Some random thoughts as of late:
...Haven't been able to finish a blog in about a month, even though I have started 9-10 new ones
...Been fostering some serious doubts about my coaching and teaching abilities lately -- students and athletes don't seem to listen to instructions these days
...A broken nose is a real pain, especially when I have a cold and a toddler who loves to flail around when I hold him
...Speaking of Brody, he must be in training to be a soccer hooligan -- he's getting down the head-butts and screeches pretty well
...Spending nearly 3 hours driving every day takes a toll on my niceness
...I can never watch enough Kung-Fu Panda, Shrek, or Toy Story!
...Waking up at 5:00am on my day off is a-o-k with me, just as long as Brody is alternating between his ultra-snuggly and hyper-goofball modes
...I can't wait for some snow! I wouldn't even complain if it happens during the break and I don't get a snow day for it
...Christmas decorations really can make the season feel like Christmas -- I just love pines covered with lights, holly wreaths on the front door, red bows and golden strands of garland!
...Some time away from my wife and son really puts things in perspective and helps me remember how much I love them
...All this hype about Josh Selby / KU and Jacob Pullen / KSU basketball gets kind of annoying, and I don't think it's just because I'm a wrestling guy
...Some people's political posts on Facebook are glaringly ignorant and really annoying... even some of the "conservative" ones (I'm not just hating on the libs)
...I really need to get to the theaters to watch Tron Legacy, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
...I've got a John Irving book that I really need to read... just haven't had the time or means
...Listen to books on CD has been awesome in making my daily commute fly by quickly
...I could use a weekend fishing trip soon
...Better yet, I could use a week of sitting around with Brody and Emily, just lazing about and enjoying each other's company
...Emily has been a blessing, especially this past semester. I don't know how I'd ever get through things without her
Well, that's it for now! Maybe I'll get another entry finished soon!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Shoes
The other day, my wife asked me to read a moving article about a young man named Nathan Stiles, a Spring Hill football player who collapsed while walking off the field and later died as a result of previous head injuries.
It was an article from ESPN; its primary topic was not the injury and its circumstances, but rather the legacy of this 17-year-old young man and his family's experiences and the direction in which they are now moving after his death.
Nathan's parents started "Nathan Project" to spread the word of God. According to the ESPN article, his father, Ron Stiles, wears his son's size-12 Nike high-tops to every Nathan Project event. Ron has size 10 feet. He told the journalist writing the article, "I'm never going to fill those shoes, [...] But I'm going to do everything I can to walk in them."
I really don't know how I made it through that article without my eyes watering and releasing a torrent of tears. Maybe I was just too tired to experience a fully cathartic moment.
Almost immediately the article got me thinking about Brody. I don't know how I could ever cope with any tragedy happening to him, and I have so much admiration for Nathan's parents because of their extraordinary strength. Would I be able to muster the fortitude to stand so strong in such an incredibly difficult situation? Before I can come close to being able to imagine what I'd do, I have to consider who I am as a father right now.
Just a month ago, we dressed Brody in a wrestling singlet for his 18-month pictures. One shot had him standing in my wrestling shoes, the tops of them almost coming up to his knees. An adorable picture!
Ron Stiles had talked about trying to walk in his son's shoes. In a proud moment, I had just had my son try to walk in my shoes.
What will Brody end up doing in his life? Will he be a strong Christian? Will he be a wrestler or soccer player? A musician or scholar? A gentleman who'll champion the happiness of others by standing up for the little guy?
I wonder what kind of relationship I'll end up having with him. Some of my most personal conversations -- the ones where I'd revealed my deepest emotions -- have been with my own father. It took a while for me to open up to him, but it finally happened when I was in my early twenties.
I think my problem was that I never understood his life or what it had been like walking in his shoes. The only shoes I remember seeing him in are penny loafers, cowboy boots, or hiking boots. His feet have carried him so many places, both good and bad. He's been to places so dark that I hope I -- or Brody -- never have to follow. He's been to places so bright and magnificent that I hope I do get such a chance.
He's stumbled and fallen, he's splashed in life's puddles. He's followed the map, and sometimes he blazed his own trail.
I haven't always picked the best shoes myself, so there are definitely times I hope Brody doesn't try to walk in my shoes.
If he does, however, I hope he tries on the flip flops so that he can relax and enjoy life, the cowboy boots so that he can step lively and proud with each resounding step, the wrestling shoes so he can experience competition and success as a product of hard work, and the loafers so he can walk with an air of a professional.
And there will be times that I hope he goes barefoot so that he can feel the earth and grass on his toes as he makes his own path.
He'll buy new pairs of shoes he won't wear often, and some for special occasions only. Some he'll wear daily and get his money's worth right away. I hope he finds a comfortable pair or two without having to search too hard.
I can't always tell him which pair to go with, but I can be there to advise him. He may want to try a pair just like mine, and I may have to tell him early on that he has no choice in the matter and that he has to wear certain shoes.
For right now, he's switching off and on between a nice pair of Stride-Right shoes and his boots with the flashing lights on the side. I hope that he listens when I try to give advice and that he's able to imagine what it's like to walk in someone else's shoes without having to directly experience it for himself. I pray that God gives him the opportunity to enjoy every step in life, and I pray that God gives him the strength to endure when the path becomes rough. Most of all, I pray that, like the old "Footprints" poem says, Brody allows God to carry him through the dark times on his journey through life.
It was an article from ESPN; its primary topic was not the injury and its circumstances, but rather the legacy of this 17-year-old young man and his family's experiences and the direction in which they are now moving after his death.
Nathan's parents started "Nathan Project" to spread the word of God. According to the ESPN article, his father, Ron Stiles, wears his son's size-12 Nike high-tops to every Nathan Project event. Ron has size 10 feet. He told the journalist writing the article, "I'm never going to fill those shoes, [...] But I'm going to do everything I can to walk in them."
I really don't know how I made it through that article without my eyes watering and releasing a torrent of tears. Maybe I was just too tired to experience a fully cathartic moment.
Almost immediately the article got me thinking about Brody. I don't know how I could ever cope with any tragedy happening to him, and I have so much admiration for Nathan's parents because of their extraordinary strength. Would I be able to muster the fortitude to stand so strong in such an incredibly difficult situation? Before I can come close to being able to imagine what I'd do, I have to consider who I am as a father right now.
Just a month ago, we dressed Brody in a wrestling singlet for his 18-month pictures. One shot had him standing in my wrestling shoes, the tops of them almost coming up to his knees. An adorable picture!
Ron Stiles had talked about trying to walk in his son's shoes. In a proud moment, I had just had my son try to walk in my shoes.
What will Brody end up doing in his life? Will he be a strong Christian? Will he be a wrestler or soccer player? A musician or scholar? A gentleman who'll champion the happiness of others by standing up for the little guy?
I wonder what kind of relationship I'll end up having with him. Some of my most personal conversations -- the ones where I'd revealed my deepest emotions -- have been with my own father. It took a while for me to open up to him, but it finally happened when I was in my early twenties.
I think my problem was that I never understood his life or what it had been like walking in his shoes. The only shoes I remember seeing him in are penny loafers, cowboy boots, or hiking boots. His feet have carried him so many places, both good and bad. He's been to places so dark that I hope I -- or Brody -- never have to follow. He's been to places so bright and magnificent that I hope I do get such a chance.
He's stumbled and fallen, he's splashed in life's puddles. He's followed the map, and sometimes he blazed his own trail.
I haven't always picked the best shoes myself, so there are definitely times I hope Brody doesn't try to walk in my shoes.
If he does, however, I hope he tries on the flip flops so that he can relax and enjoy life, the cowboy boots so that he can step lively and proud with each resounding step, the wrestling shoes so he can experience competition and success as a product of hard work, and the loafers so he can walk with an air of a professional.
And there will be times that I hope he goes barefoot so that he can feel the earth and grass on his toes as he makes his own path.
He'll buy new pairs of shoes he won't wear often, and some for special occasions only. Some he'll wear daily and get his money's worth right away. I hope he finds a comfortable pair or two without having to search too hard.
I can't always tell him which pair to go with, but I can be there to advise him. He may want to try a pair just like mine, and I may have to tell him early on that he has no choice in the matter and that he has to wear certain shoes.
For right now, he's switching off and on between a nice pair of Stride-Right shoes and his boots with the flashing lights on the side. I hope that he listens when I try to give advice and that he's able to imagine what it's like to walk in someone else's shoes without having to directly experience it for himself. I pray that God gives him the opportunity to enjoy every step in life, and I pray that God gives him the strength to endure when the path becomes rough. Most of all, I pray that, like the old "Footprints" poem says, Brody allows God to carry him through the dark times on his journey through life.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving!
You should know what you're thankful for, especially when celebrating a particular day of the year that has been set aside specifically for giving thanks. This morning at church, Pastor Seth asked for some volunteers to share their favorite Thanksgiving memories. The first thing to pop into my head (which is logical because wrestling season has just started) was several years of going without mass quantities of food on this holiday.
It was a self-imposed, single-serving, no gravy, not-even-dreaming-of-pie kind of sacrifice. I was simply moderating my intake -- and by "moderating," I mean nearly Spartan. I'd burned plenty of calories at practice that morning and then the day after I'd be able to burn off however many calories I'd picked up from the night before. I just wanted to make sure that I didn't have to start the season very far above my targeted weight class.
I had to shoot straight with myself, especially after hearing the stories told by members of the congregation. One gentleman talked about traveling great distances to see relatives he hadn't seen in years, and one woman talked about driving from California to Oklahoma with her father, who had just returned home from serving in WWII, to see her grandfather, who had feared he wouldn't live to see his son and granddaughter come home to their Oklahoma.
I then remembered the Thanksgiving my freshman year in college when I helped serve dinner at the Lawrence Homeless Shelter. It had been a requirement for a class that I perform some community service, but I had no idea how much this experience would strike me. I'm going to keep this short of becoming a sermon about philanthropy and obligation to serve, and I'll keep that topic for another day.
The question of my own true sacrifice and the things for which I was truly thankful hadn't been a pressing issue until the last few years. It took some maturing, but I began to see things much more clearly. What about those who have no choice in going without? What about those who had lost their closest loved ones or those whose husbands, sons, and brothers were overseas?
I think the purpose of Thanksgiving is to remind us all not to take everything in our lives for granted. For a holiday like this one, certain preparations need to be made in order for it to go well. It seems as though all the emphasis is placed on the location of the meal, the quality of the menu, and the relatives who make (and don't make) the guest list. There are all sorts of "priorities," such as making it to the airport on time, watching whichever football game, spending x-number of hours with such-and-such relative, and so on. The sad thing is that words of thanks and prayer are few and far between with some families.
I've come to notice that frustration becomes a dominant emotion around Thanksgiving. People begin to ask themselves pointless questions such as, "Why did I put forth so much effort?" "Why do I have to do all the work?" "Why does my family have to be the ones to travel so far?" Well, to put it simply, you don't have to do anything on these days. Host the dinner, make the food, travel the great distance because of love and the true reason for this holiday: to remind you of what's important and of the things in your life for which you should truly be thankful.
These thoughts were bouncing around in my head when Pastor Seth brought our attention to the story of Martha and Mary from book of Luke. These two women hosted Jesus for supper; Martha slaved over the preparations as a good hostess and Mary sat attentively and listened to every word from Jesus' mouth. In this scripture, He indicates that Mary had made the right choice and that Martha should not be upset at her sister. He's only a guest and will not be there very long, and she's hearing His word while she still can. Time is finite and life goes on. Hospitality is important, but one mustn't let it impede the truly important things.
Similarly, I realized, time with family is limited. We should make do with what time we do have together. We will never know for sure when will be the next time we all sit down together as a family. We would be missing the point of the holiday if we were to let trivial matters distract us.
In our lives, do we end up tending to take the road of Martha when we should be taking the road of Mary? In the little picture, Mary is in the wrong and Martha is doing the right thing in prepping for dinner. One is shirking her obligations and taking the Tom Sawyer route while the other is toiling and remaining true to her duties.
In the bigger picture, however, Mary is right.
I'm not trying to say that Martha had it all wrong; on the contrary, she does have the rare gift of hospitality, which is often neglected, uncultivated, and under-appreciated. She put all her efforts into the preparations for their guest, which was to be expected. After all, the ancient Greeks believed firmly in the law of hospitality as being one of Zeus's chief concerns. The tale of Baucis and Philemon tells us of the potential for extreme punishment should one be negligent of hospitality, and who would want to risk their homeland being flooded by two vengeful gods?
The myth from the Greeks exists as an intriguing antithesis to the moral of the story of these two women. What is it that makes the memory of a special visit from important guests? What is it that makes a holiday like Thanksgiving so meaningful to us? It isn't always the turkey or pumpkin pie, but oftentimes it is the people with whom we share the meal(s). It's the variety of loved ones, and not just the variety of delicious dishes. There are so many wonderful things that make up this holiday, and we all could do well by making room in our hearts for all of the diversity.
When I really think about my own memories of Thanksgiving, particularly those from my high school days, I don't remember how much actually I went without. Sure, at the time it was as though I were eating as little as an impoverished person, but I've long since made up for it. I now have seven years of eating two Thanksgiving dinners instead of one.
That's two families to enjoy, and two families with the same incredible kind of diversity presented by the holiday menus. Two families' worth of brothers and fathers who are always willing to impart their wisdom; sisters and mothers who thrive at organizing and executing great family dinners; and plenty of children who are the metaphorical whipped cream atop the slice of pumpkin pie.
It's a funny thing: in the rush to get something written and posted up on my blog, I went and committed the very faux pas I was trying to warn against. Forgetting to mention the two most important things in my life, I went and wrote something that omitted direct mention of my wife and son.
I guess it just goes to show that we're all guilty of taking things for granted. We want the small things to be so perfect -- a meal for some, an article for me -- that we don't see the bigger picture. I'm never going to be one who claims to have achieved perfection, whether it's in my writing, my daily "goodness," or my teaching or coaching. But I do recognize and I am truly thankful for the perfect feeling of happiness I get from my wife Emily and son Brody.
There's so much for which I am thankful, but the important things that mean the most aren't material possessions, trivial matters pertaining to work, or abstract memories of the good ol' days. They are my family. Emily and Brody, I love you with all my heart!
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
It was a self-imposed, single-serving, no gravy, not-even-dreaming-of-pie kind of sacrifice. I was simply moderating my intake -- and by "moderating," I mean nearly Spartan. I'd burned plenty of calories at practice that morning and then the day after I'd be able to burn off however many calories I'd picked up from the night before. I just wanted to make sure that I didn't have to start the season very far above my targeted weight class.
I had to shoot straight with myself, especially after hearing the stories told by members of the congregation. One gentleman talked about traveling great distances to see relatives he hadn't seen in years, and one woman talked about driving from California to Oklahoma with her father, who had just returned home from serving in WWII, to see her grandfather, who had feared he wouldn't live to see his son and granddaughter come home to their Oklahoma.
I then remembered the Thanksgiving my freshman year in college when I helped serve dinner at the Lawrence Homeless Shelter. It had been a requirement for a class that I perform some community service, but I had no idea how much this experience would strike me. I'm going to keep this short of becoming a sermon about philanthropy and obligation to serve, and I'll keep that topic for another day.
The question of my own true sacrifice and the things for which I was truly thankful hadn't been a pressing issue until the last few years. It took some maturing, but I began to see things much more clearly. What about those who have no choice in going without? What about those who had lost their closest loved ones or those whose husbands, sons, and brothers were overseas?
I think the purpose of Thanksgiving is to remind us all not to take everything in our lives for granted. For a holiday like this one, certain preparations need to be made in order for it to go well. It seems as though all the emphasis is placed on the location of the meal, the quality of the menu, and the relatives who make (and don't make) the guest list. There are all sorts of "priorities," such as making it to the airport on time, watching whichever football game, spending x-number of hours with such-and-such relative, and so on. The sad thing is that words of thanks and prayer are few and far between with some families.
I've come to notice that frustration becomes a dominant emotion around Thanksgiving. People begin to ask themselves pointless questions such as, "Why did I put forth so much effort?" "Why do I have to do all the work?" "Why does my family have to be the ones to travel so far?" Well, to put it simply, you don't have to do anything on these days. Host the dinner, make the food, travel the great distance because of love and the true reason for this holiday: to remind you of what's important and of the things in your life for which you should truly be thankful.
These thoughts were bouncing around in my head when Pastor Seth brought our attention to the story of Martha and Mary from book of Luke. These two women hosted Jesus for supper; Martha slaved over the preparations as a good hostess and Mary sat attentively and listened to every word from Jesus' mouth. In this scripture, He indicates that Mary had made the right choice and that Martha should not be upset at her sister. He's only a guest and will not be there very long, and she's hearing His word while she still can. Time is finite and life goes on. Hospitality is important, but one mustn't let it impede the truly important things.
Similarly, I realized, time with family is limited. We should make do with what time we do have together. We will never know for sure when will be the next time we all sit down together as a family. We would be missing the point of the holiday if we were to let trivial matters distract us.
In our lives, do we end up tending to take the road of Martha when we should be taking the road of Mary? In the little picture, Mary is in the wrong and Martha is doing the right thing in prepping for dinner. One is shirking her obligations and taking the Tom Sawyer route while the other is toiling and remaining true to her duties.
In the bigger picture, however, Mary is right.
