate me for this. Those days are long gone and it will just be wasted energy on your part. Your negativity will not serve to encourage a guy currently struggling to lose even a couple of pounds.

Pamela is a wonderful cook. Not at all pretentious but very creative in the kitchen. Her sweet and sour chicken and her maple barbecue pork chops are second to none. Her prowess with pasta would make any husband proud. The chicken enchiladas she creates are to die for. I spend most outings to local restaurants filled with regret that we did not eat at home.

I mean that.

A quick perusal of the kitchen reveals both Pamela’s absence and the presence of a plate of freshly fried glorious comfort resting on the counter. On this night I’m confronted with the crack cocaine of pastrydom. Cold beads of sweat break out on my forehead as they call to me.

I struggle to remain in control of my faculties. “Pamela is cooking for the folks at work these days. She knows you are working to regain your trim former self. There’s not a cruel bone in her body. So these cannot be for you. They have to be for the people at her office.”

Rationalizing commences.

“Your wife is a thoughtful woman. She usually makes extra and shares the surplus. We hardly ever have them. Do you remember the last time? Didn’t think so. Enjoying one is the greatest compliment you could pay her. By virtue of being her husband you’re sorta obligated to. You’re the proverbial guinea pig. It’s not like you are going to eat the whole plateful or anything. Besides, they aren’t that big. Pretty small, really. Inconsequential even.”

The back is turned and I walk away leaving the plate on the counter. I settle into the recliner clutching a cup of soothing hot tea in one hand. In the palm of the other rests a fried pie. The beautiful burden of golden goodness is hefted in anticipation.

Imagine my shock when the first generous mouthful activates my gag reflex. Not the mild, “This tastes kind of odd” response, but the instantaneous, “Good gosh get that out of here before I barf cause you couldn’t leave that in your mouth if you wanted to,” spasm.

And I did not want to.

I rush to the kitchen where the remnants are evacuated. Mouth rinsing does not relieve the trauma inflicted.

“Pamela!” I call to my beloved in an urgent tone of voice meant to ascertain whether this unexpected poisoning is accidental or on intentional. Because really, who expects to be poisoned in this day and time when tasars are an option?

‘Yes?” she calls from the back bedroom, the epitome of innocence.

“Are you aware that you sprinkled your fried pies with salt rather than sugar?”

That brings her running barefoot down the hallway.

“Whaaaat?!” The question is stretched out in a long ascending glissando.

“Your pies are covered in salt.”

“That can’t be.”

“I assure you that they are.”

“How did that happen?”

She’s a perceptive woman. At this precise moment, that’s the exact question floating around in my head. Upon further examination, the container in which she normally keeps cinnamon/sugar is found to the culprit. Someone has filled it with salt.

So the good news is that my spouse of 28 years was not intentionally seeking to give me a stroke by increasing my sodium level to dangerous levels in order to collect the insurance money. Just an accident. Accident’s do happen, don’t they ?

Pamela is without exception a thoughtful and gracious wife. Demonstrating her good faith she sets about the task of creating a new batch out of the leftover dough and filling. When the marriage bargain was struck I got way more out of the agreement than did she.

Every day I spend with her makes this apparent.

As she delivers a fresh, hot mound of deliciousness to the recliner, an involuntary shiver runs through me. The first briny assault still haunts me. She smiles as the French fried pie is lifted to my mouth.

Imagine my surprise when my gag reflex is activated a second time. Yes, the just short of projectile vomiting kind. Imagine the horror on Pamela’s face when the offending portion is ejected into my cupped hands.

“It’s still horribly salty.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why would I make something like that up? Have you ever seen me do that before?” It's a valid point as I am a fairly well mannered individual under normal circumstances.

“How can that be?”

I told you she is perceptive. This, again, is the question being pondered while sulking in the living room. She goes off to play Sherlock Holmes in the kitchen. After a few moments the riddle is solved.

“Did you use the same container when ‘sweetening’ the filling?” I inquire.

“Ohhhhh (a deflated, descending glissando this time). You’re right. It’s in the filling as well.”

Mystery solved.

I don’t know whether or not the people at Pamela’s office had fried pies with their coffee break today. Her husband didn’t have the courage or the inclination to ask. We did have a good laugh before going our separate ways for work this morning, which somehow redeemed the indignities of last evening.

And my conscience is clear. I did not negate the weight loss benefits of last evening’s run by eating fried pies when I got home.

Unfortunately, that had nothing to do with willpower.

Anticipation

2009-02-13T01:36:00.020-06:00

The clouds to the west look like some kindergartener’s finger-painted art. Broad swaths of navy and gray are backlit by the setting moon.

To the east they form small patchwork patterns resembling blocks of material pieced together in the quilt made for me by my grandmother when leaving for college. Their equidistant spacing across that quadrant of the sky is marvelous to behold.

