When I Run

[I was cleaning up some old computer files and I found this thing I had written 5 or 6 years ago.]

When I Run

When I run I do not feel good in any way similar to physical pleasure. The ‘runner’s high’ is like Alice’s white rabbit, always out of my reach. I do not feel good. I sweat and that makes me too hot in the summer and chills me in the winter as it freezes to my skin.

When I begin running my legs are stiff and when I end they are sore. In the cold my lungs hurt. The hair in my nose crinkles and my ears numb. In the summer heat my throat dries out so I must gasp my words. Spitting is a chore.

But, when I run I feel more deeply. I know my body. I know it in a way that I don’t otherwise know it. Muscles and joints, feet and toes, aches and bruises all tell me where they are. My face maps itself out with roads of wind, rivers of sweat and cities of biting cold. When I run I feel the ground push up and the sky push down, holding me in my place. I feel pain and in a morbid way, I know I’m alive.

I can travel so fast and effortlessly in my car, so running slows me down. I can’t just press on the gas pedal; it’s not that easy. I can only travel as fast as I can run. When I run I must think about moving forward, not tripping, not stopping. A good hunk of my brain is taken up doing this, so I can only think about one or two things rather than the two dozen that I normally bounce around in my head.

When I run I know things. I know that I am more than what people think of me. I know that I am more than what I think of myself. I know that I am full of potential. I know that I may get hit by that car, but I also know, one way or another, I’ll be alright. I know that some people will never understand who I am and why I run. When I finish my run I get a sense of accomplishment, but I know that it will only last until the start of my next run.

When I run I pray. That I will make it home both safely and without collapsing. I pray for my wife at home. I pray for myself. I pray that the dog who runs along side me will find her home. I pray for people I pass and people I see in windows (I think that all runners look in windows). I ask God why he picked to create me. I think about the different paths my life could have taken. When I run I am more of who I want to be.

10 Years Together

Today is my 10-year anniversary. My wife is, objectively speaking, the absolute best.

I know that everyone says that their wife is the best, but they are wrong. I understand how they might believe their wife is the best, but there can be only one "best", and sorry, you aren't married to her, I am.

And if you are a woman striving to be the best wife, stop now. It isn't worth your effort. The best you'll be able to hope for is 3rd place, because my wife has so much bestestness that it spills over from best and fills up second best as well.

But in all seriousness, my wife is wonderful and she is so much better than any other wife out there that it makes all other wives look like husbands in comparison. My wife is a good listener, talker, mother, cleaner, organizer, event planner, cookie-baker, and photo-taker. She's slow-to-wake, takes-the-cake, never fake, smile maker. She an excellent mother, sister, daughter, aunt, and friend. She should have songs song in her honor by trained ponies who prance around a statue of her. She is the best.

She will win a Grammy when they introduce the category of Best Lullaby (Performance). And an Oscar for her role as "Awesome" in the move "Awesome" (based on the novel "Awesome" by "Awesome"). She has already taken home the Nobel Prize in Loving and Caring for Kids, but it will still be cool to win the Emmy for Best Director on the Series "Home" a show about a family who solves mysteries and drives around in a dented van they bought off craigslist but is really too small for them because the kids feet don't have enough room.

I love her because I can do no other.

Quote from Anna Karenina

I love when I read things written long ago that could have been written yesterday. This is one example that I read last night in my ever-on-going quest to finish Anna Karenina. 

***

“I have met him. But he's a queer fish, and quite without breeding. You know, one of those uncouth new people one's so often coming across nowadays, one of those free-thinkers you know, who are reared d'emblée in theories of atheism, skepticism, and materialism. In former days," said Golenishtchev, not observing, or not willing to observe, that both Anna and Vronsky wanted to speak, "in former days the free-thinker was a man who had been brought up in ideas of religion, law, and morality, and only through conflict and struggle came to free-thought; but now there has sprung up a new type of born free-thinkers who grow up without even having heard of principles of morality or of religion, of the existence of authorities, who grow up directly in ideas of negation in everything, that is to say, savages.