I'm not trying to say that Martha had it all wrong; on the contrary, she does have the rare gift of hospitality, which is often neglected, uncultivated, and under-appreciated. She put all her efforts into the preparations for their guest, which was to be expected. After all, the ancient Greeks believed firmly in the law of hospitality as being one of Zeus's chief concerns. The tale of Baucis and Philemon tells us of the potential for extreme punishment should one be negligent of hospitality, and who would want to risk their homeland being flooded by two vengeful gods?
The myth from the Greeks exists as an intriguing antithesis to the moral of the story of these two women. What is it that makes the memory of a special visit from important guests? What is it that makes a holiday like Thanksgiving so meaningful to us? It isn't always the turkey or pumpkin pie, but oftentimes it is the people with whom we share the meal(s). It's the variety of loved ones, and not just the variety of delicious dishes. There are so many wonderful things that make up this holiday, and we all could do well by making room in our hearts for all of the diversity.
When I really think about my own memories of Thanksgiving, particularly those from my high school days, I don't remember how much actually I went without. Sure, at the time it was as though I were eating as little as an impoverished person, but I've long since made up for it. I now have seven years of eating two Thanksgiving dinners instead of one.
That's two families to enjoy, and two families with the same incredible kind of diversity presented by the holiday menus. Two families' worth of brothers and fathers who are always willing to impart their wisdom; sisters and mothers who thrive at organizing and executing great family dinners; and plenty of children who are the metaphorical whipped cream atop the slice of pumpkin pie.
It's a funny thing: in the rush to get something written and posted up on my blog, I went and committed the very faux pas I was trying to warn against. Forgetting to mention the two most important things in my life, I went and wrote something that omitted direct mention of my wife and son.
I guess it just goes to show that we're all guilty of taking things for granted. We want the small things to be so perfect -- a meal for some, an article for me -- that we don't see the bigger picture. I'm never going to be one who claims to have achieved perfection, whether it's in my writing, my daily "goodness," or my teaching or coaching. But I do recognize and I am truly thankful for the perfect feeling of happiness I get from my wife Emily and son Brody.
There's so much for which I am thankful, but the important things that mean the most aren't material possessions, trivial matters pertaining to work, or abstract memories of the good ol' days. They are my family. Emily and Brody, I love you with all my heart!
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Escaping from the Crib
This past weekend, the last thing I expected to see at 1:00 in the morning was Brody walking toward me, crying, and holding his arms out for me to pick him up, yet when I was dragged from a deep sleep by the sound of distant crying, that's exactly what I saw. It turns out that the distant sound of his cry was due only to the depth of my sleep state, and not the actual distance between his room and mine.
I picked him up and set him down on the bed. Emily, who'd been sleeping just as deeply, had this look of confusion on her face. It was the look that clearly said, "I have no idea what's going on!" I didn't have any clue, either. I stumbled downstairs to see what I could find out. I must have still been asleep, because one of the first thoughts I had was that I was slightly annoyed because someone had let my toddler out of his "kennel" (honestly, we do have him sleeping in a crib, not a kennel). Then, when my consciousness began to surface and I realized that it was son, not a dog, I went to make sure that there hadn't been a malfunction with the side of the crib or that he hadn't broken it with his massive toddler strength.
I found nothing. He simply stretched one leg up over the edge, slid over, and fell to his feet below. Climbing out of his crib last night must have taken some serious goal-setting and determination. I'm proud of the little fella; his daring escape from his crib was much like the escape of the Count of Monte Cristo or the escape of Andy Dufresne, except without the unjust imprisonment.
The next morning, after trying to figure out whether or not it had been a dream to wake up and find that Brody had climbed out of his crib and up the stairs to our bedroom, I found myself sitting in church hearing a sermon about goals. It seemed to be a fine coincidence. Our pastor addressed the idea of goals and how everyone should have them. Goals are the things that provide motivation for us in our daily lives. Life is truly made of dreams, for without dreams or goals, what is the point of it all?
Our pastor based his sermon on Paul's epistle to the Phillipians (3:12-14). In this letter, Paul writes of how he is always pressing forward in his pursuit of "perfection." As Christians, we are all constantly pursuing the same goal of a relationship with Christ. Each of us may get closer and closer at various points in our lives, but none can truly achieve our goals. The question isn't so much of can we, but should we ever be able to reach our goal of a relationship with Christ? What would we then do, once that ultimate goal of all goals had been attained?
Being a coach sitting in church listen to a sports-minded pastor, I has an easy job understanding the exact metaphor he was giving us. Pastor used baseball as the basis of his comparison, but with baseball being a sport with which I'm not all that familiar, I find myself able to discuss it in terms of wrestling. I can't take credit for the originality of this metaphor; it's just my personal take on an incredibly pertinent sermon.
Essentially, there are three types of wrestlers: those that make it happen, those that watch it happen, and those that wonder what the heck just happened. The first group are those who set goals and pursue them passionately. The second group are those who may have some talent and may have seen some success, but mostly, they have seen a lot of luck. The third group are those who are simply utterly clueless; perhaps they don't care about their participation that much.
All three groups co-exist in any sport, but the common thread between them is not necessarily just their respective sport, but more importantly the presence of a coach.
In the same way athletes make errors in matches, we make errors in life, but it is Christ who allows us to recover. It doesn't matter if we're the type of person who makes things happen, watch things happen, or wonder what just happened; Christ loves us all and acts as the coach to whom we all should listen.
To further adapt the Pastor's metaphor, life is like a wrestling dual -- one team against another. Most people think of wrestling as being an individual sport, but once a person becomes involved in wrestling, it is clear how strong the team element really is. In this metaphor, there are three things to remember:
1) We're all on a team, so each of us needs to be a team player. Whereas life isn't an individual effort, we all do our individual parts to win the competition. Each move in each period of each match contributes to the overall team score.
2) We have a coach, so we need to listen to him. The Pastor asked a great rhetorical question: "Why call him 'coach' if we're not going to listen?" It's when my wrestlers stop listening to me and they begin doing their own thing that things typically fall apart -- technique wanes, frustrations soar, and strategy goes right out the window, along with the probability of winning the match.
3) We may get hurt in the match, but we need to get over it. The idea is to hop up and shake it off, and we must know the difference between an "injury" and an "ouchie," to quote Coach Kit Harris. Pain is as much a necessary element to the sport as is the mat, the shoes, the singlets, and the headgear. The same goes with life.
These comparisons between life as a Christian and being an athlete serve to remind us of our humanity, as well as our intended purpose in life. Sure, there will be errors along the way; we won't always be team players, at times we'll fail to listen to our Coach, and we will frequently feel the sting of injury.
The Apostle Paul discusses the pursuit of perfection. In setting this goal, he steps forward on a journey of growth and shows us all how one should seek atonement with Christ.
It's easy for me, as a coach, to understand this message from the Bible, especially with how clearly the pastor has conveyed it. However, it's not always going to be that clear to me, and it's not always going to make sense to my son Brody, especially in his early years. The other night, he achieved his previously-set goal of escaping from his crib. He had no team to consider or to cheer him on, he had no one coaching him along the way, and surely he must have felt something painful when he landed, yet he met his goal (and put his parents in a panic to find him a suitable toddler bed).
Goal-setting is as much a part of life as is breathing, eating, and sleeping. We have been programmed to do this from the very beginning. Christ enables us to start off enjoying the game on our own, but sooner or later, we all have to discover the rules of the game. We can go through life wondering what happened -- that is, why we achieve some goals and why we fall short of others. We can also set our goals at a minimum level, hoping that our low bar is easily overcome. Or we could set our goals high and do what it takes to achieve them.
In order to fully achieve our earthly goals, and to then be able to set focus on our goal of perfect relationships with Christ, we must work together, heed our coaches, and bounce back from whatever adversity tries to keep us from our dreams, whether it's escaping from the crib or finding true happiness in life.
I picked him up and set him down on the bed. Emily, who'd been sleeping just as deeply, had this look of confusion on her face. It was the look that clearly said, "I have no idea what's going on!" I didn't have any clue, either. I stumbled downstairs to see what I could find out. I must have still been asleep, because one of the first thoughts I had was that I was slightly annoyed because someone had let my toddler out of his "kennel" (honestly, we do have him sleeping in a crib, not a kennel). Then, when my consciousness began to surface and I realized that it was son, not a dog, I went to make sure that there hadn't been a malfunction with the side of the crib or that he hadn't broken it with his massive toddler strength.
I found nothing. He simply stretched one leg up over the edge, slid over, and fell to his feet below. Climbing out of his crib last night must have taken some serious goal-setting and determination. I'm proud of the little fella; his daring escape from his crib was much like the escape of the Count of Monte Cristo or the escape of Andy Dufresne, except without the unjust imprisonment.
The next morning, after trying to figure out whether or not it had been a dream to wake up and find that Brody had climbed out of his crib and up the stairs to our bedroom, I found myself sitting in church hearing a sermon about goals. It seemed to be a fine coincidence. Our pastor addressed the idea of goals and how everyone should have them. Goals are the things that provide motivation for us in our daily lives. Life is truly made of dreams, for without dreams or goals, what is the point of it all?
Our pastor based his sermon on Paul's epistle to the Phillipians (3:12-14). In this letter, Paul writes of how he is always pressing forward in his pursuit of "perfection." As Christians, we are all constantly pursuing the same goal of a relationship with Christ. Each of us may get closer and closer at various points in our lives, but none can truly achieve our goals. The question isn't so much of can we, but should we ever be able to reach our goal of a relationship with Christ? What would we then do, once that ultimate goal of all goals had been attained?
Being a coach sitting in church listen to a sports-minded pastor, I has an easy job understanding the exact metaphor he was giving us. Pastor used baseball as the basis of his comparison, but with baseball being a sport with which I'm not all that familiar, I find myself able to discuss it in terms of wrestling. I can't take credit for the originality of this metaphor; it's just my personal take on an incredibly pertinent sermon.
Essentially, there are three types of wrestlers: those that make it happen, those that watch it happen, and those that wonder what the heck just happened. The first group are those who set goals and pursue them passionately. The second group are those who may have some talent and may have seen some success, but mostly, they have seen a lot of luck. The third group are those who are simply utterly clueless; perhaps they don't care about their participation that much.
All three groups co-exist in any sport, but the common thread between them is not necessarily just their respective sport, but more importantly the presence of a coach.
In the same way athletes make errors in matches, we make errors in life, but it is Christ who allows us to recover. It doesn't matter if we're the type of person who makes things happen, watch things happen, or wonder what just happened; Christ loves us all and acts as the coach to whom we all should listen.
To further adapt the Pastor's metaphor, life is like a wrestling dual -- one team against another. Most people think of wrestling as being an individual sport, but once a person becomes involved in wrestling, it is clear how strong the team element really is. In this metaphor, there are three things to remember:
1) We're all on a team, so each of us needs to be a team player. Whereas life isn't an individual effort, we all do our individual parts to win the competition. Each move in each period of each match contributes to the overall team score.
2) We have a coach, so we need to listen to him. The Pastor asked a great rhetorical question: "Why call him 'coach' if we're not going to listen?" It's when my wrestlers stop listening to me and they begin doing their own thing that things typically fall apart -- technique wanes, frustrations soar, and strategy goes right out the window, along with the probability of winning the match.
3) We may get hurt in the match, but we need to get over it. The idea is to hop up and shake it off, and we must know the difference between an "injury" and an "ouchie," to quote Coach Kit Harris. Pain is as much a necessary element to the sport as is the mat, the shoes, the singlets, and the headgear. The same goes with life.
These comparisons between life as a Christian and being an athlete serve to remind us of our humanity, as well as our intended purpose in life. Sure, there will be errors along the way; we won't always be team players, at times we'll fail to listen to our Coach, and we will frequently feel the sting of injury.
The Apostle Paul discusses the pursuit of perfection. In setting this goal, he steps forward on a journey of growth and shows us all how one should seek atonement with Christ.
It's easy for me, as a coach, to understand this message from the Bible, especially with how clearly the pastor has conveyed it. However, it's not always going to be that clear to me, and it's not always going to make sense to my son Brody, especially in his early years. The other night, he achieved his previously-set goal of escaping from his crib. He had no team to consider or to cheer him on, he had no one coaching him along the way, and surely he must have felt something painful when he landed, yet he met his goal (and put his parents in a panic to find him a suitable toddler bed).
Goal-setting is as much a part of life as is breathing, eating, and sleeping. We have been programmed to do this from the very beginning. Christ enables us to start off enjoying the game on our own, but sooner or later, we all have to discover the rules of the game. We can go through life wondering what happened -- that is, why we achieve some goals and why we fall short of others. We can also set our goals at a minimum level, hoping that our low bar is easily overcome. Or we could set our goals high and do what it takes to achieve them.
In order to fully achieve our earthly goals, and to then be able to set focus on our goal of perfect relationships with Christ, we must work together, heed our coaches, and bounce back from whatever adversity tries to keep us from our dreams, whether it's escaping from the crib or finding true happiness in life.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Guys Night
This is a topic that I'm sure every father either thinks or writes about: the evolution of the time-honored "guys night."
Once upon a time, it was all about spending the night at a buddy's house as we played video games, munched on Doritos, and drowned ourselves in Mountain Dew (because it was cool and it allowed us the normally taboo caffeine high, which exceeded that of normal caffeinated drinks). Later, "guys night" became a gathering at some's apartment as we played darts or pool, noshed on cheese fries, and guzzled beer. Now, "guys night" has become one of my favorite things to do with a pretty cool little dude: we spend the evening playing with mulch or flowers or plant stalks in the flower bed, chowing down on fish sticks, and drinking Diet Mountain Dew (me) and milk (Brody).
My, how things have changed!
"Guys night" has gone from involving good buddies, "bestest" friends, drinking buddies, and "bros" to my best little buddy, Brody.
Tonight, Emily is enjoying a much-deserved evening out with a good friend, and I'm pretty well entertained just watching as Brody stomps around making myriad odd noises. Every note from his mouth is full of glee, but from time to time these noises have a trace of frustration, most likely due to his inability to grasp the concepts of nature at this point. When he sees Billy the dog pressing his nose against the window, he barks back at him; he doesn't go up to the window and interact, he just goes about his business and utters, "woof-woof-woof." Some of his other noises are nonsense syllables, but my heart melts every time I hear him say "Daddy" or "Dada" and he gives me that adorable toddler's toothy smile -- his mommy's smile.
He busies himself by making scattered piles of mulch, all the while looking back at me, as if he's making sure that I'm as proud of his work as he is. At one point he sets down a large piece of mulch at the top of a pile and looks up to me, squeals from a huge smile and claps his hands. He trots back and forth around the landscaping bricks, playing some new game that only he understands -- and it's only important that he understands it, not that I do. He then starts climbing up the front step only to turn around again and step off because he now knows how to do it without falling down and he wants to show off.
Brody now goes about picking more and more of the stalks from the flowers... Only the green stalks, though, and not the dead ones. I wish he knew the difference so that he could help with the gardening. He casts the stalks down into a new green pile -- he won't mix the green stalks with the brown mulch -- and then stops to stare at it. Maybe he's unhappy with his creation, or maybe he's just having fun being random and chaotic, but he then sweeps his pile with his hands and scatters green and brown all over the gray concrete sidewalk.
He's so full of smiles and giggles that it breaks my heart to take him inside, but it's getting cold and he's refusing to put on his sweatshirt. I ask Brody if he wants to go inside. Nope! What do you want for dinner? Nope! (It wasn't even a question that warranted a "yes" or "no" answer.) Just the same, he only wants to play around outside. He cries and whimpers as I carry him in, but at my mention of Mickey Mouse, he forgets all about his woes. Our biggest concern now is which Mickey Mouse cartoon we'll watch tonight.
Soon, we'll go up to the kitchen to get something "yummy" to eat and then we'll chill in the basement. I'm just amazed at how things have changed so quickly -- how "guys night" has evolved over the years. It certainly wasn't an overnight change, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
Once upon a time, it was all about spending the night at a buddy's house as we played video games, munched on Doritos, and drowned ourselves in Mountain Dew (because it was cool and it allowed us the normally taboo caffeine high, which exceeded that of normal caffeinated drinks). Later, "guys night" became a gathering at some's apartment as we played darts or pool, noshed on cheese fries, and guzzled beer. Now, "guys night" has become one of my favorite things to do with a pretty cool little dude: we spend the evening playing with mulch or flowers or plant stalks in the flower bed, chowing down on fish sticks, and drinking Diet Mountain Dew (me) and milk (Brody).
My, how things have changed!
"Guys night" has gone from involving good buddies, "bestest" friends, drinking buddies, and "bros" to my best little buddy, Brody.
Tonight, Emily is enjoying a much-deserved evening out with a good friend, and I'm pretty well entertained just watching as Brody stomps around making myriad odd noises. Every note from his mouth is full of glee, but from time to time these noises have a trace of frustration, most likely due to his inability to grasp the concepts of nature at this point. When he sees Billy the dog pressing his nose against the window, he barks back at him; he doesn't go up to the window and interact, he just goes about his business and utters, "woof-woof-woof." Some of his other noises are nonsense syllables, but my heart melts every time I hear him say "Daddy" or "Dada" and he gives me that adorable toddler's toothy smile -- his mommy's smile.
He busies himself by making scattered piles of mulch, all the while looking back at me, as if he's making sure that I'm as proud of his work as he is. At one point he sets down a large piece of mulch at the top of a pile and looks up to me, squeals from a huge smile and claps his hands. He trots back and forth around the landscaping bricks, playing some new game that only he understands -- and it's only important that he understands it, not that I do. He then starts climbing up the front step only to turn around again and step off because he now knows how to do it without falling down and he wants to show off.