Overhead, at a higher altitude, the jet stream swirls wispy strands of thin icy moisture. They remind me of the intricate trails of fine dust the broom leaves behind when sweeping the driveway during summer months.

The night is perfect for running. It’s a pleasant 58 degrees with just a hint of breeze. The dry air caresses the skin wicking away perspiration so that it seems nonexistent. The only tell-tale sign is the tacky feeling of salt which clings to the skin. Were longer distances being run, dehydration would be a deceptive reality with which to contend. That hasn’t been a concern for a long time.

Running along a natural stone wall, I’m startled by an unidentified lump hunkering down on top. Only as I run past does it become recognizable as one of the neighborhood cats. Poised in a posture that seems ready to pounce, he's prepared instead to depart the premises should my path intrude into his personal space. The means by which he gained this lofty vertical perch is pondered for the next several steps.

The pace established keeps my heart rate at a predetermined level. To this point I’ve monitored what naturally occurs on a run while simply going along for the ride. Tonight, the body conforms to my specifications.

I’m conscious of the steady stream of white noise emitted by the freeway a few blocks to the east. Most nights that background static is tuned out and I’m lost in solitude. The crest of the largest hill is gained and I glide down the backside accompanied by the low hoot of an owl in the distance.

The mind is all over the place, running from one thought to another in rapid succession like multiple 100 yard dashes. On short runs the most pressing thoughts are indistinguishable from the trivial. The list becomes prioritized the longer I run and observations are progressively more productive. Thus far, I’m not conducting any real mental business out here. Clarity and insight will come as outings are extended.

For some reason the body takes a couple of miles to relax and find its rhythm. Two miles is always more work and less enjoyable than four. I long for that steady pace over time which leaves a sense of peaceful wellbeing lasting for hours.

The completion of the loop comes too soon, like the end of a pleasant date you wish could last longer. There’s little that can be done except to mutually agree that the relationship will be continued on another evening.

And anticipate what it will be like.

Winning isn't Everything

2009-02-07T01:01:00.003-06:00

Retelling the tale and drawing conclusions is tempting.

However the story was written by a professional sportswriter who actually earns a living stringing words together. You are thoughtful people, capable of drawing your own conclusions. A good story speaks for itself making further commentary (of the wordy variety you often encounter here) unnecessary.

For all these reasons I’m going to exercise some wisdom and simply let you experience it for yourself. Read and see if it doesn’t embody the best of what sports ought to be and if Kris Hogan doesn’t deserve to be named “Coach of the Year.”

Though I’m no expert when it comes to sports, this is (in my humble opinion) easily the best sports article of 2008. You can read the story here.

Enjoy.

Confessions of a Reluctant Master

2009-02-02T02:21:00.008-06:00

Her presence in our home was not my idea. Pamela maintained our daughters would be emotionally scarred if denied the experience.

The official ballot count was three against one. Results tend to break down predictably along the lines of gender. Once outvoted, I suggested a manlier breed, like a lab or golden retriever, to no avail.

So she was welcomed into our home with open arms but not without protest. Call me the Scrooge of pet ownership if you must. My reluctance was righteous and well founded.

Even the best of pets invariably take a toll on a house. Vacations and travel are problematic as few hotels accept them. Relatives are seldom as accepting of their peculiarities as are their owners. Guests don’t always appreciate the “in your face” welcome they inflict.

Children are never as conscientious about canine custodianship when the puppy comes home as they pledge to be while swinging the deal. Pet ownership is supposed to teach them responsibility through the provision of constant care. My daughters are highly responsible adults but the small ball of fluffy unconditional love can’t be credited with that.

She would have to be let out during the day. That meant someone’s daily schedule would be altered. Since my work is a mere half mile from the house I had a sneaking suspicion to whom that responsibility would fall. I’m perceptive that way.

Our relationship was like a guy who enjoys dating but is repelled by the loss of freedom which an exclusive relationship demands. And yet, if the tail that wagged the dog was any indication, the standing lunch date we kept for ten years made her absolutely giddy.

Predictions came to pass with an accuracy bordering on the prophetic. Someone should have been impressed. They weren’t. The feminine heart’s capacity to love a small animal renders all logical foresight irrelevant, no matter how precise or perfect.

There is a universal law carved somewhere into the cosmos stipulating that if a puppy enters your home you must give it sanctuary for life. Once their cold wet nose crosses the threshold they can never be evicted. The women in my life loved her without reservation from the moment she was picked from the litter.

About a year after coming to live with us, she developed seizures. They came at regular intervals and inconvenient moments. Their frequency and duration increased over time. We sometimes spent hours holding her until they passed. When aware that they were coming, she’d seek a lap in which to ride out the storm. When caught unawares, we’d find her contorted and sprawled out in unexpected places. The fact that she needed us only made the family love her more.