"Well, he's of that class. He's the son, it appears, of some Moscow butler, and has never had any sort of bringing-up. When he got into the academy and made his reputation he tried, as he's no fool, to educate himself. And he turned to what seemed to him the very source of culture—the magazines. In old times, you see, a man who wanted to educate himself—a Frenchman, for instance—would have set to work to study all the classics and theologians and tragedians and historians and philosophers, and, you know, all the intellectual work that came in his way. But in our day he goes straight for the literature of negation, very quickly assimilates all the extracts of the science of negation, and he's ready. And that's not all—twenty years ago he would have found in that literature traces of conflict with authorities, with the creeds of the ages; he would have perceived from this conflict that there was something else; but now he comes at once upon a literature in which the old creeds do not even furnish matter for discussion, but it is stated baldly that there is nothing else—evolution, natural selection, struggle for existence—and that's all.”

[Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina]

Can We Really Change?

I have decided to be a more positive person. I am going to look at situations with hope rather than with fear. I am going to give people the benefit of the doubt. I am going to trust God, other people, and myself. I am going to smile at strangers. I won't sweat the small stuff. I'm going to keep things in perspective and not lose my cool. I will be optimistic all day long.

That is what I tell myself.

I want to be all those things. I wish I could shake the overly-critical, over evaluative side of myself. I want to fully enjoy the joys that life brings without feeling the need to inject a dose of "healthy" skepticism. Sometimes, I don't want to see both sides of an issue, be reasonable, or exercise caution.

I want to change.

Yet, unless I'm really focusing my energy, I fall back into the same patterns that I always do. It is so much easier for me to focus on what needs to be improved, changed, or tweaked, than to accept people (or worship services, or jobs, or books I've read, or my body, or my house). But in reality, each of these things in my life are wonderful gifts and however much I may believe they are not "perfect," the truth is, I am missing out on a lot of joy by over thinking things.

This is what I want to change. I want to stop missing out on joy.

What Are We Doing?

Sometimes I am struck by the silliness of human activity.

Yesterday, I was at the gym and thought to myself, "What are we all doing on these machines? How did we get to the point that this is how we humans spend our time?" Part of this is driven by the fact that the Riverbank Run is over and I haven't settled on another training goal. This means that my exercise is being done just for...health? weight loss? fun? routine? to deal with stress? I looked around at everyone else at the gym I wondered about their reasons.

I have been doing a lot of thinking about minimalism, and one of the blog posts that has stuck with me talks about making exercise part of your time with your family: walk, play, wrestle, chase, throw, anything that can break a sweat. I think there is something to this and now that the weather is getting warmer it is something that I'm working on. It seems to place exercise in it's proper place: we exercise to build relationships. I stay fit for my kids.

I like running. I like working out at a gym if it helps my running or helps me de-stress (and thus be a better dad/husband). But I don't like exercising because it is recommended by a panel of researchers that I get 30 minutes of cardio three times each week. That doesn't feel like a good way to live a life. So many people take vitamins and medicines when they really need eat more whole grains, fruits, and vegetables. Similarly many people view exercise as a pill they need to take to compensate for an unhealthy lifestyle.

To draw out this metaphor even further, I feel similarly about attending church. Church is seen like spiritual exercise. Something to be done once a week to keep yourself healthy. But what is really needed is to live a healthy spiritual life all the time: give, pray, thank, help, see, hear, touch, smile, laugh, rejoice, sing, cry, read, breath. This is not something that should be segmented into certain times of our week, just like we can't segment times of exercise as the only times we "work on our health." We are always living, choosing, thinking creatures and so many times our actions are at cross purposes with each other.

We are silly, silly people sometimes.

Didn't Go as I Planned

My 2011 Riverbank run didn't go how I hoped.

In the week leading up to the race, I began to cough. I told myself that, in spite of the fact that my entire family had undeniable colds, this was somehow a passing thing for me. I was sure that I could use my mental powers to will away any sickness that dared to enter my body. This was something that I maintained though the entire race. I know this was denial, but it was the only way I could keep my hopes alive.

The day of the race was rainy, but not cold enough to make things really unpleasant. When the race began I felt good, a feeling that lasted for about 7 miles. After that, my wheels came off, my tank ran dry, it wasn't my day, the train jumped the tracks, my legs turned to rubber, I hit the wall, or whatever other metaphor you could use for having no energy. I don't know if it was because I was sick, the humidity, or just an off day, but I was not able to meet any of my three goals for the day.