Brody now goes about picking more and more of the stalks from the flowers... Only the green stalks, though, and not the dead ones. I wish he knew the difference so that he could help with the gardening. He casts the stalks down into a new green pile -- he won't mix the green stalks with the brown mulch -- and then stops to stare at it. Maybe he's unhappy with his creation, or maybe he's just having fun being random and chaotic, but he then sweeps his pile with his hands and scatters green and brown all over the gray concrete sidewalk.
He's so full of smiles and giggles that it breaks my heart to take him inside, but it's getting cold and he's refusing to put on his sweatshirt. I ask Brody if he wants to go inside. Nope! What do you want for dinner? Nope! (It wasn't even a question that warranted a "yes" or "no" answer.) Just the same, he only wants to play around outside. He cries and whimpers as I carry him in, but at my mention of Mickey Mouse, he forgets all about his woes. Our biggest concern now is which Mickey Mouse cartoon we'll watch tonight.
Soon, we'll go up to the kitchen to get something "yummy" to eat and then we'll chill in the basement. I'm just amazed at how things have changed so quickly -- how "guys night" has evolved over the years. It certainly wasn't an overnight change, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Standing in Cold Branson Water
I close my eyes and listen to everything happening around me. The water rushes past and its roar can be heard above all else as it cascades down into the main channel. Because of the higher elevation of Branson, Missouri, my ears are still clogged and popping periodically, so it really is all I can hear. I open my eyes to see that down in the water below, the rainbow trout are swimming all around me no browns are visible, just rainbows. An older man wades into the water a dozen feet from me, but I can't hear his splashing; I only catch the movement out of the corner of my eye. Out here, there's an aroma of purity in the air. There's no stagnation from standing pools, nor is there any trace of dead fish, fish food, or stink bait. Little beads of mist are all around me as I take in great breaths of that fresh air.
The setting seems to be just right. Even though there's a little bit of a crowd and it looks like more will be joining us as the day goes on, I feel great about the upcoming fishing. The atmosphere is perfect, but for some reason I start back up with my fishing doubts.
I think that I have all the necessary gear. I have the waders, the vest, the forceps, the clippers, the fly boxes, the angler's bag, the reel case, the Ketchum release tool, the polarized sun glasses, the net, dry flies, wet flies, terrestrials, etc. Pretty much the only thing I still "need" is a boat of my own. The waders do just fine for now. I'm decked out in all my gear; anything I need is in one of the myriad vest pockets and the rest is stowed in my bag. I look like a pro, like I belong out there, yet I feel slightly off kilter.
Then it dawns on me that I have no clue what I'm doing out there on the water. I feel like it's my first time fly fishing again, waiting for Dr. Gene Decker to walk by and make some recycled joke about my technique. "I've never seen someone catch a fish with their fly in the air like that!" "Are you trying to whip the trout to death?" "There you go, catch some brush on the bank, take it home and eat it while the rest of us catch some fish."
As I glance up and down the channel, I see what looks like scores of veterans, young and old, who appear to know what they're doing. Teenagers and twenty somethings, guys my dad's age and fellows who must have been fly fishing since before my dad was born.
I've got a gray scud tied on, just like Darryl, a family friend, had instructed me. Having just switched from a buckskin worm that had done me no good, I'm feeling even more doubt. I wade out a little bit, creating a new eddy around me the trout are supposed to flock to the new structure in the water wait for a moment, and then back out. I'd been told to dip my line, let it float, keep my sights on the strike indicator, and then set the hook at the slightest disturbance. The only disturbance I feel, however, is my presence in this cluster of easy fishing.
It's such a beautiful scene. Fog covers the river, and mist rises up from the water. In the background all I can hear is the rushing of water as it cascades down into the river.
All it seems I can do is just sit there, pretending to know what the heck is going on and pretending to know what I'm doing. I stop to look out of the corner of my eye and observe the others. There's a little outlet coming from the hatchery into the bigger river, and scores of trout have gathered around the structure. Lots of anglers have gathered there, too. They each have no more than twelve feet of line out, including their leaders, dipping their flies in the water right where outlet meets river. Every once in a while, someone snags a trout, but usually it's nothing worth keeping, though. It looks so easy, like shooting fish in a barrel.
This type of fishing just doesn't seem right to me. It's not that the others are doing anything wrong; it's just not what I think of when I imagine fly fishing! Where is that artful strategy and technique of fly fishing that I've been reading about in books and watching in videos? I'd been hoping to see artists at work with their perfect casts set to tempos in the metronomes of their minds. What I see is too much emphasis on catching. It seems that the day's worth will be measured by how many fish have been duped into taking easy flies, and not on casting, understanding the fish, and careful observation. It's easy pickings for the anglers. They strap on their waders in the parking lot, tromp down to the riverbank, carefully walk in, and go to work. The first few people have scads of luck, but the rest are just standing by, waiting for someone to move on so they can take their shots.
Across the channel, however, I see something that gives me hope, something that redeems the fly fishermen in my mind. It looks like a real fly fisherman out in the waters off an island. I wondered how he got out there on that island with the units running from the dam and the water flowing rapidly. He casts, back casts, shooting the line forward. The current catches his fly as he makes a quick mend. Down the channel it goes. He picks up his line and casts it back up the water. No one is around him no one sight fishing or looking for the easy catch. I watch for five minutes and he's caught nothing. It doesn't matter. He's in the open, he's casting. It's so peaceful that it makes me want to stomp on across the channel and to go out there, too. Forget the current and the depth of the channel I want to be away from the rest of this fishing and to join a true artist.
You have to understand something about me. I've got this natural tendency to glamorize and romanticize things in my life. I wouldn't say it's a problem, but sometimes I build up these prejudices in my mind; prejudices created from reading books and magazines, watching movies, and plain old daydreaming. Because of a lack of exposure to what fly fishing really is, I have all of these fancies flittering about in my head and they are much different from the reality I'm watching in front of me.
So, what is there to do about it? Hopefully I will be able to go back and fish these waters. Someday soon, I hope to make a trip to the wilderness, having to hike miles to a naturally stocked stream, like Ernest Hemingway does in "The Big Two Hearted River" or in The Sun Also Rises.
Maybe someday in the future I'll be able to get out to the Appalachian Trail, to hike it through, like my father has done. I'd carry a box of flies, a rod and reel, and some minor tools on my pack. Each state I entered, I'd be sure to buy a fishing license and whatever tags were required by law. My "trail name" (moniker used while thru hiking to identify who you are) would have something to do with fishing.
I've found that fly fishing brings me peace, isolation, concentration, and repetition many of the same things I love about the sport wrestling. However, it seems that I can gain these things from fishing without the bloodshed, pain, and need for a partner. It's the therapy I sometimes need to help me exorcise ghosts. Could regular fishing provide these things, too? Who knows?
I've been looking forward to this vacation for months now, allowing myself to build up great expectations for lots of good fishing while down in Branson. It dawns upon me later in the trip that it's not the catching of fish that I've been looking forward to; it's the taste of life, the refreshing slice of life that I'll be getting out there.
The setting seems to be just right. Even though there's a little bit of a crowd and it looks like more will be joining us as the day goes on, I feel great about the upcoming fishing. The atmosphere is perfect, but for some reason I start back up with my fishing doubts.
I think that I have all the necessary gear. I have the waders, the vest, the forceps, the clippers, the fly boxes, the angler's bag, the reel case, the Ketchum release tool, the polarized sun glasses, the net, dry flies, wet flies, terrestrials, etc. Pretty much the only thing I still "need" is a boat of my own. The waders do just fine for now. I'm decked out in all my gear; anything I need is in one of the myriad vest pockets and the rest is stowed in my bag. I look like a pro, like I belong out there, yet I feel slightly off kilter.
Then it dawns on me that I have no clue what I'm doing out there on the water. I feel like it's my first time fly fishing again, waiting for Dr. Gene Decker to walk by and make some recycled joke about my technique. "I've never seen someone catch a fish with their fly in the air like that!" "Are you trying to whip the trout to death?" "There you go, catch some brush on the bank, take it home and eat it while the rest of us catch some fish."
As I glance up and down the channel, I see what looks like scores of veterans, young and old, who appear to know what they're doing. Teenagers and twenty somethings, guys my dad's age and fellows who must have been fly fishing since before my dad was born.
I've got a gray scud tied on, just like Darryl, a family friend, had instructed me. Having just switched from a buckskin worm that had done me no good, I'm feeling even more doubt. I wade out a little bit, creating a new eddy around me the trout are supposed to flock to the new structure in the water wait for a moment, and then back out. I'd been told to dip my line, let it float, keep my sights on the strike indicator, and then set the hook at the slightest disturbance. The only disturbance I feel, however, is my presence in this cluster of easy fishing.
It's such a beautiful scene. Fog covers the river, and mist rises up from the water. In the background all I can hear is the rushing of water as it cascades down into the river.
All it seems I can do is just sit there, pretending to know what the heck is going on and pretending to know what I'm doing. I stop to look out of the corner of my eye and observe the others. There's a little outlet coming from the hatchery into the bigger river, and scores of trout have gathered around the structure. Lots of anglers have gathered there, too. They each have no more than twelve feet of line out, including their leaders, dipping their flies in the water right where outlet meets river. Every once in a while, someone snags a trout, but usually it's nothing worth keeping, though. It looks so easy, like shooting fish in a barrel.
This type of fishing just doesn't seem right to me. It's not that the others are doing anything wrong; it's just not what I think of when I imagine fly fishing! Where is that artful strategy and technique of fly fishing that I've been reading about in books and watching in videos? I'd been hoping to see artists at work with their perfect casts set to tempos in the metronomes of their minds. What I see is too much emphasis on catching. It seems that the day's worth will be measured by how many fish have been duped into taking easy flies, and not on casting, understanding the fish, and careful observation. It's easy pickings for the anglers. They strap on their waders in the parking lot, tromp down to the riverbank, carefully walk in, and go to work. The first few people have scads of luck, but the rest are just standing by, waiting for someone to move on so they can take their shots.
Across the channel, however, I see something that gives me hope, something that redeems the fly fishermen in my mind. It looks like a real fly fisherman out in the waters off an island. I wondered how he got out there on that island with the units running from the dam and the water flowing rapidly. He casts, back casts, shooting the line forward. The current catches his fly as he makes a quick mend. Down the channel it goes. He picks up his line and casts it back up the water. No one is around him no one sight fishing or looking for the easy catch. I watch for five minutes and he's caught nothing. It doesn't matter. He's in the open, he's casting. It's so peaceful that it makes me want to stomp on across the channel and to go out there, too. Forget the current and the depth of the channel I want to be away from the rest of this fishing and to join a true artist.
You have to understand something about me. I've got this natural tendency to glamorize and romanticize things in my life. I wouldn't say it's a problem, but sometimes I build up these prejudices in my mind; prejudices created from reading books and magazines, watching movies, and plain old daydreaming. Because of a lack of exposure to what fly fishing really is, I have all of these fancies flittering about in my head and they are much different from the reality I'm watching in front of me.
So, what is there to do about it? Hopefully I will be able to go back and fish these waters. Someday soon, I hope to make a trip to the wilderness, having to hike miles to a naturally stocked stream, like Ernest Hemingway does in "The Big Two Hearted River" or in The Sun Also Rises.
Maybe someday in the future I'll be able to get out to the Appalachian Trail, to hike it through, like my father has done. I'd carry a box of flies, a rod and reel, and some minor tools on my pack. Each state I entered, I'd be sure to buy a fishing license and whatever tags were required by law. My "trail name" (moniker used while thru hiking to identify who you are) would have something to do with fishing.
I've found that fly fishing brings me peace, isolation, concentration, and repetition many of the same things I love about the sport wrestling. However, it seems that I can gain these things from fishing without the bloodshed, pain, and need for a partner. It's the therapy I sometimes need to help me exorcise ghosts. Could regular fishing provide these things, too? Who knows?
I've been looking forward to this vacation for months now, allowing myself to build up great expectations for lots of good fishing while down in Branson. It dawns upon me later in the trip that it's not the catching of fish that I've been looking forward to; it's the taste of life, the refreshing slice of life that I'll be getting out there.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Caves, Brothers, and Brick Walls
The story never ends when the curtain falls, when the credits roll, or when the final page is turned. This is something I often think about with my favorite stories, whether it's a film that especially moved me or a book that kept me entranced from cover to cover. Whatever happens after that final scene or page, however, we can only trust to our imaginations.
A few weeks ago in church, our pastor asked us to consider the story of the Prodigal Son from the book of Luke. It ends with the father rebuking his elder son for being upset at the celebration for the younger son's return. The father urges him to embrace his brother because he was once dead to them but now is alive. The question I have is, did the older brother ultimately accept his father's decision? Whatever jealousies or grudges remained after that point, we don't know; we can only wonder. Pastor asked us, what if the prodigal son had met his older brother on the road home?
The older brother erred in that he was being judgmental; the younger brother had sloughed off responsibility, loyalty, and sacrifice in order to live a hedonistic lifestyle. When the money ran out, and along with it the fickle friends that come with money, he had nowhere to go but home. He truly had been lost and now is found, but the older brother judges him for his choices. The father asks him not to question his warm welcome of the prodigal son, but to accept that his younger brother has returned and is safe. Too many Christians act like the older brother in this parable. They judge. Some people make their mistakes and lead lives that are apart from Christ. Who are we to question them when they finally do find Christ? The important thing is that they have found Christ.
Many people get their only exposure to Christ when they spend a small part of their Sundays in church. What good does it do for them to enter hostile territory? If they want into the sanctuary to face a crowd of people who feel superior to them, it truly becomes hostile territory. I know how I feel when I’ve missed church for a few weeks; I feel nervous, guilty that I hadn’t been there. I know that I won’t be judged by my church family -- because they are my family and they know me. We wouldn’t want to scare away new members, new brothers and sisters, by judging them on their attendance.
As a church, it should be our goal to help these people find Christ outside of church. Pastor talked about various people with their spiritual gifts. He quoted the famous Southern Baptist leader Adrian Rogers: "Spiritual gifts are not toys but tools, not for your enjoyment but for your employment." This is a comment that brought me to a point where I was sitting in church remembering a certain piece of literature from my college days.
When I think about the story of the Prodigal Son and about the idea of spiritual gifts, my mind immediately darts to the beginning of Book VII of Plato's The Republic ‑‑ the famous "Allegory of the Cave." I remember reading about the men and women who live in the cave, the few who escape and see the true forms of reality, and the idea of the philosopher king. Something has to occur in order for the prisoners to escape the cave, yet we rarely know what that thing actually is. Once Plato’s philosopher king does escape the cave, where does the story go from there? Plato tells us how he is obligated to return, but one could easily understand him remaining outside to bask in the sunlight. In Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Guy Montag says, "Maybe books can get us half out of the cave." It is books in Bradbury’s fictional world and it is the love of Christ in our world that bring us into the light of salvation. There’s now the question of who chooses to answer the calling of Christ and then there’s the question of when they should answer it. Some people have embraced Christ from an early age, while others have do so in their later years, and even still others have found Him, rejected Him, and then rediscovered him. People leave the cave at a young age, and they leave at an old age. They leave the cave, return half-way, leave again, and engage in a yo-yo cave experience.
What if one person spends his whole life making sacrifices so that he may lead a Christian life while another person leads a life of sin only to find Christ much later than the first one found Him? Would it not be fair? Well, as my old Pappy used to say, “Life’s not fair.” I don’t think that Christ was ever about fairness. All too often, fairness involves blanket considerations for a mass of people. Fairness negates the worth of the individual. When love is involved, rarely should fairness come into play. It's not up to us to make judgment on those who have chosen to follow Him. The important thing is that they have found Christ in their lives.
The strength of prayer and the dedication to Christ contains a certain parallel to things I’ve seen during wrestling practice. A regular drill I employ at practice is having the wrestlers do push‑ups to failure. I don’t count for them, it’s not on my call that they go up or down, and I don’t walk around making them re-do poorly executed push-ups. Some kids do ten push‑ups over the span of a minute while others do push‑ups for ten minutes straight. Some yell and grunt loudly, while others can only be heard making the slightest noises as they exhale or inhale sharply. As a coach, could I possibly compare little Johnny with little Jimmy? No, I cannot, but things do balance out in the long run. One boy may be strong enough to do push‑ups galore while another may be swift and well-conditioned and thereby excel at running sprints. The dedicated athlete will recognize where he is strong and capitalize on it. He will also work to improve on his weaknesses. The dedicated Christian will do likewise. He will recognize his weaknesses and seek to improve them while at the same time he will seek to make use of his strengths.
James 3:6 reads, "The tongue is also a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body." A snarky or judgmental comment can breed a host of hateful or hurt feelings. For a coach to compare two athletes, he would only be setting the boys up for failure. He wouldn’t be looking at the bigger picture, nor would he be respecting the athletes as individuals with merit. For a Christian to judge a fellow Christian is to start a fire with his tongue. It begets a fire that consumes and chars and melts away the hope and love that Christ has given us. The older brother could have drastically changed things had he encountered his younger brother on the road home. Had he been able to speak freely, and without censure from the father, who knows what would have happened with the Prodigal Son. The philosopher king of Plato's allegory could have failed miserably by remaining out in the sun, basking in all of the reality he had previously been denied, but it was his moral duty to re-enter the cave and “partake of [the prisoners’] labors and honors, whether they are worth having or not”. Essentially, he needs to re‑enter the cave to employ, rather than enjoy, his spiritual gifts.