Through the years Pamela and the girls taught her a variety of tricks which she performed on cue if treats were part of the equation. At mealtimes she begged for food, sitting erect on her hind legs for however long necessary to wear you down with her immaculate cuteness and swindle dinner from you.

She could be strong-willed and required firm direction. To my consternation, compliance with family rules was not uniformly enforced by other family members who found her disobedient antics hilarious and adorable.

Fearless by nature, she once sent a herd of Brahma cattle packing to their corral in the pasture behind the house, oblivious to her vulnerability. No, she was not supposed to be out there. Neither was I when wading through the massive bovines to fetch her with complete awareness of impending danger.

When you receive ownership of a pet you also commit to a day when you must let them go. Most of them do not live as long as do we. If this life seems too short for most of us, then we can only feel compassion for other creatures who share this planet with us for a briefer time.

We had no way of knowing when we let her out in the early hours before sunrise on Christmas Eve that it would be the last time. I heard her yelp and rushed to the door calling her name. She came, bravely staggering across the yard, obviously wounded. She fell limp, though conscious, into my arms as I rushed to scoop her up.

The victim of an apparent coyote attack, we spent the next several hours at the vet and then at an animal hospital. She did not recover. Her resting place is in the corner of the yard next to the burn barrel where several times a year I feed dead limbs into a white-hot fire.

There are evenings when I still expect to see her peering out of the window when pulling into the driveway. The absence of her unbridled enthusiasm at lunch leaves me longing for the unsolicited affirmation of a creature who accepts you just as you are, regardless of how your day is going.

I think of her some evenings when pouring cereal. She would come running, no matter what time of day or night, summoned by the crinkling of the paper which lined the box.

During the winter months she would climb unbidden into the recliner and lay facing me as I scratched her ears. Then I’d tell her to turn around and lay down and she would circle and settle in my lap. I miss the warm weight of her and the silky softness of her coat as we shared quality time together.

When the girls were small I would check in on them before going to bed and linger in the wonder of sheer innocence cuddled up with one another. There is nothing more musical to a man’s ears than the laughter of the woman he loves, and the four-footed member of our family frequently prompted that glorious melody. Her presence with the women of my household brought a certain comfort when away from home. She kept our nest from being completely empty once the girls headed off to college.

Looking back, the joys she brought exceed the frustrations. Her life became woven tightly and unmistakably into the fabric of our family. Though I always acknowledged that she was a dog, coming to terms with her passing is more difficult than imagined. Saying goodbye to a faithful friend is never easy. This friend was always faithful.

I don’t know exactly when it happened. Somewhere along the way, despite my best intentions, Maggie found her way into my heart. Maybe that’s not too surprising.

Even Scrooge eventually repented of the man he had been.

The Art of Awareness

2009-01-23T02:22:00.017-06:00

He entered the Washing DC metro station on a cold morning and began to play the violin. For the next 43 minutes the place came alive with sound as classical music flowed through the corridors in a steady stream.

During the morning rush hour concert, 1097 people were greeted by unexpected melody as they entered and exited the station. Most were hurriedly making their way to work. 27 of them tossed money into the open violin case without stopping for a total of $32.17. Only seven people paused for at least a minute to absorb more than a few bars of the musical offering.

When the playing stopped, no one seemed to notice. There was no applause or expression of gratitude. Silence filled the void where music had been.

The performer standing next to the subway trash can was none other than world-renowned virtuoso Joshua Bell. The few who lingered were privileged to hear some of the best music ever written played on one of the best instruments ever made (worth 3.5 million dollars) by one of the best musicians of our day. Two days earlier the Symphony Hall in Boston sold out as people paid an average of $100 a seat to hear him play.

Bell’s presence was an experiment conducted jointly with the Washington Post to see if people would recognize beauty when encountered in an unexpected environment. If they did recognize beauty outside its normal context, would they acknowledge its value by pausing to appreciate it?

The well written Washington Post article chronicling the event, though rather lengthy, is worth the read. Included are video clips bearing witness to the outcome.

The fact that many people do not seek beauty in the course of their daily lives is cause for concern. Doubly disturbing is their remarkable ability to ignore an unexpected encounter with beauty when it confronts them. Being oblivious to such a gift only impoverishes the heart and soul of a community.

One cannot help but wonder what else we are missing as we rush through our daily lives. The good often has a way of crowding out the best. In the rush to mark items off lengthy “to do” lists, we find too little time for unexpected discoveries. Hectic schedules leave little room for spontaneous joy.