However, I take some comfort in the fact that it was not a great day for many runners. I saw probably a dozen people staggering, laying on the side of the road, and needing medical assistance. Even more people were taking walk breaks. Sadly, one 37 year-old father of three young children even died while running. So, I really have nothing to complain about. I get to plan for another race. His family gets to plan a funeral.

I am grateful that I was able to run the race. Several of my friends and family are suffering injury and were unable to run. Many more don't have the drive, discipline, or interest in running and are unable for those reasons. I am grateful for a healthy body and mind, for a supportive family, and encouraging friends. So while I am disappointed, I am happy too.

I'm Tired of Trying to be Right all the Time

There is too much emphasis on being right.

We are encouraged to make the right decisions. We are told to believe the right things about God. We need to be right and when we encounter someone who thinks differently, they must be wrong. Being wrong is the greatest sin we can commit.

Which is ludicrous in the extreme.

Not only are we certainly wrong about many of our decisions, beliefs, and opinions, but our obsession with our own rightness will run roughshod over our ability to be kind, to love, to hold, to feel with, to enter into a moment, to communion with another person. Being right separates us.

I am going to do my best to let go of being right and try instead to be kind, joyful, and loving.

Michael Ruhlman

If you like food and cooking, you should check out Michael Ruhlman's blog. He is not a vegetarian, but he has a deep appreciation for food, not just because of how it tastes, but the role it plays in our lives.

Some of his interested posts include why we shouldn't trust any food labels, how he bought and butchered an entire hog, and links to articles about how some small farmers are using oxen and horses to plow instead of tractors.

Tapering

A few of you know that on Saturday I will be running the 5th/3rd Riverbank Run (25K). If you've read this post, you'll know that I have the goal of running under 1:50:00. I also had the goal of weighting 175 lbs.

Since I'm in the taper phase (more on that in a minute), I thought I would update any interested readers in how those goals have changed since March when I set them. First, I am down a total of 14 lbs. since February 1st. This puts me at 180 lbs., not the 175 lbs. that I was my goal. On one hand, this could be seen as falling 5 lbs. short of my goal. On the other hand, I am at least 10-12 lbs lighter than I was last year when I ran a 1:55:00. I'm happy with the weight I've lost. I did it by about one pound a week, which gives me hope that I'll keep it off.

As far as the goal of 1:50:00, I still have it as a goal, but it is only one of three goals that I have.

First Goal: stay under 2:00:00. Last year was the first time I run sub-2:00 and it took me many years to achieve this. (In 2005 I ran a 2:00:56, the closest I had gotten before last year.) This year, I get a special yellow bib this because I am in the "Sub-2:00 Club." I know my body well enough that I should be able to hit this goal without much problem. That is, unless the weather conditions on race-day are crazy and wild. Or they need to change the course because of flooding in the Grand River.

Second Goal: Set a Personal Record of sub 1:55:00. Last year I knew that I was in good physical condition to break 2:00, but I was surprised that I knocked 5:00 off my PR. This year I know that I am lighter, faster, and mentally stronger, so it might be in the cards to run a 1:53:00 or 1:52:00.

Third Goal: Break 1:50:00. This might be possible if everything comes together. If the weather is perfect. If I don't get sick from all the germs in my house. If I can find someone to pace behind for the first few miles. And if my taper goes well.

I have never been good at tapering before a race. I sometimes overeat and under exercise. Sometime I try to cram in a few extra miles even though they won't do any good. This year I'm going to eat normal portions but try to fill up on vegetables and fruits. I'm going to run, but just to keep myself from gaining unnecessary weight. I'm going to nap in my car at noon rather than going to the gym.

The taper is really the X-factor, the unknown variable in my training. I've done practice runs to attempt to gauge my current fitness, to get a sense for what I'll be able to run on race day, but they always came after a week of training. What affect will a week of recovery have on my performance? I don't exactly know.

I suppose the other unknown is the affect that the race atmosphere will have on my performance. It could destroy me if I get sucked up in the moment and start out too quickly, but it also could be a tool I use to my advantage if am able to use a pace group to pull me through the first few miles. I'm still tweaking my race strategy, but it will involve finding a runner or two (or 15) to draft behind, not only for pacing but because running behind a group can save you about 20% of your energy because you don't have to push through the air.