Pastor illustrated his point by talking about Christians being like bricks. A brick by itself can be kicked around; a stack of bricks can be knocked over; a wall of bricks sealed with mortar is strong. But what provides this mortar? It could be the father’s joy at seeing his once-lost son returned, or it could be the moral obligation of the philosopher king to return to his brethren, or it could simply be the love and trust we put into one another.
A few weeks ago in church, our pastor asked us to consider the story of the Prodigal Son from the book of Luke. It ends with the father rebuking his elder son for being upset at the celebration for the younger son's return. The father urges him to embrace his brother because he was once dead to them but now is alive. The question I have is, did the older brother ultimately accept his father's decision? Whatever jealousies or grudges remained after that point, we don't know; we can only wonder. Pastor asked us, what if the prodigal son had met his older brother on the road home?
The older brother erred in that he was being judgmental; the younger brother had sloughed off responsibility, loyalty, and sacrifice in order to live a hedonistic lifestyle. When the money ran out, and along with it the fickle friends that come with money, he had nowhere to go but home. He truly had been lost and now is found, but the older brother judges him for his choices. The father asks him not to question his warm welcome of the prodigal son, but to accept that his younger brother has returned and is safe. Too many Christians act like the older brother in this parable. They judge. Some people make their mistakes and lead lives that are apart from Christ. Who are we to question them when they finally do find Christ? The important thing is that they have found Christ.
Many people get their only exposure to Christ when they spend a small part of their Sundays in church. What good does it do for them to enter hostile territory? If they want into the sanctuary to face a crowd of people who feel superior to them, it truly becomes hostile territory. I know how I feel when I’ve missed church for a few weeks; I feel nervous, guilty that I hadn’t been there. I know that I won’t be judged by my church family -- because they are my family and they know me. We wouldn’t want to scare away new members, new brothers and sisters, by judging them on their attendance.
As a church, it should be our goal to help these people find Christ outside of church. Pastor talked about various people with their spiritual gifts. He quoted the famous Southern Baptist leader Adrian Rogers: "Spiritual gifts are not toys but tools, not for your enjoyment but for your employment." This is a comment that brought me to a point where I was sitting in church remembering a certain piece of literature from my college days.
When I think about the story of the Prodigal Son and about the idea of spiritual gifts, my mind immediately darts to the beginning of Book VII of Plato's The Republic ‑‑ the famous "Allegory of the Cave." I remember reading about the men and women who live in the cave, the few who escape and see the true forms of reality, and the idea of the philosopher king. Something has to occur in order for the prisoners to escape the cave, yet we rarely know what that thing actually is. Once Plato’s philosopher king does escape the cave, where does the story go from there? Plato tells us how he is obligated to return, but one could easily understand him remaining outside to bask in the sunlight. In Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Guy Montag says, "Maybe books can get us half out of the cave." It is books in Bradbury’s fictional world and it is the love of Christ in our world that bring us into the light of salvation. There’s now the question of who chooses to answer the calling of Christ and then there’s the question of when they should answer it. Some people have embraced Christ from an early age, while others have do so in their later years, and even still others have found Him, rejected Him, and then rediscovered him. People leave the cave at a young age, and they leave at an old age. They leave the cave, return half-way, leave again, and engage in a yo-yo cave experience.
What if one person spends his whole life making sacrifices so that he may lead a Christian life while another person leads a life of sin only to find Christ much later than the first one found Him? Would it not be fair? Well, as my old Pappy used to say, “Life’s not fair.” I don’t think that Christ was ever about fairness. All too often, fairness involves blanket considerations for a mass of people. Fairness negates the worth of the individual. When love is involved, rarely should fairness come into play. It's not up to us to make judgment on those who have chosen to follow Him. The important thing is that they have found Christ in their lives.
The strength of prayer and the dedication to Christ contains a certain parallel to things I’ve seen during wrestling practice. A regular drill I employ at practice is having the wrestlers do push‑ups to failure. I don’t count for them, it’s not on my call that they go up or down, and I don’t walk around making them re-do poorly executed push-ups. Some kids do ten push‑ups over the span of a minute while others do push‑ups for ten minutes straight. Some yell and grunt loudly, while others can only be heard making the slightest noises as they exhale or inhale sharply. As a coach, could I possibly compare little Johnny with little Jimmy? No, I cannot, but things do balance out in the long run. One boy may be strong enough to do push‑ups galore while another may be swift and well-conditioned and thereby excel at running sprints. The dedicated athlete will recognize where he is strong and capitalize on it. He will also work to improve on his weaknesses. The dedicated Christian will do likewise. He will recognize his weaknesses and seek to improve them while at the same time he will seek to make use of his strengths.
James 3:6 reads, "The tongue is also a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body." A snarky or judgmental comment can breed a host of hateful or hurt feelings. For a coach to compare two athletes, he would only be setting the boys up for failure. He wouldn’t be looking at the bigger picture, nor would he be respecting the athletes as individuals with merit. For a Christian to judge a fellow Christian is to start a fire with his tongue. It begets a fire that consumes and chars and melts away the hope and love that Christ has given us. The older brother could have drastically changed things had he encountered his younger brother on the road home. Had he been able to speak freely, and without censure from the father, who knows what would have happened with the Prodigal Son. The philosopher king of Plato's allegory could have failed miserably by remaining out in the sun, basking in all of the reality he had previously been denied, but it was his moral duty to re-enter the cave and “partake of [the prisoners’] labors and honors, whether they are worth having or not”. Essentially, he needs to re‑enter the cave to employ, rather than enjoy, his spiritual gifts.
Pastor illustrated his point by talking about Christians being like bricks. A brick by itself can be kicked around; a stack of bricks can be knocked over; a wall of bricks sealed with mortar is strong. But what provides this mortar? It could be the father’s joy at seeing his once-lost son returned, or it could be the moral obligation of the philosopher king to return to his brethren, or it could simply be the love and trust we put into one another.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Driving Wisdom
Last week, Brody learned a new dance at day care the "car dance." From what I can tell through observing an 18 month old trying to do any specific kind of dance, the moves consist mainly of him holding his hands out in front as if he were gripping a steering wheel and then turning the wheel back and forth. It is pretty cute when he busts out the car dance at random moments rarely on request, however. In fact, he'll pretend to drive almost everything; any inanimate object that can fit in his hands becomes a steering wheel. Although his mom and I are hoping more for a career in an applied science, this kid may have a future in one form or another of driving.
Unfortunately, watching Brody do his car dance forces me think about the distant future when he'll actually be driving a car. I can't imagine the changes that a span of 14 years will bring, but I do know that I'm both looking forward to and dreading the chance to teach him how to drive. It'll be a great father son moment, but then again, how qualified would I be to give him lessons on how to be a good driver?
I still vividly remember the primary source of most of my driving wisdom: my own father. Whereas there were distinct times that his driving scared the daylights out of me (two in particular stand out in my mind: cruising swiftly down steep hills around Lake Shawnee and getting lost in downtown Philadelphia; both instances resulting from geography and terrain, not necessarily his skills), he is perhaps the best driver I know. He had lots of good advice; wisdom that goes far beyond what I'd learned in Driver Ed in high school. Keep yourself from having tunnel vision and have your head on a swivel. Don't drive in the grooves of the road; keep your wheels where there's the best traction. Use your turn signals, even when you don't think there's anyone around.
I had a decent Driver Ed teacher in school, but he couldn't match the effectiveness of my dad's lessons. So now I wonder: what would make me a qualified teacher for Brody whenever his car dance evolves to the advanced stage of actually driving an automobile?
Well, I do drive a lot. Almost 3 hours a day to and from school. I drive when my family goes somewhere. I drive my friends when we go out. I drive when it's a school vehicle other than a bus.
I haven't had the extensive training or experience that my dad has had, so I'm not an expert on what a good driver is. But I have had the opportunity to think about what makes a poor driver. Here are some random thoughts about driving that have entered my head while driving the last week and a half. Don't worry, I did not write them down while I was driving, nor did I type them in my phone as text messages. These are some of the points that I will be sure not to make with Brody:
* Oversleeping and / or running late entitles you to forego any traffic laws that prevent you from arriving at your destination
* Seeing that someone is about to enter the roundabout ahead of you means that you should speed up and tailgate that person to punish them for daring to get in your way
* It's smarter to speed when passing through small towns, where there are always speed traps, than it is to speed on the highway out in the country, where there are significantly fewer speed traps.\
* Even if you cannot multi task very well, it is all right for you to talk on your cell phone while driving. It is clearly evident which of the two tasks is more important to you and which will get less concentration from you, but these phone calls surely must be very important
* Although flicking a cigarette out the window is littering, if you're driving a hybrid and/or have a "go green" bumper sticker, it definitely makes up for your pollution (both the cigarette butt and the exhaled smoke)
* Contrary to the popular belief that the only people who have a right to park wherever they want are firemen, police officers, ambulance drivers, and whoever is dropping a woman in labor off at the hospital, it is also permissible for you to park half in the handicap stall and half in the loading area whenever you're in a hurry, simply because you're special
* If the car in front of you arrives at a stop sign and is waiting for a gap in traffic so that they can turn left, and you pull up right behind them and want to turn right, it's perfectly fine for you to pull forward next to the car, block their view of oncoming traffic, and make your turn (especially if the car is a little coupe and you're driving a big pickup truck)
* Turn signals must be for the weak, submissive, and or anal-retentive. If you don't feel like you need to use them, then don't worry about it
* If you're driving a company car and/or you're on the clock, drive as slowly as you want to drive. Your time is much more valuable than ours
* The inside lane on the highway isn't just for passing, just as the outside lane isn't just for slower traffic. Drive in whichever lane you want; anyone who wants to pass you can pick the other lane
* Stop signs tend to be more recommendation than requirement, especially if someone is coming down the road and you don't want to take a risk that you might get stuck behind them
* High beams really aren't that bright for the cars in oncoming traffic. If cars flash their lights to let you know that your highs are still on, ignore their signal
* The middle finger is an appropriate reaction gesture to anyone who angers you while they are sharing the road with you. Obscene language is acceptable, too, even when children are present
* When you see a police officer or sheriff's deputy, you should slam on your brakes, even if you're already going under the speed limit. You may be violating one of the obscure traffic laws that only the keenest eye of the law can see
* Slippery roads, thick fog, or precipitation of any kind means that you should a) drive as carelessly as you normally do or b) drive as though it's your first time facing adverse conditions (a steady speed of well under what is truly safe)
I'm not a perfect driver, and while my wife does point this out (sometimes she makes a good point...), she also trusts me to drive whenever we're going somewhere together. My track record isn't that bad, with no serious traffic violations or accidents under my belt, so maybe I do have what it takes to give Brody some good tips on driving. With my two left feet and no sense of rhythm, it would definitely be better for the boy for me to save the dancing tips and focus more of the driving aspects. I think I could handle helping him with the car dance, but I also think I'll limit myself to an area where I've got some talent.
Unfortunately, watching Brody do his car dance forces me think about the distant future when he'll actually be driving a car. I can't imagine the changes that a span of 14 years will bring, but I do know that I'm both looking forward to and dreading the chance to teach him how to drive. It'll be a great father son moment, but then again, how qualified would I be to give him lessons on how to be a good driver?
I still vividly remember the primary source of most of my driving wisdom: my own father. Whereas there were distinct times that his driving scared the daylights out of me (two in particular stand out in my mind: cruising swiftly down steep hills around Lake Shawnee and getting lost in downtown Philadelphia; both instances resulting from geography and terrain, not necessarily his skills), he is perhaps the best driver I know. He had lots of good advice; wisdom that goes far beyond what I'd learned in Driver Ed in high school. Keep yourself from having tunnel vision and have your head on a swivel. Don't drive in the grooves of the road; keep your wheels where there's the best traction. Use your turn signals, even when you don't think there's anyone around.
I had a decent Driver Ed teacher in school, but he couldn't match the effectiveness of my dad's lessons. So now I wonder: what would make me a qualified teacher for Brody whenever his car dance evolves to the advanced stage of actually driving an automobile?
Well, I do drive a lot. Almost 3 hours a day to and from school. I drive when my family goes somewhere. I drive my friends when we go out. I drive when it's a school vehicle other than a bus.
I haven't had the extensive training or experience that my dad has had, so I'm not an expert on what a good driver is. But I have had the opportunity to think about what makes a poor driver. Here are some random thoughts about driving that have entered my head while driving the last week and a half. Don't worry, I did not write them down while I was driving, nor did I type them in my phone as text messages. These are some of the points that I will be sure not to make with Brody:
* Oversleeping and / or running late entitles you to forego any traffic laws that prevent you from arriving at your destination
* Seeing that someone is about to enter the roundabout ahead of you means that you should speed up and tailgate that person to punish them for daring to get in your way
* It's smarter to speed when passing through small towns, where there are always speed traps, than it is to speed on the highway out in the country, where there are significantly fewer speed traps.\
* Even if you cannot multi task very well, it is all right for you to talk on your cell phone while driving. It is clearly evident which of the two tasks is more important to you and which will get less concentration from you, but these phone calls surely must be very important
* Although flicking a cigarette out the window is littering, if you're driving a hybrid and/or have a "go green" bumper sticker, it definitely makes up for your pollution (both the cigarette butt and the exhaled smoke)
* Contrary to the popular belief that the only people who have a right to park wherever they want are firemen, police officers, ambulance drivers, and whoever is dropping a woman in labor off at the hospital, it is also permissible for you to park half in the handicap stall and half in the loading area whenever you're in a hurry, simply because you're special
* If the car in front of you arrives at a stop sign and is waiting for a gap in traffic so that they can turn left, and you pull up right behind them and want to turn right, it's perfectly fine for you to pull forward next to the car, block their view of oncoming traffic, and make your turn (especially if the car is a little coupe and you're driving a big pickup truck)
* Turn signals must be for the weak, submissive, and or anal-retentive. If you don't feel like you need to use them, then don't worry about it
* If you're driving a company car and/or you're on the clock, drive as slowly as you want to drive. Your time is much more valuable than ours
* The inside lane on the highway isn't just for passing, just as the outside lane isn't just for slower traffic. Drive in whichever lane you want; anyone who wants to pass you can pick the other lane
* Stop signs tend to be more recommendation than requirement, especially if someone is coming down the road and you don't want to take a risk that you might get stuck behind them
* High beams really aren't that bright for the cars in oncoming traffic. If cars flash their lights to let you know that your highs are still on, ignore their signal
* The middle finger is an appropriate reaction gesture to anyone who angers you while they are sharing the road with you. Obscene language is acceptable, too, even when children are present
* When you see a police officer or sheriff's deputy, you should slam on your brakes, even if you're already going under the speed limit. You may be violating one of the obscure traffic laws that only the keenest eye of the law can see
* Slippery roads, thick fog, or precipitation of any kind means that you should a) drive as carelessly as you normally do or b) drive as though it's your first time facing adverse conditions (a steady speed of well under what is truly safe)
I'm not a perfect driver, and while my wife does point this out (sometimes she makes a good point...), she also trusts me to drive whenever we're going somewhere together. My track record isn't that bad, with no serious traffic violations or accidents under my belt, so maybe I do have what it takes to give Brody some good tips on driving. With my two left feet and no sense of rhythm, it would definitely be better for the boy for me to save the dancing tips and focus more of the driving aspects. I think I could handle helping him with the car dance, but I also think I'll limit myself to an area where I've got some talent.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Whatever Happened to the Underdog?
When you think of Captain America, do you imagine the muscular hero in blue tights, carrying a red-and-white shield, or do you think about the Captain America who rode his motorcycle to New Orleans, accompanied by his friend Billy as they were looking for freedom and “the answers”? Is it the comic book superhero who was born of our country’s need to unite against common enemies, or is it the rebellious counter-culture anti-hero born of a generation of resentment and disillusionment? The baby boomers most likely rooted for the man with the shield. The Generation X-ers possibly rooted for the drug runner on the bike. Much of my generation and the ones to follow probably find themselves shaking their heads, not knowing either one of them, assuming that “Captain America” must be some melodramatically patriotic, militaristic, über-masculine fanatic who serves as propaganda promoting the agendas of the government and special interests. They don’t want to hear about him, nor do they want to watch a film about him or read a book about him.
We once rooted for the Rudy Ruettigers of the world, but now it's the sort of characters that resemble the putz in the stands wearing a barrel, gaudy face-paint, and a rainbow colored wig. Maybe it’s a dog mask he wears. Whatever the case, our attention strays from the players on the field toward the sensational spectacles in the stands. We’d rather watch fights erupt beyond the confines of pitch or field or court than watch a miraculous come-from-behind victory.
The classic idea of the underdog has given way to the motif of the big bad dog with the spiked collar, one menacing fang hanging out of the side of its mouth. The look of this big bad dog tells you that it’s likely to bite the hand that feeds him, that it runs around the neighborhood killing people's cats and knocking up the bitches. The underdog is a cliché anymore. It surely is a cliché that doesn’t seem to be possible, and films and books that present the underdog achieving something are branded as being optimistic propaganda, trite works of manure that bear no deeper or worthwhile meaning. The big bad dog is cool and alluring, while the underdog is despicable and repulsive.
When did we begin to resent the men and women who actually achieve success in our world? When someone wins, society refuses to allow them the right to bask in their well-earned glory. Everyone starts asking for a piece of the champion’s pie, or at least the government goes ahead and takes its fair share. We envy the riches, fame, and honor of these success stories; it’s not that we look at them with awe and a feeling of inspiration. We outright stare them down, green with envy and angry that God hasn’t blessed us with such fortune.