Because we do not intentionally pause to savor finer things of more substance, we instinctively gulp down the fluff which contemporary life feeds us in enormous quantity. In our efforts to survive we miss out on that which is necessary to thrive. No wonder, then, that our days often have the unappetizing flavor of flat cola rather than the sparkling effervescence for which we claim to have a preference.

Communication is a necessity of my calling. Several times a week a group of people gather to hear a message and my goal is to speak so that they will listen. Effective communication involves both speaking and listening. The process is always a two way street. Those who would be heard must also be ready to listen.

Listening is perhaps the more important and more difficult part of communication. When you take the time to listen there’s a good chance you’ll discover thoughts worth contributing to the conversation.

In the same way, observing is one of the more important parts of living. If you watch for the unexpected in life there’s a good chance at some point that you’ll collect some experiences worth sharing with others. This sharing of experience is a necessary part of the giving and receiving which makes relationships dynamic and meaningful.

To be observant is to become aware of what’s going on around you. It’s a way of not taking life for granted, of intentionally refusing to be oblivious to the unanticipated people and events that regularly flow in and out of our lives. Few disciplines have the potential of enriching life like cultivating the art of awareness.

Unexpected moments of beauty and revelation give new insight as to how we, our world and our Creator are connected. They are a source of joy I am unwilling to ignore.

Running provides a space where the day’s encounters can be contemplated. Moving along at an easy pace there’s time to ponder the meaning of seemingly random conversations and events. Beauty, newness, and uniqueness which may previously have escaped me can be reclaimed while mentally sorting through the day’s encounters.

Connections between people, events and ideas often become apparent when thoughtfully considered. This understanding leaves me feeling that these unexpected gifts are often more providential than coincidental. Understanding makes life more coherent and that coherency brings new meaning and joy to living.

When we recognize, appreciate and receive life’s unexpected gifts, we possess something worth sharing with others. I’m not sure we can make a meaningful contribution to lives of our fellowman unless we are seeking, listening, and observing so as not to miss these gifts when they present themselves.

In one of my favorite episodes of The X Files, FBI agent Dana Scully encounters a series of events she cannot explain. For the first time in years she makes her way into a church. The impossibilities of her experience force her to consider the possibilities of her long neglected faith. A priest offers assistance.

“What are you afraid of?” he inquires.

Pondering his question, Scully arrives at a disturbing conclusion.

“That God is speaking and no one’s listening.”

The neighborhood loop is covered on this spring-like January evening while pondering the conspicuous lack of awareness exhibited by our culture. Many people are oblivious to what life, and the One who gives life, are seeking to share with us.

On the drive home, I resolve not to be.

Love Came Down At Christmas

2008-12-24T06:32:00.008-06:00

Compassion is an elusive commodity sometimes missing altogether. Even at Christmas, when people are more disposed to respond to the needs of their fellowman, love can be conspicuously absent.

One of the stories that will stay with me long after Christmas is passed concerns the Wal-Mart employee trampled to death in a Black Friday shopping stampede. People waiting for the doors of the Long Island store to open the day after Thanksgiving reacted in a feeding frenzy once they did.

At stake was the purchase of merchandise at bargain prices. The urgency for things was so great, the pressure on givers so intense, the expectation of receivers so immense, that people charged into the store to get the goods. The wellbeing of others was ignored as they ran a man down. The weight of too many bodies and the pressure of too many feet led to his death by asphyxiation.

That employee was Jdimytai Damour. He was a temporary worker, employed by Wal-Mart for only one week. At 6 feet 5 inches and 270 pounds, the 34 year old with a formidable frame seemed a likely candidate to ride herd on the doors. In the end, he was no match for the tidal wave of 2,000 shoppers who stormed the entrance.

The senseless loss of human life over a shopping spree is tragic in its own right. Equally disturbing are reports of witnesses. When told that the store would be cleared because an employee had been killed, people complained loudly about having waited in line since the previous morning. In the face of this extreme circumstance some people continued to shop.

If an event like this does not cause us to reevaluate our material approach to Christmas then what will? What can make us value relationships with our fellowman more than we treasure the merchandise of this world? Is there a source of common compassion that can enable humans to conduct themselves humanely?

There is a place where love can be found. On a backstreet of Bethlehem, in a stall made for cattle, lying in a feeding trough for animals, is God’s newborn Son. All the love of God is wrapped in that petite package placed among us.

Love came down at Christmas. He comes selflessly to lay down his life so others may find life anew. Receive this gift and the nature of true love becomes clearer. Experience that love personally and the essence of brotherhood begins to dawn more brightly.

His presence places at our disposal the antidote for this broken world in which we live. Only love can mend the fractured pieces of life in such a way that something new results. Love has a way of recreating rather than just refurbishing, of transforming rather than just touching things up.