Conclusion: I'm excited, not only because it is a fun race, but because I've trained well. The only note of disappointment will be that, because of injury, my Dad won't be running the race this year. If you're going to be running this year's race, let me know and we can meet and high-five before or after the race, depending on how comfortable you are with sweat.

There is So Much Pain

Sometimes I think about "Why is there so much pain in the world?" because I don't want to feel. It is easier for me to make a painful situation into a theological inquiry, rather than feel an unpleasant emotion.

But doesn't this have it backwards? Shouldn't our lives be lived deeply, even painfully, and when our words fail to describe what we feel, shouldn't we say, "Well that's just too bad for my vocabulary"?

I work with some people who seem (at least to me) to hold onto their theology like a security blanket. Instead of seeing theology as historical attempts to describe divine encounters, they see theology as a standardization of the religious experience, like an Elements of Style for Christians. You can deviate from the rules, but do so at your own risk.

Some of the greatest painters and sculptors worked against tradition. They did not form committees, establish commissions or write issue papers. We need more theologians who view themselves as artists: knowledgeable about the tradition, history, style, but who are eager to add their own voice and view. Right now there are too many theological Thomas Kinkade's preaching safe, pleasant sermons and remaining so far within the bounds of orthodoxy that they are uninteresting, uninspiring, and wasting our time.

Orthodox ideas are not bad. They are only bad when they are accepted simply because they are orthodox, because questioning them would make us lose our security blanket and then we might have to feel things we don't want to feel: loss, confusion, fear, anger, despair, or sometimes even hope, love, or happiness.

We need to occasionally swim in the deep end, feel emotions in the core of our being, recognize that it may not square with the majority view, and remain there, treading theological water and waiting for God to show up.

The War Prayer

I came across this essay last week, even before the news of Bin Laden's death. I had thought about posting it here, but decided it was too long and no one would read it. It was collected under the title A Pen Warmed-up in Hell: Mark Twain in Protest (Edited by Frederick Anderson). It is a collection Twain's best essay's on war, religion, and personal patriotism. The fact that it was written in 1904 makes it even more timely.

The War Prayer

Mark Twain


It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety's sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came -- next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams -- visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation

*God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest! Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!*

Then came the "long" prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory --

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher's side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued with his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, "Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!"

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside -- which the startled minister did -- and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:

"I come from the Throne -- bearing a message from Almighty God!" The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. "He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import -- that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of -- except he pause and think.

"God's servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two -- one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this -- keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor's crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

"You have heard your servant's prayer -- the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it -- that part which the pastor -- and also you in your hearts -- fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: 'Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!' That is sufficient. the *whole* of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory--*must* follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle -- be Thou near them! With them -- in spirit -- we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it -- for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

(*After a pause.*) "Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits!"

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.

A Hate-filled Man is Dead

I am not entirely happy.

I am happy that the figurehead of a massive terrorist organization has been destroyed. As the face of global terrorist, Bin Laden is no more. This is a good thing.

But as I listened to newscaster's ecstatic vocabulary last night, as I read this morning about how this will make Obama politically bullet-proof for 2012, I felt sad. Caryn and I had just finished talking to high school kids about bullying, about what they could do to stand up for those who are picked on by those would are more powerful. Bin Laden was a global bully, I don't doubt that. But with his death, the United States can stand on top of the school-yard hill, the undisputed king-of-the-hill.

Osama Bin Laden was not outside the reach of God's grace. He was hated by many people both in the United States and in the Arab world. He was also respected by many people for his passion and religious fervor. But this was how people saw him. I'm confident that God has a different view of him. I don't claim to know how God viewed him, but I know that he would not smirk, giggle, or rejoice if he was a news reporter who has to tell the world that Bin Laden had been killed.

I don't want the world filled with people who are willing to kill other people. But even less do I want the world filled with people who first de-humanize their enemies to make it easier on their conscious when they do kill them. I am not a pacifist, but I am a Christian, and that requires me to pray for my enemies, go the extra mile, and to feed and care for those people who seek to do me harm.