Whereas green used to be the color of hope and of promise, now it's just the color of envy. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Jay Gatsby once looked across the bay at a mysterious green light. My take on this scene was that he was infused with hope and motivation by this light. It was a true inspiration, not a deceptive ruse. Gatsby pursued his dream and fell short because his chosen form of the dream was virtually impossible. The students who read The Great Gatsby now come away with the modernist cynicism that the dream itself is impossible, that the green light is illusory and can never be reached by anyone. In the end, Gatsby is dead and Daisy is gone and it rings true that you can't repeat the past.
What about our past? What about the history of America, which is full of underdogs and heroes who overcame the odds to win? There has to be some merit to the allure of the United States that has given faith and hope to the millions who migrated here in pursuit of their dreams. Kingdoms of all kinds of industry have been built upon the blood, sweat, and tears of countless great men and women. Surely we can rediscover -- not necessarily repeat -- the glorious accomplishments of our forefathers. Yet, it seems that the popular viewpoint is that all of these success stories are either fake or criminal. The kingdoms are built around blood stained castles that have been erected on mountains of the bodies of the oppressed.
Here's the fallacious mindset that I've seen clearly conveyed through the attitudes of my generation: Let the rich suffer a greater tax burden. I deserve more, so with the blessing of the anointed one and his congress and their promises of change, I'll expect my share to come from the pockets of others. I want my satellite television, my wireless internet, my smart phone, my premium beer, my Abercrombie jeans, and my Starbucks, but don't expect me to be able to afford to go to the doctor when I'm sick. I've got to put gas in my SUV and get a $25 haircut every two weeks. The rich are just lazy anyway. They're only rich because someone handed it them. It's nepotism that they’re in their present positions, or at least they got their starts from old family money. They don't deserve it, and they owe a larger share to our society simply because they can afford it.
Enough with the sarcasm. There's no validity to the claim that the rich just got their money because of family inheritance or nepotism, or that they're lazy, or that they owe a larger chunk than us all just because they're rich.
I want to ask a favor keep the facts and statistics and articles to yourself. I'm no economist; I'm talking culture. One doesn't need to have a PhD to talk about his or her own culture. One only needs to be observant and give in to rationality, and not emotions. All over the place you can find articles that have been written to support whatever position you may have adopted. These articles preach to the choir; they’re overwrought with manipulated numbers, biased surveys, slanted language, and all sorts of logical fallacies. They sell papers and magazines or they bring traffic to websites. We forget that our news and information sources are not always as objective as we'd like them to be.
Does anyone remember that the risk is incredibly high for one to find success? For every success story for every Rudy there are a hundred tales of heartache, suffering, and loss. The pursuit of the American dream is guaranteed. No one ever said that we'd get fair officials, good sports as opponents, adequate training and preparation time, and optimal field conditions. We don't always have good coaches along the way, either. And sometimes the officials are fair, our opponents respectable, prep time adequate, conditions optimal, and our coaches more than adequate and we still fall short. We become statistics, one of the hundred tales of woe instead of the heroic saga we all want.
As a culture, we seem to want personal glory, and we quite plainly demand pleasure. We stand up and fight for "justice." To fight for justice so that the underdog may see a ray of light and hope is a noble act in itself. However, the very tenet of justice crumbles when one man is expected to sacrifice more just because he can, just because some arbitrary consensus believes that his success stands in the way of the underdog's hope, even when that success is far removed from the underdog's plight.
We once rooted for the Rudy Ruettigers of the world, but now it's the sort of characters that resemble the putz in the stands wearing a barrel, gaudy face-paint, and a rainbow colored wig. Maybe it’s a dog mask he wears. Whatever the case, our attention strays from the players on the field toward the sensational spectacles in the stands. We’d rather watch fights erupt beyond the confines of pitch or field or court than watch a miraculous come-from-behind victory.
The classic idea of the underdog has given way to the motif of the big bad dog with the spiked collar, one menacing fang hanging out of the side of its mouth. The look of this big bad dog tells you that it’s likely to bite the hand that feeds him, that it runs around the neighborhood killing people's cats and knocking up the bitches. The underdog is a cliché anymore. It surely is a cliché that doesn’t seem to be possible, and films and books that present the underdog achieving something are branded as being optimistic propaganda, trite works of manure that bear no deeper or worthwhile meaning. The big bad dog is cool and alluring, while the underdog is despicable and repulsive.
When did we begin to resent the men and women who actually achieve success in our world? When someone wins, society refuses to allow them the right to bask in their well-earned glory. Everyone starts asking for a piece of the champion’s pie, or at least the government goes ahead and takes its fair share. We envy the riches, fame, and honor of these success stories; it’s not that we look at them with awe and a feeling of inspiration. We outright stare them down, green with envy and angry that God hasn’t blessed us with such fortune.
Whereas green used to be the color of hope and of promise, now it's just the color of envy. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Jay Gatsby once looked across the bay at a mysterious green light. My take on this scene was that he was infused with hope and motivation by this light. It was a true inspiration, not a deceptive ruse. Gatsby pursued his dream and fell short because his chosen form of the dream was virtually impossible. The students who read The Great Gatsby now come away with the modernist cynicism that the dream itself is impossible, that the green light is illusory and can never be reached by anyone. In the end, Gatsby is dead and Daisy is gone and it rings true that you can't repeat the past.
What about our past? What about the history of America, which is full of underdogs and heroes who overcame the odds to win? There has to be some merit to the allure of the United States that has given faith and hope to the millions who migrated here in pursuit of their dreams. Kingdoms of all kinds of industry have been built upon the blood, sweat, and tears of countless great men and women. Surely we can rediscover -- not necessarily repeat -- the glorious accomplishments of our forefathers. Yet, it seems that the popular viewpoint is that all of these success stories are either fake or criminal. The kingdoms are built around blood stained castles that have been erected on mountains of the bodies of the oppressed.
Here's the fallacious mindset that I've seen clearly conveyed through the attitudes of my generation: Let the rich suffer a greater tax burden. I deserve more, so with the blessing of the anointed one and his congress and their promises of change, I'll expect my share to come from the pockets of others. I want my satellite television, my wireless internet, my smart phone, my premium beer, my Abercrombie jeans, and my Starbucks, but don't expect me to be able to afford to go to the doctor when I'm sick. I've got to put gas in my SUV and get a $25 haircut every two weeks. The rich are just lazy anyway. They're only rich because someone handed it them. It's nepotism that they’re in their present positions, or at least they got their starts from old family money. They don't deserve it, and they owe a larger share to our society simply because they can afford it.
Enough with the sarcasm. There's no validity to the claim that the rich just got their money because of family inheritance or nepotism, or that they're lazy, or that they owe a larger chunk than us all just because they're rich.
I want to ask a favor keep the facts and statistics and articles to yourself. I'm no economist; I'm talking culture. One doesn't need to have a PhD to talk about his or her own culture. One only needs to be observant and give in to rationality, and not emotions. All over the place you can find articles that have been written to support whatever position you may have adopted. These articles preach to the choir; they’re overwrought with manipulated numbers, biased surveys, slanted language, and all sorts of logical fallacies. They sell papers and magazines or they bring traffic to websites. We forget that our news and information sources are not always as objective as we'd like them to be.
Does anyone remember that the risk is incredibly high for one to find success? For every success story for every Rudy there are a hundred tales of heartache, suffering, and loss. The pursuit of the American dream is guaranteed. No one ever said that we'd get fair officials, good sports as opponents, adequate training and preparation time, and optimal field conditions. We don't always have good coaches along the way, either. And sometimes the officials are fair, our opponents respectable, prep time adequate, conditions optimal, and our coaches more than adequate and we still fall short. We become statistics, one of the hundred tales of woe instead of the heroic saga we all want.
As a culture, we seem to want personal glory, and we quite plainly demand pleasure. We stand up and fight for "justice." To fight for justice so that the underdog may see a ray of light and hope is a noble act in itself. However, the very tenet of justice crumbles when one man is expected to sacrifice more just because he can, just because some arbitrary consensus believes that his success stands in the way of the underdog's hope, even when that success is far removed from the underdog's plight.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
A Prayer for Hope
Several years ago, it came as quite a shock when I realized that my students were now too young to remember what happened in Littleton, Colorado, on April 20, 1999. I fear the day when my students enter my room unable to remember what happened in NYC, a field in Pennsylvania, and Washington, DC, on September 11, 2001.
Sure, the kids know that something happened at Columbine that spring day, but they don't remember the lessons learned, nor do they remember the pain and heartache felt by the entire nation.
We must do all we can to continue to commemorate the mass loss of human life on September 11. Knowing that the lives of thousands of men and women of all faiths, nationalities, and cultures had been stripped from them by Islamic radicals, we cannot forget the lessons we learned that day. It is sinful for any one of us to fail to pass on what we learned. Remember the pain and fear that drove us to rise above our petty quarrels and disagreements? Remember the anger that ironically helped us realize our love for one another and brought us together in brother- and sisterhood?
This morning, Alan Jackson's "Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)" came on the radio. Whenever I hear this song, I always listen to it, and oftentimes I sing along. This morning, Alan Jackson's song left me speechless, unable to utter the words even in a whisper. This morning, it brought tears to my eyes.
I pray that we never have to endure another mass attack on American soil or another act of terrorism with such incredible loss of life. Those who don't pray, what do they do? I pray that down the road, my son Brody never becomes used to these events. Hopefully, when he's old enough, he'll only be able to ask me if I remembered where I was during just a few of these calamities.
I was sitting in my 9th grade Economics class in Mr. Hedberg's room when I heard about the Oklahoma City bombing. I was sitting in the television room at the SigEp house after class my freshman year in college when I heard about the Columbine shootings. I was getting ready for an early morning education class my senior year when Scott Hughes told me about the attacks on the World Trade Center.
I don't want to have to remember where I was or what I was doing on any other calamitous days. I pray for peace, for the strength and wisdom to do what I can in the name of God. I pray for an end to the ridiculousness that leads us to such horrors. What do you pray for? And for those of you who don't pray, where will you find your hope, strength, and wisdom?
I trust in God to protect His children, not just in this great nation, but all of His children. May God bless you all, especially on this remarkable day, and me He bring us all hope.
Sure, the kids know that something happened at Columbine that spring day, but they don't remember the lessons learned, nor do they remember the pain and heartache felt by the entire nation.
We must do all we can to continue to commemorate the mass loss of human life on September 11. Knowing that the lives of thousands of men and women of all faiths, nationalities, and cultures had been stripped from them by Islamic radicals, we cannot forget the lessons we learned that day. It is sinful for any one of us to fail to pass on what we learned. Remember the pain and fear that drove us to rise above our petty quarrels and disagreements? Remember the anger that ironically helped us realize our love for one another and brought us together in brother- and sisterhood?
This morning, Alan Jackson's "Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)" came on the radio. Whenever I hear this song, I always listen to it, and oftentimes I sing along. This morning, Alan Jackson's song left me speechless, unable to utter the words even in a whisper. This morning, it brought tears to my eyes.
I pray that we never have to endure another mass attack on American soil or another act of terrorism with such incredible loss of life. Those who don't pray, what do they do? I pray that down the road, my son Brody never becomes used to these events. Hopefully, when he's old enough, he'll only be able to ask me if I remembered where I was during just a few of these calamities.
I was sitting in my 9th grade Economics class in Mr. Hedberg's room when I heard about the Oklahoma City bombing. I was sitting in the television room at the SigEp house after class my freshman year in college when I heard about the Columbine shootings. I was getting ready for an early morning education class my senior year when Scott Hughes told me about the attacks on the World Trade Center.
I don't want to have to remember where I was or what I was doing on any other calamitous days. I pray for peace, for the strength and wisdom to do what I can in the name of God. I pray for an end to the ridiculousness that leads us to such horrors. What do you pray for? And for those of you who don't pray, where will you find your hope, strength, and wisdom?
I trust in God to protect His children, not just in this great nation, but all of His children. May God bless you all, especially on this remarkable day, and me He bring us all hope.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Heat
Invariably, the word heat brings to mind a feeling of exhaustion and hunger. It takes me to a time in my life when, to people on the outside, I appeared to be slightly insane because of the torture I would put my body through.
I go back to one of those nights I spent sitting in a sauna. My head hangs low, and I feel the warmth emanating directly from my sweaty head. Beads of sweat gather and amass on my face until they give in to gravity, falling from the points of my face -- my cheek bones, the tip of my nose, my upper lip, my chin, the crowns of my eyes -- until they hit the ground. I used to think that I could count the pounds as they fell away, drop by drop. Rivers of sweat pour from my body, running swiftly and ceaselessly down the course of my skin.
Not a stitch of clothing remains dry, of course, but that’s the point. It’s like taking a fully saturated wash rag and wringing it out. No, not just one harsh wringing; rather, after you wring it once, you turn it around and wring it the other way. You do this four or five times until you think you’ve wrenched all the fluids out of it as you can. The washrag is dry enough now, and everything is fine, right? No one considers the rag itself, how each wringing motion tears at its very fibers. The sturdiest of cloths can withstand only so much battering, and the human body is no different.
For most of my senior high school wrestling season, I forced myself to sit in a sauna. At first, it was just a way to relax and calm down after a hard workout. Then it became something easy, a simple way to sweat because all I had to do was to sit there. I didn’t need to use up the few ounces of energy I had kept stored in my body; I could lose weight without working my body into complete exhaustion. So then, the saunas were just a new addition to the workout. Then it became a large portion of the workout. At first I simply sat in just my shorts, but then I began wearing layers. Before, the rivers of sweat flowed as freely as any river. They were open to the air and my body withstood this treatment. Once I put on the sweat suits and plastic conditioning suits, however, I never considered that my body was in danger of shutting down.
That year, three collegiate athletes had died due to dehydration and exhaustion from cutting weight. It was no wonder that my mother seemed to be so nervous when I would come home from practice and skip dinner. No wonder she gave me those alarmed looks on days before meets because my eyes were sunken in, surrounded by dark circles, my cheeks drawn tight. No wonder my strength and conditioning teacher commented on my dropping strength and how my maximum lifts had gone down since the semester’s beginning. No wonder my teammates commented on my skinniness and the protruding ribs in my side, the ominous dearth of body fat. How much more could I have taken?
Just think about it, the eerie addiction I had stumbled upon, the addiction to draining my body, of wringing myself dry. What would be the next step from this gateway? Would I lend myself to taking diuretics and laxatives to make weight, or would I try other means of purging my body? The odd thing was that I wasn’t doing this for body image. I didn’t look in the mirror and see fat where none existed, nor did I obsess over how tightly my clothes fit.
Before I knew it, however, the torture had come to an end. The heat was no longer a necessary evil, and when the need for the saunas had gone, so did the forced starvation and the purging of fluids. And so today it’s not easy for me to step back into a sauna. It takes me back to a time of confusion, of pain and misery. The hunger and exhaustion are gone but their memory hangs like a shadow. The shadow whispers with the flowing breeze, reminding me of lost goals, near misses, heartbreak, and long-gone friendships.
I can vividly recall the whispers of boys sitting in the back seats of buses, talking about girls and parties, our appointed freshman lookout watching for the coach to come back and to talk to us. It was always a good idea to have this rookie waiting at his post to warn the various rebels to spit out their chewing tobacco or to use fewer swear words (at least use them in quieter tones).
I can also hear the sound of the low roar of a crowd cheering, the distinctive voices of Logan’s dad yelling “Move!” and Chris’s mom screeching “Go Bobby!” and her voice trailing off without losing much momentum. I hear Amy’s call of “Come on, get ‘em!” I hear the yelling of coaches when I made mistakes and their praises and clapping when I succeeded. I feel the cool chill of the coliseum floor, the tears running down my cheeks, being wiped away with the dreams of championships. I feel the heat of the passion of victory, the competition, and the glory.
When I allow my mind to truly wander unchecked, I can feel the hum of a different crowd cheering, not for me, but for the matches taking place on the coliseum floor, the matches in which I had dreamt so long to be a part of yet I had fallen so short. I go through it all again, sitting in the stands of the coliseum watching when I had worked so hard in hopes of making it to those final matches.
The very mention of saunas and heat brings me back to that cold day in February. I get to a point in my reminiscing where all I can envision of this day are the cold, dark gray slabs of concrete as I dropped to my knees. I hadn’t even bothered to grab my warm-ups after that last handshake. I was bent over into a little ball, sobbing hysterically, sweat mixing with tears and snot. A warm hand now rested on my naked shoulder. I wanted to lash out, to tell the owner of that hand to go the hell away. I wanted to kick and scream, but all I did was look up to see the friendly face of Coach Smith. The coaches knew better than to talk to me after that match, but for some reason, this one had broken ranks and was stepping into a dangerous zone. Yet, he quelled my anger with his words. I’d never before heard someone tell me anything like what he said next, and I didn’t think I’d ever hear it again. He told me I had nothing to cry for; there was no reason to be upset. Bullshit! I wanted to yell, but he went on. “When my son is in high school, I hope he’s exactly like you.” He stood up and walked away, leaving me to think about what he had said.
It became a question of what I had done it all for. Why had I spent all those hours training and cutting weight if I was going to end up falling short of my goal of a state championship? A young man looking failure in the eye will always question the point of it all when the real lessons learned and the memories gained will remain hidden in the back of his mind. Eventually, when all doors have been opened, all possible explanations exhausted, and the journey thoroughly examined and analyzed, the answers will be there, waiting as obvious and explicit as ever. The images will come together and they will make sense at last.