For me, nothing communicates or inspires love more clearly than this small gift presented to mankind so many years ago.

Something else will remain long after this Christmas is a distant memory. I’m grateful for Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) who composed an old carol in 1885 and for Jars of Clay who give the words a more contemporary hearing.

For me, the song embodies the eternal wonder and enduring hope of Christmas. Sometimes I need to be reminded. Something powerful will be required if our world and the people in it are to be transformed. To be honest, we could do with more than the minor refurbishing for which we often settle.

Nothing is more powerful than love. We could use a healthy dose of that. No one has a greater capacity for love than the One who gave us life. His love came down to where we are. I, for one, am thankful it did.

May you and yours know a Christmas made blessed by that love.

1 John 3:16

Narrowing the Gender Gulf

2008-12-12T23:55:00.025-06:00

A church member knows my caffeinated beverage of choice. He drops a canister of tea by the office which is gratefully received and subsequently enjoyed.

Called “Lady Grey,” the packaging describes the flavor as being “a bright and light black tea scented with bergamot and citrus notes of oranges and lemons.” Though I normally steer away from flavored teas, this morning’s cup is an unexpected pleasure. Unexpected because this is not an item I would purchase. It doesn’t sound … well … manly.

John Gray’s book, Men are From Mars, Women are from Venus, was popular a decade and a half ago. In the annals of memorable analogies this one remains near the top of the list.

The word “planet” comes from the Greek and means “to wander.” The distance between these celestial bodies is great. Their orbits are divergent. For Gray, these nomads traversing the empty expanse of space in a solitary existence are reminders of the relational alienation which often exists between the sexes.

Knowing that men and women come at life from different perspectives and seek different outcomes doesn’t necessarily solve the problems between them. Plenty of people suggest that living in the presence of the opposite sex is only slightly less frustrating than living without them. Variations on that theme are heard on a weekly basis. Some are only jesting.

That said, relationships where a man and a woman fully compliment one another are inspiring. Strengths of one support what might be perceived as weakness in the other. Together they are more than either would be alone.

A problem arises when sexuality is used in an attempt to dominate others. Gender is often expressed in an adversarial rather than complimentary manner. Allege that one sex is better than the other and the divide between both grows exponentially. We are often frustrated with the opposite sex because we engage in a futile effort to make them function as we would rather than accepting them as they are.

Someone recently shared the story of an English professor who wrote the words “A woman without her man is nothing” on the chalkboard. Students were asked to punctuate the sentence correctly.

The males in the classroom produced a sentence that read, “A woman, without her man, is nothing.”

The females wrote, “A woman: without her, man is nothing.”

Punctuation is a powerful thing. So is humor.

Humor is humorous because there is an element of universal experience shared between the members of the audience. Circumstances of the situation may be exaggerated to point out subtle realities or to heighten the response of the hearer. Still, wit which is worthy of laughter contains at its core an element of truth.

Several times a week I stand before an audience of men and women and seek to communicate a message in such a way that both are willing to give me a hearing. The privilege of being heard must be earned. Nothing earns a hearing like showing respect for who people are and appreciating them as individuals.

Some circumstances and topics require the uniqueness of gender to be acknowledged. Sexuality is integral to who we are as persons and cannot be ignored. Men and women are not the same. They are not less than the other but they are unique. This is why analogies about Mars and Venus speak clearly to both sexes and why a story about punctuation expresses realities which make us smile.

There are mysteries I do not understand. Why, for instance, is promiscuity considered an acceptable indication of a man’s virility while for a woman it’s viewed as an unacceptable lack of morality? Why does our culture appreciate aggressiveness in a woman as sign of strength while deprecating gentleness in a man as an indication of weakness?

Even so, what I see before me each week are people. The differences between men and women are real. But there is also common ground between us.

We all share the need to be loved, to be valued and accepted as the unique creation we are. All of us long to find a purpose for living that gives meaning to life. Our unique talents and gifts leave us looking for an outlet where they can be effectively employed. We are created to share life with one another in a social context. The world benefits from the unique contributions of both men and women. When their efforts are combined in reaching a common goal the results can be powerful.

A fellow blogger located a site that uses artificial intellegence to predict whether a particular blog is written by a man or a woman. Enter a blog’s address and in a matter of seconds a conclusion is reached.

According to the site, the analyzer was created “out of curiosity and fun.” Keep that in mind.

“We guess http://runningismental.blogspot.com is written by a woman (54%), however it's quite gender neutral.”

My goal is not to be neutral where gender is concerned but rather to be inclusive. Neutrality speaks of passively taking a stance where you refuse to take sides and gender therefore doesn’t matter. Inclusiveness actively embraces people with full awareness of their identity as a man or a woman. I seek to appreciate and accept both for the unique and valuable creations they are while also acknowledging the powerful potential that results when they share life in a healthy relationship as partners in life's journey.