I always had been notorious for acting on the need to spend extra minutes on stairmaster in the weight room after practices. As I climbed, my hood pulled over head as I watched the sweat fall, I knew that the time was invaluable. Some nights my mom would walk into the practice room, wondering where I was at because she'd seen everyone else leave already. Later, Lance's dad, a custodian at Wynmore Fitness Club, began letting us use the gym while he cleaned the facility. I tried engaging in aerobic workouts on the various machines, but eventually I found myself turning to the sauna to lose the weight.
My senior season has now become a haze in my mind, but several vivid memories do stand out. During the season, Lance, Chris, and I would eat very little at lunch. We preferred sitting in the locker room or the wrestling room to eat our meager meals rather than enduring the excess of the cafeteria. We would spend our Friday nights together to avoid parties or other social gatherings that presented countless temptations. After meets on Saturdays, we would sit together at a booth in fast food joints like Hardees or Taco Bell, and I would binge on greasy food and chug pop even though I knew I was not supposed to indulge like that. Even though I was spending my time with my brothers, I knew that the more illicit indulgences I took, I would need to spend more time in the heat.
It's the feeling of inhaling a dry heat that takes me back to the hot air of the sauna. I remember the loss, the pain, and the anguish, but I also remember the road to it. I cannot look back on those times and relate them solely to the self-imposed torture of cutting weight in saunas, however. Through all the hours spent training, conditioning, and wrenching off the extra pounds, the best metaphor I can think of to describe the lessons of wrestling as the bus ride going to or from a meet: the air blasting from the bus heater, the uncomfortable seats, the anxiety and the exhilaration, the bumps along the way, and the bonds formed at the back of the bus.
Whereas the word heat triggers these memories and refreshes me of the pain and agony of the journey, of the exhaustion and hunger, and of the insanity and torture, I don't really look at my wrestling experience through such a narrow scope. Cutting weight in a sauna had always been a solitary and stationary experience, one that makes a person all the lesser. Falling short of one's dreams is only forgivable if that person knows that he'd done everything he could to give it his best shot. I know this now, and I shall always remember that none of it had been in vain, and I shall always remember the fraternity and education permanently forged by the sport of wrestling.
I go back to one of those nights I spent sitting in a sauna. My head hangs low, and I feel the warmth emanating directly from my sweaty head. Beads of sweat gather and amass on my face until they give in to gravity, falling from the points of my face -- my cheek bones, the tip of my nose, my upper lip, my chin, the crowns of my eyes -- until they hit the ground. I used to think that I could count the pounds as they fell away, drop by drop. Rivers of sweat pour from my body, running swiftly and ceaselessly down the course of my skin.
Not a stitch of clothing remains dry, of course, but that’s the point. It’s like taking a fully saturated wash rag and wringing it out. No, not just one harsh wringing; rather, after you wring it once, you turn it around and wring it the other way. You do this four or five times until you think you’ve wrenched all the fluids out of it as you can. The washrag is dry enough now, and everything is fine, right? No one considers the rag itself, how each wringing motion tears at its very fibers. The sturdiest of cloths can withstand only so much battering, and the human body is no different.
For most of my senior high school wrestling season, I forced myself to sit in a sauna. At first, it was just a way to relax and calm down after a hard workout. Then it became something easy, a simple way to sweat because all I had to do was to sit there. I didn’t need to use up the few ounces of energy I had kept stored in my body; I could lose weight without working my body into complete exhaustion. So then, the saunas were just a new addition to the workout. Then it became a large portion of the workout. At first I simply sat in just my shorts, but then I began wearing layers. Before, the rivers of sweat flowed as freely as any river. They were open to the air and my body withstood this treatment. Once I put on the sweat suits and plastic conditioning suits, however, I never considered that my body was in danger of shutting down.
That year, three collegiate athletes had died due to dehydration and exhaustion from cutting weight. It was no wonder that my mother seemed to be so nervous when I would come home from practice and skip dinner. No wonder she gave me those alarmed looks on days before meets because my eyes were sunken in, surrounded by dark circles, my cheeks drawn tight. No wonder my strength and conditioning teacher commented on my dropping strength and how my maximum lifts had gone down since the semester’s beginning. No wonder my teammates commented on my skinniness and the protruding ribs in my side, the ominous dearth of body fat. How much more could I have taken?
Just think about it, the eerie addiction I had stumbled upon, the addiction to draining my body, of wringing myself dry. What would be the next step from this gateway? Would I lend myself to taking diuretics and laxatives to make weight, or would I try other means of purging my body? The odd thing was that I wasn’t doing this for body image. I didn’t look in the mirror and see fat where none existed, nor did I obsess over how tightly my clothes fit.
Before I knew it, however, the torture had come to an end. The heat was no longer a necessary evil, and when the need for the saunas had gone, so did the forced starvation and the purging of fluids. And so today it’s not easy for me to step back into a sauna. It takes me back to a time of confusion, of pain and misery. The hunger and exhaustion are gone but their memory hangs like a shadow. The shadow whispers with the flowing breeze, reminding me of lost goals, near misses, heartbreak, and long-gone friendships.
I can vividly recall the whispers of boys sitting in the back seats of buses, talking about girls and parties, our appointed freshman lookout watching for the coach to come back and to talk to us. It was always a good idea to have this rookie waiting at his post to warn the various rebels to spit out their chewing tobacco or to use fewer swear words (at least use them in quieter tones).
I can also hear the sound of the low roar of a crowd cheering, the distinctive voices of Logan’s dad yelling “Move!” and Chris’s mom screeching “Go Bobby!” and her voice trailing off without losing much momentum. I hear Amy’s call of “Come on, get ‘em!” I hear the yelling of coaches when I made mistakes and their praises and clapping when I succeeded. I feel the cool chill of the coliseum floor, the tears running down my cheeks, being wiped away with the dreams of championships. I feel the heat of the passion of victory, the competition, and the glory.
When I allow my mind to truly wander unchecked, I can feel the hum of a different crowd cheering, not for me, but for the matches taking place on the coliseum floor, the matches in which I had dreamt so long to be a part of yet I had fallen so short. I go through it all again, sitting in the stands of the coliseum watching when I had worked so hard in hopes of making it to those final matches.
The very mention of saunas and heat brings me back to that cold day in February. I get to a point in my reminiscing where all I can envision of this day are the cold, dark gray slabs of concrete as I dropped to my knees. I hadn’t even bothered to grab my warm-ups after that last handshake. I was bent over into a little ball, sobbing hysterically, sweat mixing with tears and snot. A warm hand now rested on my naked shoulder. I wanted to lash out, to tell the owner of that hand to go the hell away. I wanted to kick and scream, but all I did was look up to see the friendly face of Coach Smith. The coaches knew better than to talk to me after that match, but for some reason, this one had broken ranks and was stepping into a dangerous zone. Yet, he quelled my anger with his words. I’d never before heard someone tell me anything like what he said next, and I didn’t think I’d ever hear it again. He told me I had nothing to cry for; there was no reason to be upset. Bullshit! I wanted to yell, but he went on. “When my son is in high school, I hope he’s exactly like you.” He stood up and walked away, leaving me to think about what he had said.
It became a question of what I had done it all for. Why had I spent all those hours training and cutting weight if I was going to end up falling short of my goal of a state championship? A young man looking failure in the eye will always question the point of it all when the real lessons learned and the memories gained will remain hidden in the back of his mind. Eventually, when all doors have been opened, all possible explanations exhausted, and the journey thoroughly examined and analyzed, the answers will be there, waiting as obvious and explicit as ever. The images will come together and they will make sense at last.
I always had been notorious for acting on the need to spend extra minutes on stairmaster in the weight room after practices. As I climbed, my hood pulled over head as I watched the sweat fall, I knew that the time was invaluable. Some nights my mom would walk into the practice room, wondering where I was at because she'd seen everyone else leave already. Later, Lance's dad, a custodian at Wynmore Fitness Club, began letting us use the gym while he cleaned the facility. I tried engaging in aerobic workouts on the various machines, but eventually I found myself turning to the sauna to lose the weight.
My senior season has now become a haze in my mind, but several vivid memories do stand out. During the season, Lance, Chris, and I would eat very little at lunch. We preferred sitting in the locker room or the wrestling room to eat our meager meals rather than enduring the excess of the cafeteria. We would spend our Friday nights together to avoid parties or other social gatherings that presented countless temptations. After meets on Saturdays, we would sit together at a booth in fast food joints like Hardees or Taco Bell, and I would binge on greasy food and chug pop even though I knew I was not supposed to indulge like that. Even though I was spending my time with my brothers, I knew that the more illicit indulgences I took, I would need to spend more time in the heat.
It's the feeling of inhaling a dry heat that takes me back to the hot air of the sauna. I remember the loss, the pain, and the anguish, but I also remember the road to it. I cannot look back on those times and relate them solely to the self-imposed torture of cutting weight in saunas, however. Through all the hours spent training, conditioning, and wrenching off the extra pounds, the best metaphor I can think of to describe the lessons of wrestling as the bus ride going to or from a meet: the air blasting from the bus heater, the uncomfortable seats, the anxiety and the exhilaration, the bumps along the way, and the bonds formed at the back of the bus.
Whereas the word heat triggers these memories and refreshes me of the pain and agony of the journey, of the exhaustion and hunger, and of the insanity and torture, I don't really look at my wrestling experience through such a narrow scope. Cutting weight in a sauna had always been a solitary and stationary experience, one that makes a person all the lesser. Falling short of one's dreams is only forgivable if that person knows that he'd done everything he could to give it his best shot. I know this now, and I shall always remember that none of it had been in vain, and I shall always remember the fraternity and education permanently forged by the sport of wrestling.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Given the Choice
Given the choice nearly eighteen years ago, I decided against placing my money in the collection plate at church. I was 12 years old, had just received my $3 allowance for the week, and had accompanied my mother to church (a rare occasion for me then). My eyes were set on some obscure G.I. Joe toy, and although I spent the minutes that passed between the start of the offertory and when the plate came my way with my billfold out and my hand removing and replacing the bills inside, I ultimately chose the toy I'd had in mind.
I was reminded of this during church this morning as one of the deacons handed me the plate and I sent it on to Emily, who placed in it a check with our name on it and sent it down the pew to the end. As an adult with a wife and son, given the choice, I make a different choice. Instead of choosing to hold on to a few meager bills, which were being saved for an obscure toy, it was an easy matter of writing a check and choosing to make room in the budget for our church.
Today's scripture was the popular and well-known John 3:16: "For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." The pastor said that this was an oft-memorized verse for many Christians. For me, it wasn't well known -- not yet, at least -- but it is one that intrigues me. One key element of this scripture's meaning is the concept of choice. The pastor elaborated on the significance of this part of John and then went on to relate the main points of his sermon: God humbling Himself, showing His children great love, and achieving victory over death. He spoke of Christ's pains on the cross: physical pain, the pain of loneliness, the pain of being misunderstood, and the pain of sin. He told us that in turning our problems over to God, we can be victorious over all the problems we find ourselves up against. We only have to choose to turn them over.
The pastor stopped his sermon to relate a story to us. It was the story of a woman who was a missionary in India. At one point in her mission, she found herself having to walk through a certain intersection in the village. The first day, a man stood on the corner holding a rock. As she walked by, he threw the rock as hard as he could at her. It hit her in the head, and it hurt like she couldn't believe, but she walked on. She was bleeding, but she chose to continue on her way. The next day, she took the same route. The same man, this time looking out the window of his house, saw her coming and ran outside to grab an even bigger rock. Again he hit her with the rock and again she chose not to retaliate. This same event happened again the next two days.
On the fifth day, she approached the intersection, saw the same man coming at her, and finally allowed her instinctive response to take over. She crouched down and cowered, covering her head with her arms. Instead of the pain caused by a rock being thrown at her, she felt the strong hands of the man lift her to her feet and embrace her. In broken English, she heard him say the following words:
"Tell me about the God who allowed you to be nice to me when I hurt you." What a powerful statement!
Although the moral of the pastor's story stuck with me for just a few minutes, I thought it poignant enough to make a note in the margins of my Bible in the Book of John. It wasn't long before my mind had moved on to other, more pressing matters.
To me now, it seems like one of those odd twists that you only see in movies or read in books. There's this ironic element that is obvious to the audience, yet totally unclear to the protagonist. Then, the moral suddenly becomes clear to him and it's this great "a-ha!" moment. This happened to me twice today. I felt like I was tested twice, and each time I wonder how close I came to failing.
There was the "friend" who made a snide posting on Facebook aimed toward me. He never had the fortitude to directly address me as the target of his cynical drivel, but like Bob Dylan said, "You don't need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows." I wanted so badly to retort to this person, and I let it get to me, but I never followed through. I promised myself that I would not return the derision and negativity toward him. If he ever reads this blog, which I doubt he would after his comment, he'll know this is about him.
Then, as I was driving to the T-Mobile store with my wife, my son, and my mother-in-law, some kid in a white Toyota came a little too close to hitting us. He was in so much of a hurry that he tried to pass me as I turned into an empty space. Between the squealing of tires, honking of horns, and revving of engines (his way of expressing contempt at my right of way), the near conflict ended with me calmly pulling into the stall, his girlfriend (I assume) yelling at him, and him peeling out and tearing off. Any other time and I may have reacted more explosively.
In talking with my wife before going to bed, I mentioned the "friend" of mine from Facebook. I couldn't stop thinking about that post, and I also kept thinking about the jerk in the car. She then reminded me of the story we'd heard in church today.
I thought about it and came to this conclusion: God speaks to us ever day of our lives. For me on this day, it was through our pastor and through a particular scripture. It's not just on Sundays or even on those Sundays we actually find ourselves in church; God continually places tests in front of us. Either we do or do not learn from these tests. It is our choice in that we consciously decide how to act. We do not necessarily know that we're being tested, however.
I know that there will be people who scoff at any moral or lesson taught by religion. They will laugh it off as a small-minded fool lending his faith to a belief system that -- to them -- cannot be empirically proven. That is their choice to feel and believe that way. Somewhere along the line, they were turned away from or repelled by matters of faith. Somewhere down the line, either they will open their hearts and embrace Him into their lives or they will choose to continue with their lives devoid of God.
No matter how one looks at the events of my day, however, it seems simple. Whether someone on the outside believes in God or not, there is no question about it. In choosing to be nice in situations where I may be tempted to fight, I become a better human being because of my choice. It is a lesson I've learned through my faith.
I can't help but think about how sad it is for the atheists and non-believers out there. Where do they learn such lessons? How do they learn to turn the other cheek -- to be nice when one throws rocks at them?
Given the choice even five years ago, I would have thrown a rock back at whomever first lobbed one at me. Given the choice today, by the grace of God, I will make the right choice instead.
I was reminded of this during church this morning as one of the deacons handed me the plate and I sent it on to Emily, who placed in it a check with our name on it and sent it down the pew to the end. As an adult with a wife and son, given the choice, I make a different choice. Instead of choosing to hold on to a few meager bills, which were being saved for an obscure toy, it was an easy matter of writing a check and choosing to make room in the budget for our church.
Today's scripture was the popular and well-known John 3:16: "For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." The pastor said that this was an oft-memorized verse for many Christians. For me, it wasn't well known -- not yet, at least -- but it is one that intrigues me. One key element of this scripture's meaning is the concept of choice. The pastor elaborated on the significance of this part of John and then went on to relate the main points of his sermon: God humbling Himself, showing His children great love, and achieving victory over death. He spoke of Christ's pains on the cross: physical pain, the pain of loneliness, the pain of being misunderstood, and the pain of sin. He told us that in turning our problems over to God, we can be victorious over all the problems we find ourselves up against. We only have to choose to turn them over.
The pastor stopped his sermon to relate a story to us. It was the story of a woman who was a missionary in India. At one point in her mission, she found herself having to walk through a certain intersection in the village. The first day, a man stood on the corner holding a rock. As she walked by, he threw the rock as hard as he could at her. It hit her in the head, and it hurt like she couldn't believe, but she walked on. She was bleeding, but she chose to continue on her way. The next day, she took the same route. The same man, this time looking out the window of his house, saw her coming and ran outside to grab an even bigger rock. Again he hit her with the rock and again she chose not to retaliate. This same event happened again the next two days.
On the fifth day, she approached the intersection, saw the same man coming at her, and finally allowed her instinctive response to take over. She crouched down and cowered, covering her head with her arms. Instead of the pain caused by a rock being thrown at her, she felt the strong hands of the man lift her to her feet and embrace her. In broken English, she heard him say the following words:
"Tell me about the God who allowed you to be nice to me when I hurt you." What a powerful statement!
Although the moral of the pastor's story stuck with me for just a few minutes, I thought it poignant enough to make a note in the margins of my Bible in the Book of John. It wasn't long before my mind had moved on to other, more pressing matters.
To me now, it seems like one of those odd twists that you only see in movies or read in books. There's this ironic element that is obvious to the audience, yet totally unclear to the protagonist. Then, the moral suddenly becomes clear to him and it's this great "a-ha!" moment. This happened to me twice today. I felt like I was tested twice, and each time I wonder how close I came to failing.
There was the "friend" who made a snide posting on Facebook aimed toward me. He never had the fortitude to directly address me as the target of his cynical drivel, but like Bob Dylan said, "You don't need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows." I wanted so badly to retort to this person, and I let it get to me, but I never followed through. I promised myself that I would not return the derision and negativity toward him. If he ever reads this blog, which I doubt he would after his comment, he'll know this is about him.
Then, as I was driving to the T-Mobile store with my wife, my son, and my mother-in-law, some kid in a white Toyota came a little too close to hitting us. He was in so much of a hurry that he tried to pass me as I turned into an empty space. Between the squealing of tires, honking of horns, and revving of engines (his way of expressing contempt at my right of way), the near conflict ended with me calmly pulling into the stall, his girlfriend (I assume) yelling at him, and him peeling out and tearing off. Any other time and I may have reacted more explosively.
In talking with my wife before going to bed, I mentioned the "friend" of mine from Facebook. I couldn't stop thinking about that post, and I also kept thinking about the jerk in the car. She then reminded me of the story we'd heard in church today.
I thought about it and came to this conclusion: God speaks to us ever day of our lives. For me on this day, it was through our pastor and through a particular scripture. It's not just on Sundays or even on those Sundays we actually find ourselves in church; God continually places tests in front of us. Either we do or do not learn from these tests. It is our choice in that we consciously decide how to act. We do not necessarily know that we're being tested, however.
I know that there will be people who scoff at any moral or lesson taught by religion. They will laugh it off as a small-minded fool lending his faith to a belief system that -- to them -- cannot be empirically proven. That is their choice to feel and believe that way. Somewhere along the line, they were turned away from or repelled by matters of faith. Somewhere down the line, either they will open their hearts and embrace Him into their lives or they will choose to continue with their lives devoid of God.
No matter how one looks at the events of my day, however, it seems simple. Whether someone on the outside believes in God or not, there is no question about it. In choosing to be nice in situations where I may be tempted to fight, I become a better human being because of my choice. It is a lesson I've learned through my faith.
I can't help but think about how sad it is for the atheists and non-believers out there. Where do they learn such lessons? How do they learn to turn the other cheek -- to be nice when one throws rocks at them?
Given the choice even five years ago, I would have thrown a rock back at whomever first lobbed one at me. Given the choice today, by the grace of God, I will make the right choice instead.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
I Simply Wasn't a Soccer Player
It's the smell that gets me. Every year in late August and September, when the air begins to cool off in the evening as the sun sets and the summer humidity is only a thing of the daytime. It's walking out the school doors and catching that whiff of freshly mown grass. For the first time since last spring, my nostrils aren't being tormented by the fierce heat of the day.
I stand in front of the west doors, taking in as much of the air as I can before I know I have to move on, walk to my car, and drive home. Beneath the smell of grass and the calm of the evening sky, I hear the faint noises of boys playing soccer, whistles blowing, players calling each other's names, coaches yelling, balls ricocheting of the crossbars, and a crowd cheering. It takes me back to a time in my life that I don't really talk about much anymore.
It's been years since I last touched a soccer ball competitively, but I've still managed to stay close to the sport. There were the two years I coached C-team soccer at the high school, the fall that Emily and I coached a youth team in our area, and all the times I have the wrestling team play soccer in the gym as an alternative to traditional conditioning.
The wrestlers (mostly macho, American football types) always grumble and ask why we play soccer, but I heard once that in an average game, a player will run about 5 miles. I don't know if it's true, but that possibly erroneous bit of data gives me good reason to figuratively step into my old soccer shoes and play a little bit. Even on a gymnasium floor, wearing wrestling shoes and playing against a hoard of boys, most of whom had never played before in their lives, the feeling of a ball at my feet really brings back memories.
Whether it's on a field as a coach, a gym floor with clumsy wrestlers, or waxing nostalgic as a 30-year-old teacher, my mind flashes through myriad images in my mind. Standing on the field under the stadium lights, alternating between hopping up and down and pulling my leg back to stretch my quads, I yell, "Let's go, Blues!" I wait for the ref to blow his whistle, his signal to start the game. I stay mostly focused, although briefly I do catch sight of a few fans rushing in a little bit late, not wanting to miss a second.
Soccer was an important step in my so-called initiation into manhood. Through games during drizzling cold rain and even sleet and snow, it was these times that I found myself standing up against that little voice inside that kept telling me to give it up. It was the time I had a nasty skin abrasion on my elbow, and some blood was soaking through my white jersey. Some crybaby player on the other team told the ref and I had to leave the field. I stepped off, had my elbow taped by the assistant coach, and spat on the field. Pussy, I thought to myself. He's just afraid of a little blood. Probably saw it as his only chance to get a break in the game. I'd been pushing him outside all evening; he couldn't get anything through to the middle. I went right back into the game, seeking to make up for the time I had to be off the field.
I'm still incredibly proud of how I overcame my inexperience and served my senior year as a starting defender. One of our stud juniors moved from outside defender to stopper and a fellow senior defender broke his foot early in the season, thereby opening a door for me to improve upon a junior season in which I spent most games on the bench waiting for us to run the score up so I could go in. I arose to the challenge of starting, not with ease, but with a feeling that I simply had to do my part for the team. That season, I often felt like I did more than my part. Most games, I ended up covering two or three different opponents because our midfield tended to drink too much beer on the weekends and couldn't get back on defense quick enough. I played my heart out at practice and persevered through sickness and injury when our studs often sat out because they didn't feel like practicing that day. I never spoke up to the coach about how it infuriated me that these guys got away with skipping out on training yet still played most of the games. I should have said something. I still feel like their weaknesses were the reasons we never lived up to our potential that year.
It's a memory that I don't revisit often -- my last competitive soccer game ever. In the state quarterfinals on our home field, we fell in overtime to a talented team from Wichita. As I watched the ball land at the back of our net, I fell to my knees. Some little kid -- the upstart forward I'd been shutting down all night -- patted me on the back and said, "Good game." He was a boy and I was a man, and I was the one in tears. I pulled myself together and walked slowly to the center of the field. I was numb to the cheers of consolation and my teammates' hugs. We ran our traditional lap around the field to greet the fans, some of them also in tears. I looked none of them in the eye as we ran past them and held our hands out to give them all five. I couldn't stand to hear the coach's speech after our lap; he had nothing important to say to me, at least. I hurried to the parking lot and jumped in my car. I don't know why, but I drove out into the county, still wearing my uniform, shin guards, and cleats, and found some empty road that had just recently been paved for some new residential development.
I remember jumping out of my Ford Bronco, sitting on the cool pavement. I held my arms around my knees and dropped my head, sobbing. With the full moon shining above, I couldn't find any reason as to why I should be so upset. I wasn't a "soccer guy" and that much was evident. In high school, it always seemed to boil down to this question: what was my identity anyway?
My wardrobe consisted of few t-shirts that weren't wrestling shirts, and my daily workout attire consisted of mesh shorts (not the sleek soccer-style shorts) and the afore-mentioned wrestling shirts. I was a wrestler, not a soccer player, at heart. It wasn't long after I started winning wrestling tournaments in 8th grade that I figured out that I could use wrestling moves on the field. I figured out that with a few well-played slide tackles and hip bumps, along with some arm-ties when over-zealous forwards reached in too far, I could make a defender to be reckoned with. These were the things that made up for the fact that most of the time I couldn't pass the ball straight to save my life.
I made the varsity team my junior year because few of the others on the team were faster than me in sprints or even the mile. I had spent my summer running, lifting, and staying out of trouble. No one else on the team could squat over 350 or bench 250 like me. A few years later, I found out that the old coach, now an assistant principal, had watched me during the physical and endurance trials and told the new coach that he simply had to take me for varsity. I'm glad the old British fellow hadn't witnessed me during the field and technique trials.
By the time I got into high school soccer, I had distanced myself from my old traveling competitive team. Eventually, the team disbanded and the guys went their own separate ways. I was just a player in the fall season -- the high school season. I wasn't a member of Topeka United, Lazio, or Kansas Select, nor was I slated to be on any Olympic Development Program team. After all, I was just a late starter with sloppy technique and no fancy ball tricks. That made no matter to me, however. I just liked to play.
I liked the feeling of a solid strike on the ball, sending it across the field to an open teammate, or hitting a slide tackle just right, so clean and so perfectly-timed that there was no danger of getting carded. I like jumping in the air to head the ball, feet pushing off just right to get max lift, keeping eyes open long enough to see the ball sent right where I wanted it to go.
Soccer was the only time I can remember hearing a crowd cheer for me as I competed. A roar being sent up through the fans as I would make a play. I never was a soccer guy. I never had Adidas Copas, I never played for a professional coach, and I never fit the stereotype. Nonetheless, soccer helped make me who I am today. That's why on a stray evening in the fall, whenever I end up staying late at school to catch up on some work, part of me will always be out there on that field, shin guards strapped on, cleats dug in to the field, itching to knock an arrogant forward on his rear end.
I stand in front of the west doors, taking in as much of the air as I can before I know I have to move on, walk to my car, and drive home. Beneath the smell of grass and the calm of the evening sky, I hear the faint noises of boys playing soccer, whistles blowing, players calling each other's names, coaches yelling, balls ricocheting of the crossbars, and a crowd cheering. It takes me back to a time in my life that I don't really talk about much anymore.
It's been years since I last touched a soccer ball competitively, but I've still managed to stay close to the sport. There were the two years I coached C-team soccer at the high school, the fall that Emily and I coached a youth team in our area, and all the times I have the wrestling team play soccer in the gym as an alternative to traditional conditioning.
The wrestlers (mostly macho, American football types) always grumble and ask why we play soccer, but I heard once that in an average game, a player will run about 5 miles. I don't know if it's true, but that possibly erroneous bit of data gives me good reason to figuratively step into my old soccer shoes and play a little bit. Even on a gymnasium floor, wearing wrestling shoes and playing against a hoard of boys, most of whom had never played before in their lives, the feeling of a ball at my feet really brings back memories.
Whether it's on a field as a coach, a gym floor with clumsy wrestlers, or waxing nostalgic as a 30-year-old teacher, my mind flashes through myriad images in my mind. Standing on the field under the stadium lights, alternating between hopping up and down and pulling my leg back to stretch my quads, I yell, "Let's go, Blues!" I wait for the ref to blow his whistle, his signal to start the game. I stay mostly focused, although briefly I do catch sight of a few fans rushing in a little bit late, not wanting to miss a second.
Soccer was an important step in my so-called initiation into manhood. Through games during drizzling cold rain and even sleet and snow, it was these times that I found myself standing up against that little voice inside that kept telling me to give it up. It was the time I had a nasty skin abrasion on my elbow, and some blood was soaking through my white jersey. Some crybaby player on the other team told the ref and I had to leave the field. I stepped off, had my elbow taped by the assistant coach, and spat on the field. Pussy, I thought to myself. He's just afraid of a little blood. Probably saw it as his only chance to get a break in the game. I'd been pushing him outside all evening; he couldn't get anything through to the middle. I went right back into the game, seeking to make up for the time I had to be off the field.
I'm still incredibly proud of how I overcame my inexperience and served my senior year as a starting defender. One of our stud juniors moved from outside defender to stopper and a fellow senior defender broke his foot early in the season, thereby opening a door for me to improve upon a junior season in which I spent most games on the bench waiting for us to run the score up so I could go in. I arose to the challenge of starting, not with ease, but with a feeling that I simply had to do my part for the team. That season, I often felt like I did more than my part. Most games, I ended up covering two or three different opponents because our midfield tended to drink too much beer on the weekends and couldn't get back on defense quick enough. I played my heart out at practice and persevered through sickness and injury when our studs often sat out because they didn't feel like practicing that day. I never spoke up to the coach about how it infuriated me that these guys got away with skipping out on training yet still played most of the games. I should have said something. I still feel like their weaknesses were the reasons we never lived up to our potential that year.
It's a memory that I don't revisit often -- my last competitive soccer game ever. In the state quarterfinals on our home field, we fell in overtime to a talented team from Wichita. As I watched the ball land at the back of our net, I fell to my knees. Some little kid -- the upstart forward I'd been shutting down all night -- patted me on the back and said, "Good game." He was a boy and I was a man, and I was the one in tears. I pulled myself together and walked slowly to the center of the field. I was numb to the cheers of consolation and my teammates' hugs. We ran our traditional lap around the field to greet the fans, some of them also in tears. I looked none of them in the eye as we ran past them and held our hands out to give them all five. I couldn't stand to hear the coach's speech after our lap; he had nothing important to say to me, at least. I hurried to the parking lot and jumped in my car. I don't know why, but I drove out into the county, still wearing my uniform, shin guards, and cleats, and found some empty road that had just recently been paved for some new residential development.
I remember jumping out of my Ford Bronco, sitting on the cool pavement. I held my arms around my knees and dropped my head, sobbing. With the full moon shining above, I couldn't find any reason as to why I should be so upset. I wasn't a "soccer guy" and that much was evident. In high school, it always seemed to boil down to this question: what was my identity anyway?
My wardrobe consisted of few t-shirts that weren't wrestling shirts, and my daily workout attire consisted of mesh shorts (not the sleek soccer-style shorts) and the afore-mentioned wrestling shirts. I was a wrestler, not a soccer player, at heart. It wasn't long after I started winning wrestling tournaments in 8th grade that I figured out that I could use wrestling moves on the field. I figured out that with a few well-played slide tackles and hip bumps, along with some arm-ties when over-zealous forwards reached in too far, I could make a defender to be reckoned with. These were the things that made up for the fact that most of the time I couldn't pass the ball straight to save my life.
I made the varsity team my junior year because few of the others on the team were faster than me in sprints or even the mile. I had spent my summer running, lifting, and staying out of trouble. No one else on the team could squat over 350 or bench 250 like me. A few years later, I found out that the old coach, now an assistant principal, had watched me during the physical and endurance trials and told the new coach that he simply had to take me for varsity. I'm glad the old British fellow hadn't witnessed me during the field and technique trials.
By the time I got into high school soccer, I had distanced myself from my old traveling competitive team. Eventually, the team disbanded and the guys went their own separate ways. I was just a player in the fall season -- the high school season. I wasn't a member of Topeka United, Lazio, or Kansas Select, nor was I slated to be on any Olympic Development Program team. After all, I was just a late starter with sloppy technique and no fancy ball tricks. That made no matter to me, however. I just liked to play.
I liked the feeling of a solid strike on the ball, sending it across the field to an open teammate, or hitting a slide tackle just right, so clean and so perfectly-timed that there was no danger of getting carded. I like jumping in the air to head the ball, feet pushing off just right to get max lift, keeping eyes open long enough to see the ball sent right where I wanted it to go.
Soccer was the only time I can remember hearing a crowd cheer for me as I competed. A roar being sent up through the fans as I would make a play. I never was a soccer guy. I never had Adidas Copas, I never played for a professional coach, and I never fit the stereotype. Nonetheless, soccer helped make me who I am today. That's why on a stray evening in the fall, whenever I end up staying late at school to catch up on some work, part of me will always be out there on that field, shin guards strapped on, cleats dug in to the field, itching to knock an arrogant forward on his rear end.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Lord of the Fly
“One cast to rule them all, one cast to find them; one cast to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.”
This is not a tale of heroism, nor is it the tale of an epic journey told in the style of JRR Tolkien. You will not read here of the courageous exploits of heroes like Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee or Aragorn, son of Arathorn. It’s more of a tale like that of Smeagol, also known as Gollum.
Today wasn’t my “one-hundred-and-eleventh birthday”; rather, it was my thirtieth birthday. I was alone on my birthday this year, my wife being in Minnesota for training for her new job and my son staying with his grandparents. In the novels of Tolkien, his infamous character Smeagol is notorious for his murder of his friend Deagol and becoming the haunted creature known as Gollum. He says things like, “It’s my birthday” and “Give it to us,” referring to the one ring. This afternoon, part of me started thinking of Gollum and his obsession with the one ring.
On the way home from school, I stopped and did some quick fishing at Hillsdale Lake. The one place where I have the least luck is below the dam at the lake, and this just happens to be my favorite local spot. I’m not sure what it is; I lose plenty of flies there and I rarely even get a bite from the big fish. I’ve stood there on the bank watching sturgeon, drums, and largemouth swim around and jump and bite at invisible tidbits, and they never even pay any attention to my flies. I have flies that never fail me at other spots--the black wooly bugger, the “carp tease,” and the Clouser’s minnow--and they always go unnoticed by these large fish. The only thing I’ve caught at the Hillsdale Dam are little pumpkinseed bluegill and itty-bitty largemouth.
I thought today would be different. After all, it’s my birthday. “Give it to us,” I said to the waters. The fish should know that it’s my birthday. For once, instead of me standing on the water’s edge catching only a sunburn, I was positive that I’d finally have my lucky day. I was positive that I would at least show up the other anglers with their traditional spinning reels and minnows. I felt entitled to something at least.
Those stupid, filthy fish. They never struck. They never even nibbled. For a while, I was sure that I’d hit a spot where some large bottom-dwelling fish was interested in my fly. I cast my line out about thirty feet. I convinced myself that it was a clean cast, a smooth cast. One that might have been pretty enough to post on YouTube, had it been recorded on video. It just felt right. After all, it’s my birthday. Despite the slight increase in the wind and my lack of practice this summer, I’d had several good casts in a row. I’d never had a good throwing arm. Never played baseball, and in school, my dodgeball game was characterized by a goofy-looking side-arm. I’d developed a similar side-arm roll cast. Nothing textbook, to be honest, but often I’d get the line to unroll in a nice, tight loop. Today saw me hitting several of these casts. I was sure that this was the cast that would set me up for a great afternoon of fishing. It was crisp, there was little extra splashing, and the fly was landing just right.
Down the way, another fisherman had a bite, and I grimaced as I watched him land a nice-sized largemouth. It’s my birthday, give it to us, I thought. I wanted so badly to catch something that I started despising this innocent fellow for his luck.