If the gulf between wanderers is narrowed through this process, that’s a good thing.

The Drum Maker

2008-12-02T03:26:00.005-06:00

The man is spotted while driving down the road which skirts the perimeter of the Bukoba airport. He is perched on the seat of a tricycle sporting regular sized bicycle tires. A hand crank positioned where the handlebars would normally be supplies power for movement.

Speaking engagements and the training seminar are concluded. We are now officially tourists seeking out the local drum factory. Drums are a normal feature of worship in Tanzania and will serve as reminders of our time here.

The business is run by a group of individuals who have in common various handicaps. Purchases made at the factory support a community who otherwise would be totally dependent on the kindness of others.

One of Scott W.’s friends owns a garage in town. A driver and Land Cruiser are loaned to us for this expedition. Tonight we catch the ferry which will take us across Lake Victoria. The thoughtfulness of Scott’s friend enables us to see the factory in the limited time available to us.

When the man on the oversized trike is spotted, our driver stops and asks in Swahili if he knows the whereabouts of the factory. The man’s face brightens.

“That’s me, that’s me,” he says pointing to himself with an air of dignity. The question brings the man into contact with his purpose for being. His identity is formed by the simple work he performs each day. This humble vocation is his role in the larger community around him.

“I will show you,” he eagerly responds. This is clear, not because we understand the language, but because the man is simultaneously sliding off his seat and onto the ground. The tricycle is abandoned by the side of the road. Only then does the depth of his deformity become clear.

His legs are twisted beneath him in a misshapen cross-legged squat. He dons a pair of flip flops, not on his feet, but on his hands. The weight of his body is lifted from the ground as he walks on his palms to the rear of the vehicle. The opposite foot rests on the back of each hand.

The four wheel drive vehicle has a considerable amount of ground clearance. Our driver opens the tailgate and offers to help the man into the cargo area. Assistance is adamantly refused. The boarding process happens directly behind me and I am unable to witness how the feat is accomplished. Somehow this remarkable individual lifts himself into the back of the vehicle. His independence and creativity are inspirational.

A few minutes later we arrive in front of a house located on a side street. The factory is operated out of what appears to the garage. Handmade drums of various sizes line the shelves. Skin heads come in a variety of colors and textures. The twine which holds them taunt is skillfully woven. Small drums respond with a high pitch when struck. The larger ones boast a deep resonate tone.

Each man in our party makes a selection. The unexpected nature of five white men arriving at the factory is clear as our drum maker works intently, carving out sets of drum sticks.

In public markets prices are sometimes negotiable. This is not a place for haggling. Funds generated by sales are committed to a wonderful cause. Money spent here is one of our best investments.

When our business is concluded we load back into the Land Cruiser and return to the place where the man’s unique mode of transportation was ditched. The tricycle is found sitting precisely where it was left. He climbs onto the seat as we drive away.

The experience is yet another testimony to the graciousness and generosity of the Tanzanian people. Our drum maker never hesitates for a moment to join up with total strangers. He goes the second mile to accommodate our needs.

A sense of regret is associated with this memory. Not until my return to the States is it’s source pinpointed.

At no point during our time together did I ever ask his name. Nor did I ask to hear the story of his life.

Perhaps this is due to the language barrier between us. Or perhaps time constrains in catching the ferry were a contributing factor. Since our official work was complete, maybe I was no longer in ministry mode and less sensitive to the importance of our moments together. Or maybe the way in which this individual participates in life despite the challenges dealt him left me awestruck. Maybe it was all of these things.

But the bottom line is that nothing expresses personal concern like taking the time to know a person’s name. There is no doubt that my life would be richer for learning about his personal journey. I know now what escaped me then. An opportunity to connect meaningfully with this individual was missed.

We often underestimate the potential present in seemly insignificant contact with people. Perhaps brief moments together become insignificant because, by our own choice, we do not seek to make them meaningful.

We are too often unaware of the blessings that might be ours if we took time to be personal. Being personal is nothing more than acknowledging the uniqueness of every person and expressing interest in what makes them unique. These are two of the greatest gifts we can extend to others. Everyone is made poorer when we lack the generosity to share these gifts.

Almost a year after the event, I still think on a daily basis about the people in Tanzania whom I would like to see again. The drum maker is always in that number.

If by grace a “do over” could be granted, I’d take a moment to sit down, cross-legged on the ground, so I could look into his eyes. I’d listen for awhile to get to know who he is and something about the events that shaped his life. I have no doubt that his story, once related, would be one of the greatest gifts he could share with me.

The exchange would leave me a better man.

Intergenerational Relations

2008-11-23T23:55:00.010-06:00

The night is the coldest since the leaves began to turn. Experience tells me that running when the temperature falls is wonderful. From the perspective of my recliner, trading the house’s warm interior for the bite of exterior air doesn’t seem at all wonderful.

The car is exited with reluctance at the neighborhood park. Ten or twelve strides later all resistance evaporates. Mind and body relax. The night air is invigorating not torturous. In these few seconds everything about making the circuit of the neighborhood becomes absolutely appropriate. A smile replaces the scowl as the pace increases.

A group of young people is encountered while descending the hill on the backside of the route. They round a corner headed in the opposite direction. I move into the middle of the street yielding my course so their forward progress will not be hindered. This act of courtesy seems lost on at least one of their number.

Just as I start to speak he utters a sarcastic comment aimed in my direction. Part of me says the teens should be ignored all together. Just run past like they don’t exist. Something within refuses to be bullied into silence. The split second decision is made easier by the fact that my mouth is already open and a breath has been taken in preparation for speech.

“Hey guys. How you doing tonight?”

I am not prepared for how the question diffuses the assault of my mouthy friend. Maybe the kids are not prepared either. A deafening silence is the only response anticipated. Instead, most of them reply with varying versions of a polite “Just fine.” Someone tacks on “Sir” for good measure. His mother would be proud.

Do they respond out of a sense of obligation? Or is this simply an indication they do not share the negative attitude of their vocal friend? I don’t have a clue. What I do know is that silence would have reinforced the tension between us and served to affirm negative suspicions. Sometimes what’s left unsaid speaks volumes.

For the rest of the run the chasm our culture creates between the young and the old is contemplated. How is it that both come to distrust one another so completely? Why do they assume they have nothing in common without the benefit of personal knowledge? What is to be gained by the verbal antagonism too frequently exchanged between these opposing factions before they are acquainted? The only transgression committed by either party is that their beginning is charted from a different point on history’s timeline.

Perhaps the presence of youth leaves older adults grieving for a time of life which is past and can never be regained. Perhaps the presence of age forces the young to confront a future reality they would rather escape but are helpless to prevent. Each confronts in the other that which they seek to avoid.

Advancing in age is nothing of which to be ashamed. This option is preferable to the alternative. Nor is the time of youthful angst to be despised. From earliest days we entertain the idea that at some future date life gets easier. Eventually this illusion is cleared up for most of us.

One of the sad realities of the culture in which we live is that people are often considered expendable. They are ignored as if they do not matter. Race, socioeconomic status and gender are things we find intolerable in others. Sometimes the disposability of people is justified on the grounds of the age differential between us.

Marginalizing people on the basis of something as inevitable as time’s passage seems ludicrous. How can you fault others for what will one day happen to you? Nor is it fair to be intolerant of those who have spent fewer days on the planet. A prerequisite for getting to the end of life is that one must start at the beginning. Getting to start this life at all is too glorious a gift to be deemed a liability.

The progression of days is relentless. The challenges faced along the road of life are numerous. If we learn to make the journey in the presence of a chronologically diverse company of traveling companions so much the better.

Our passage can’t help but be richer for making the move from toleration to genuine acceptance. On a good day, some of us dare to dream of a compassionate interdependence. What if narrowing the generation gap somewhat is as simple as a few gracious words extended from one faction to the other?

These things are pondered as each footfall leads me closer to the end of tonight’s run. Lost in thought, the distance seems completed before it’s begun. It’s a sobering metaphor for life.

The shirt under my jacket is damp as the last stride is taken. The outer layer was unzipped shortly after the run began. Past experience indicated that despite the drop in temperature a long sleeved shirt would be sufficient. I stubbornly insisted on donning the jacket as well.

Funny how we know some things to be true yet fail to act on them.

The Burden of Awareness

2008-11-12T12:05:00.004-06:00

Traveling to a foreign country has a way of altering how you look at your own. This is true, if for no other reason, because making comparisons between where you’ve been and where you live is inevitable.

The contradictions encountered when traveling from the States to a place where the average person makes less than $500 per year are staggering. A couple of weeks in a place like that is enough time to make you question innumerable realities at home and abroad but not enough time to reach satisfactory answers.

This uncomfortable tension between questions of great urgency and answers which are often elusive is one of the main reasons I was reluctant to go to Tanzania. My time among the people there would change me in significant ways and would alter perceptions of my homeland.

When people here are up in arms about our poor economy, my mind drifts half a world away were people live in dirt floor houses with no running water or electricity. Our economy doesn’t seem so bad by comparison. People complain about a health care system which is undeniably flawed and infinitely frustrating. Yet there are places in the world where there is no system. You can’t help but have a heightened appreciation for public education after you spend time in a place where many children do not have access school. Those who do, depend on the compassion of distant sponsors.

We are incredibly blessed in this nation. Many people seem absolutely unaware of this fact.

Americans live in a culture saturated by materialism. Too often our sense of identity is derived from what we own rather than from who we are and what we are becoming. Our sense of security is dependent upon how much we possess rather than the solidarity of a caring community. We tend to place more faith in possessions than in our fellowman. For reasons I do not fully understand, we prefer this arrangement.

We are gifted with a remarkable ability to acquire more than we need. What we refer to as necessities are often luxuries to which we’ve developed a sense of entitlement. What my family “needs” for a trip is dictated more by the size and cargo capacity of the vehicle I am driving than by necessity. More is routinely taken with me on a weekend trip to visit family in an adjacent state than was carried on this 17 day trip abroad. Why is that?

Things have a tendency to become possessions. Possessions tend to make us possessive. Possessiveness tends to shift our focus away from relationships with others and onto ourselves.

If we are not careful our possessions own us rather than the other way around. Material wealth can be valued to such a degree that the non-material wealth of personal relationships escapes us. Clinging too tightly to possessions leaves us preoccupied with things and oblivious to people.

From my post-Tanzanian perspective, the “every man for himself” philosophy under which most Americans operate is painfully clear. We glorify material independence which, when carried to an extreme, leaves us disconnected and isolated from others. In that climate relationships take on a rather utilitarian perspective.

In Tanzania the needs of people are simple. They are unburdened by the weight of possessions (though other burdens abound). This leaves them free to travel unencumbered. Less attention focused on possessions provides the liberty to focus more attention on people.

Relationships tend to be valued more than things. Conversations begin with inquiries into the welfare of each party’s family before other matters are discussed. Tanzanians understand there is strength in community and shared resources. If someone has a need others will respond. Sharing is a basic principle of survival among the common people.

Though they are poor they find the means to be generous. A helping hand is extended today with awareness that somewhere in the future assistance may be required. Somehow this economy of give and take works simply and beautifully.

Generosity is always more about the size and condition of one’s heart than about the size of one’s bank account. Those who cannot afford to be generous in the present shouldn’t delude themselves that having more will make the process easier. If we lack the will to employ it in the present then it’s unlikely to begin at some future date regardless of our resources. Generosity recognizes that when we are blessed we have an opportunity to become a blessing to others. In that context, giving becomes a joy.

I am not advocating that people take a vow of poverty. Being poor does not make a people virtuous. Poverty can be absolutely cruel. A spirit of generosity is not universally a part of Tanzanian society. Greed and corruption are part of the human condition there as they are here in the States. Seventeen days does not qualify a person to speak knowledgeably about the economics of life in a foreign country. Perceptions formulated are bound to be to overly simplified.

Even so, the time spent in Tanzania leaves me convicted that all of life from the first breath we breathe until the last is a gift from the Creator. We are custodians of the many good gifts entrusted to our care. Blessings bestowed enable us to be a blessing to others.

These days I’m seeking to need less and share more. Since returning from Tanzania part of me longs to simplify life and let go of some of the possessional (yes, I made that word up) baggage. Old blessings become burdens if not shared. Receiving and appropriately appreciating new ones is difficult when hands are full.

The question of whether or not generosity can be afforded has been replaced by a conviction that it cannot be abandoned. I’m struggling with the question of how to implement this strategy into my life in a way that honors the integrity of my convictions and also benefits others in a positive manner.

Being poor is not the worst thing that can happen to people. When life becomes relatively easy a people can suffer the loss of personal character which makes a nation strong. The ability to overcome life’s obstacles imparts a spirit of resilience. Resilience gives people a sense of dignity which would otherwise be absent.

In a land where we can afford to pay others to make and do things for us I fear we lose some of the creativity which the challenges of life inspire. Overcoming formidable obstacles in the face of minimal resources is the essence of resourcefulness. Resourcefulness inspires confidence (a belief that what ever happens you will find a way to do what needs to be done). That confidence inspires hope. Hope is more necessary than wealth if a people are to thrive. I don’t think that overstates the matter though many Americans will disagree with me, if not publicly then at least by the way they conduct their private lives.

The loss of possessions cannot compare with the tragedy of losing our connectedness with our fellowman. There is great strength in healthy interdependence. When we can no longer express concern for others we lose one of the best parts of our humanity. Genuine compassion is best expressed by using our blessings in tangible ways to positively impact the lives of others. Sympathy sounds hollow unless doing accompanies talking.

When you don’t know the depth of need facing much of the world’s population it’s easy to simply go with the flow of our materialistic culture. Once you have seen that need with your own eyes it can no longer be ignored.

Once you are aware, the burden must be borne.

Never Expected To See This Again

2008-11-04T01:23:00.003-06:00