I’d first tied on my Clouser’s minnow. Nothing. I changed to a #8 black wooly bugger. Nothing. After ten minutes or so with that fly, I pulled it in to check it out. I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t even snagged a little bluegill with it. Taking a closer look, I saw that it had been unraveling. It must have been due to a hard strike, I told myself. What most likely happened was that it was an older fly and it had been snagged and retrieved a few times too many. I snipped it off and tried something different.
Earlier this summer, I snagged a three- or four-pound largemouth on a fly called a “carp tease.” I’d also picked up a nice-size channel catfish on a similar fly. Surely it would bring me luck today. Not quite. It is now snagged on a rock on the bottom about ten feet from the shore. I moved a little further down the way to where the water looked more like a flowing river than the man-made spillway. I tied on an expensive fly that resembled a crayfish. This had also brought me a couple nice catfish, and I still felt lucky. It being a heavier fly, I didn’t have the same finesse with my casting, but I still got it out a good ways. It landed with a plop and the ripples in the water slowly spread out. Once they disappeared, I began pulled it in slowly, trying to mimic the movement of the crayfish. I kept feeling it catch. It didn’t feel like it was snagging on a rock; it felt like something was nibbling at it, taking it in its mouth just enough for me to feel it, but not enough for me to feel like I could effectively set the hook. I held the line tightly in my left hand and jerked up on the rod. It caught, but the line didn’t move like it should have when a fish was hooked. It stayed there, the taut line causing my rod to bend under its weight. I should have known.
In order to retrieve the fly without it breaking off, I walked up and down the shore, pulling with enough pressure to hopefully bring it in but not enough to break the leader. Or so I thought. I didn’t think I was tugging too hard, but before I knew it, the pressure broke and the empty line flew back at me, the fly gone.
I’d lost two best flies, and a third one was now ruined. The optimist in me thought that at least some of the snags were actually trophy fish sampling my flies and teasing me, but I know now that there probably were never any fish at the end of my line.
I was blinded by my eagerness; distracted and deceived into thinking that because it was my birthday I would have success. I began by thinking that the one case--the first cast--would set the precedent for the afternoon. When no fish bit on that first cast, I began thinking that the type of casting (my ugly side-arm roll cast) would be my salvation on the water. Three good flies later, I noticed how my leader was getting shorter and shorter and there were several wind knots that had pulled tight enough that I’d need to snip them off. Had there been any actual bites from fish or were they simply little snags on rocks? I’d like to think that by now I’d know the difference.
On the day that I turned thirty years old (the thirty-third anniversary of Elvis Presley’s death, FYI), I hoped that I would have had a great spell of fishing. When the fish didn’t bite, I couldn’t control myself. Instead of realizing that it was shortly after four o’clock in the afternoon, that it was ninety degrees Fahrenheit out, I probably didn’t have the right flies, and my leader was getting too knotted and too short, I became more and more convinced that I need only keep trying the same things over and over. Who was it that said that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results each time?
Luckily, no one was around to become my Deagol. For an hour and a half, I took on a role more like the ill-fated Smeagol than like the noble and heroic Frodo. For a time I had convinced myself that I would prove to be the Lord of the Fly. After all, I told myself and the waters, today’s my birthday. Give it to us, my precious!
This is not a tale of heroism, nor is it the tale of an epic journey told in the style of JRR Tolkien. You will not read here of the courageous exploits of heroes like Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee or Aragorn, son of Arathorn. It’s more of a tale like that of Smeagol, also known as Gollum.
Today wasn’t my “one-hundred-and-eleventh birthday”; rather, it was my thirtieth birthday. I was alone on my birthday this year, my wife being in Minnesota for training for her new job and my son staying with his grandparents. In the novels of Tolkien, his infamous character Smeagol is notorious for his murder of his friend Deagol and becoming the haunted creature known as Gollum. He says things like, “It’s my birthday” and “Give it to us,” referring to the one ring. This afternoon, part of me started thinking of Gollum and his obsession with the one ring.
On the way home from school, I stopped and did some quick fishing at Hillsdale Lake. The one place where I have the least luck is below the dam at the lake, and this just happens to be my favorite local spot. I’m not sure what it is; I lose plenty of flies there and I rarely even get a bite from the big fish. I’ve stood there on the bank watching sturgeon, drums, and largemouth swim around and jump and bite at invisible tidbits, and they never even pay any attention to my flies. I have flies that never fail me at other spots--the black wooly bugger, the “carp tease,” and the Clouser’s minnow--and they always go unnoticed by these large fish. The only thing I’ve caught at the Hillsdale Dam are little pumpkinseed bluegill and itty-bitty largemouth.
I thought today would be different. After all, it’s my birthday. “Give it to us,” I said to the waters. The fish should know that it’s my birthday. For once, instead of me standing on the water’s edge catching only a sunburn, I was positive that I’d finally have my lucky day. I was positive that I would at least show up the other anglers with their traditional spinning reels and minnows. I felt entitled to something at least.
Those stupid, filthy fish. They never struck. They never even nibbled. For a while, I was sure that I’d hit a spot where some large bottom-dwelling fish was interested in my fly. I cast my line out about thirty feet. I convinced myself that it was a clean cast, a smooth cast. One that might have been pretty enough to post on YouTube, had it been recorded on video. It just felt right. After all, it’s my birthday. Despite the slight increase in the wind and my lack of practice this summer, I’d had several good casts in a row. I’d never had a good throwing arm. Never played baseball, and in school, my dodgeball game was characterized by a goofy-looking side-arm. I’d developed a similar side-arm roll cast. Nothing textbook, to be honest, but often I’d get the line to unroll in a nice, tight loop. Today saw me hitting several of these casts. I was sure that this was the cast that would set me up for a great afternoon of fishing. It was crisp, there was little extra splashing, and the fly was landing just right.
Down the way, another fisherman had a bite, and I grimaced as I watched him land a nice-sized largemouth. It’s my birthday, give it to us, I thought. I wanted so badly to catch something that I started despising this innocent fellow for his luck.
I’d first tied on my Clouser’s minnow. Nothing. I changed to a #8 black wooly bugger. Nothing. After ten minutes or so with that fly, I pulled it in to check it out. I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t even snagged a little bluegill with it. Taking a closer look, I saw that it had been unraveling. It must have been due to a hard strike, I told myself. What most likely happened was that it was an older fly and it had been snagged and retrieved a few times too many. I snipped it off and tried something different.
Earlier this summer, I snagged a three- or four-pound largemouth on a fly called a “carp tease.” I’d also picked up a nice-size channel catfish on a similar fly. Surely it would bring me luck today. Not quite. It is now snagged on a rock on the bottom about ten feet from the shore. I moved a little further down the way to where the water looked more like a flowing river than the man-made spillway. I tied on an expensive fly that resembled a crayfish. This had also brought me a couple nice catfish, and I still felt lucky. It being a heavier fly, I didn’t have the same finesse with my casting, but I still got it out a good ways. It landed with a plop and the ripples in the water slowly spread out. Once they disappeared, I began pulled it in slowly, trying to mimic the movement of the crayfish. I kept feeling it catch. It didn’t feel like it was snagging on a rock; it felt like something was nibbling at it, taking it in its mouth just enough for me to feel it, but not enough for me to feel like I could effectively set the hook. I held the line tightly in my left hand and jerked up on the rod. It caught, but the line didn’t move like it should have when a fish was hooked. It stayed there, the taut line causing my rod to bend under its weight. I should have known.
In order to retrieve the fly without it breaking off, I walked up and down the shore, pulling with enough pressure to hopefully bring it in but not enough to break the leader. Or so I thought. I didn’t think I was tugging too hard, but before I knew it, the pressure broke and the empty line flew back at me, the fly gone.
I’d lost two best flies, and a third one was now ruined. The optimist in me thought that at least some of the snags were actually trophy fish sampling my flies and teasing me, but I know now that there probably were never any fish at the end of my line.
I was blinded by my eagerness; distracted and deceived into thinking that because it was my birthday I would have success. I began by thinking that the one case--the first cast--would set the precedent for the afternoon. When no fish bit on that first cast, I began thinking that the type of casting (my ugly side-arm roll cast) would be my salvation on the water. Three good flies later, I noticed how my leader was getting shorter and shorter and there were several wind knots that had pulled tight enough that I’d need to snip them off. Had there been any actual bites from fish or were they simply little snags on rocks? I’d like to think that by now I’d know the difference.
On the day that I turned thirty years old (the thirty-third anniversary of Elvis Presley’s death, FYI), I hoped that I would have had a great spell of fishing. When the fish didn’t bite, I couldn’t control myself. Instead of realizing that it was shortly after four o’clock in the afternoon, that it was ninety degrees Fahrenheit out, I probably didn’t have the right flies, and my leader was getting too knotted and too short, I became more and more convinced that I need only keep trying the same things over and over. Who was it that said that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results each time?
Luckily, no one was around to become my Deagol. For an hour and a half, I took on a role more like the ill-fated Smeagol than like the noble and heroic Frodo. For a time I had convinced myself that I would prove to be the Lord of the Fly. After all, I told myself and the waters, today’s my birthday. Give it to us, my precious!
A Letter to my Students
Dear Students,
Plain and simple, teaching is something that I love to do. Paychecks or any sort of personal glory are not the things to which I look forward every day when I come to school. I enjoy working with high school-aged kids, I think school can be fun as well as educational, and I believe that you all have enormous potential. My philosophy is one of hard work, but with a balance of enjoyment in life. I always try to keep this outlook in mind: Work hard so that we can play hard. We have got to be able to work in a productive atmosphere, and if the work ethic falls short of expectations, then we will not be able to justify the “fun” I look forward to having with you.
Here are some candid bits of advice. Please take the time to read through these and the year should be a great one!
1) The type of person who will be successful in my class is the student who takes responsibility for his role in his own education. Be prepared to work hard because this is a rapidly-paced course with accelerated content. Have pride in what you produce in my class. Hold yourself accountable for any work you miss due to absences, and be sure to document assignments and due dates. Many of my students are also taking other honors or AP courses. If this is you, be extra careful in balancing your work in my class with your other classes, as well as your involvement with sports, music, and other activities. Remember that your primary role is as a student.
2) I don’t want to be your paper, pencil, or pen lender. Bring your own materials or borrow what you need from a fellow student. If you ask me, don’t be surprised if I give you a smart-aleck response. Bring whatever book we’re reading to class with you, and no, you cannot keep your textbooks in my room--be responsible!
3) Have pride in your work and make it your best. Don’t let perfectionism hold you back. There’s no such thing as a perfect essay, so be open to the fact that you can (and should) improve each time you write something for me. Perfectionism leads to a plateau effect, while true education involves a steady incline.
4) It’s time to hold yourself accountable for your work. I try to update the gradebook as often as I can, but I’m not here to pamper your bottom and remind you each time you fall behind. Find your own system for keeping on top of things.
5) If you’re taking this class to be with your friend, then you’ve made a poor decision. Too much socializing and gossiping not only annoys me, but it also brings down the quality of the class time. You’re responsible for what you take from my class, so if you spend the semester chatting and don’t like your final grade or feel like you haven’t grown academically, who should you blame?
6) Just because we get along, doesn’t mean that I’m going to give you any special breaks. Conversely, just because we butt heads, doesn’t mean that you’ll never get a break from me. I will be fair with all my students.
7) Flattery gets you nowhere with me. Save the brown-nosing for someone else.
8) My honors English class is as important as all of your other honors or AP classes. Even though there’s no AP test, this is still an accelerated course that needs your full attention.
9) “Life” happens to us all at the worst times. Things that are beyond our control pop up and make it seem like nothing can go right for us. However, you only get to use that excuse so many times before I get sick of hearing it.
10) You’re a student above all else--even your involvement in activities. Even school sports. Even those expensive club teams or dance lessons or music lessons that you might be participating in.
11) Effort alone will not necessarily get you a higher grade. Sometimes that’s the way of the world. It isn’t fair, is it? I hear it all the time: “But I worked all night!” or “I studied for days!” or “So-and-so didn’t even read all of the novel and he/she still did better than me on the test!” Did you put your best effort forth? Did you gain anything? Can you take the time to reflect and honestly answer these questions when you find yourself falling short of your goals? Think about it, and then think about how you can tailor your future endeavors so that you avoid similar disappointments.
12) In my opinion, grades are a representation of your performance through the semester, not an accumulation of points. The various grade weightings represent the averages of your performances on the various types of assignments. All assignments are worth 100 points then. A 4-question quiz has the same value as a 20-question quiz--they’re both worth 75% and reflect a C performance (an average performance).
13) I don’t believe in “Extra Credit.” All too often, students receive extra credit for doing next-to-nothing and this practice leads to grade inflation. I do not offer special opportunities to individual students so that they can raise their grades, so please don’t ask. I do offer “Bonus Points”--everyone has an opportunity to earn these points, students have to work to earn them, and they are valuable enough that they may make the difference when the overall grade is “almost there”.
14) Be ready to work in my class. The only spoon-feeding I do is with my toddler son. Don’t let perfectionism interfere with your growth.
15) Please understand that until you realize that you’re on a journey of self-discovery, your educational experience will be as pointless as you think it is. Figure out how to feed yourself and when food is scarce, you’ll be more likely to survive than the others. Likewise, figure out how to challenge yourself when the course seems “pointless” or “easy” and you’ll end the semester feeling like a mental giant.
Aside from the daily lessons you’ll have with me this semester, these tidbits are the best advice I can give you. Many of them I learned the hard way, but in the end, they helped make me who I am today. Heed my advice and remember that we’re on the same team.
Plain and simple, teaching is something that I love to do. Paychecks or any sort of personal glory are not the things to which I look forward every day when I come to school. I enjoy working with high school-aged kids, I think school can be fun as well as educational, and I believe that you all have enormous potential. My philosophy is one of hard work, but with a balance of enjoyment in life. I always try to keep this outlook in mind: Work hard so that we can play hard. We have got to be able to work in a productive atmosphere, and if the work ethic falls short of expectations, then we will not be able to justify the “fun” I look forward to having with you.
Here are some candid bits of advice. Please take the time to read through these and the year should be a great one!
1) The type of person who will be successful in my class is the student who takes responsibility for his role in his own education. Be prepared to work hard because this is a rapidly-paced course with accelerated content. Have pride in what you produce in my class. Hold yourself accountable for any work you miss due to absences, and be sure to document assignments and due dates. Many of my students are also taking other honors or AP courses. If this is you, be extra careful in balancing your work in my class with your other classes, as well as your involvement with sports, music, and other activities. Remember that your primary role is as a student.
2) I don’t want to be your paper, pencil, or pen lender. Bring your own materials or borrow what you need from a fellow student. If you ask me, don’t be surprised if I give you a smart-aleck response. Bring whatever book we’re reading to class with you, and no, you cannot keep your textbooks in my room--be responsible!
3) Have pride in your work and make it your best. Don’t let perfectionism hold you back. There’s no such thing as a perfect essay, so be open to the fact that you can (and should) improve each time you write something for me. Perfectionism leads to a plateau effect, while true education involves a steady incline.
4) It’s time to hold yourself accountable for your work. I try to update the gradebook as often as I can, but I’m not here to pamper your bottom and remind you each time you fall behind. Find your own system for keeping on top of things.
5) If you’re taking this class to be with your friend, then you’ve made a poor decision. Too much socializing and gossiping not only annoys me, but it also brings down the quality of the class time. You’re responsible for what you take from my class, so if you spend the semester chatting and don’t like your final grade or feel like you haven’t grown academically, who should you blame?
6) Just because we get along, doesn’t mean that I’m going to give you any special breaks. Conversely, just because we butt heads, doesn’t mean that you’ll never get a break from me. I will be fair with all my students.
7) Flattery gets you nowhere with me. Save the brown-nosing for someone else.
8) My honors English class is as important as all of your other honors or AP classes. Even though there’s no AP test, this is still an accelerated course that needs your full attention.
9) “Life” happens to us all at the worst times. Things that are beyond our control pop up and make it seem like nothing can go right for us. However, you only get to use that excuse so many times before I get sick of hearing it.
10) You’re a student above all else--even your involvement in activities. Even school sports. Even those expensive club teams or dance lessons or music lessons that you might be participating in.
11) Effort alone will not necessarily get you a higher grade. Sometimes that’s the way of the world. It isn’t fair, is it? I hear it all the time: “But I worked all night!” or “I studied for days!” or “So-and-so didn’t even read all of the novel and he/she still did better than me on the test!” Did you put your best effort forth? Did you gain anything? Can you take the time to reflect and honestly answer these questions when you find yourself falling short of your goals? Think about it, and then think about how you can tailor your future endeavors so that you avoid similar disappointments.
12) In my opinion, grades are a representation of your performance through the semester, not an accumulation of points. The various grade weightings represent the averages of your performances on the various types of assignments. All assignments are worth 100 points then. A 4-question quiz has the same value as a 20-question quiz--they’re both worth 75% and reflect a C performance (an average performance).
13) I don’t believe in “Extra Credit.” All too often, students receive extra credit for doing next-to-nothing and this practice leads to grade inflation. I do not offer special opportunities to individual students so that they can raise their grades, so please don’t ask. I do offer “Bonus Points”--everyone has an opportunity to earn these points, students have to work to earn them, and they are valuable enough that they may make the difference when the overall grade is “almost there”.
14) Be ready to work in my class. The only spoon-feeding I do is with my toddler son. Don’t let perfectionism interfere with your growth.
15) Please understand that until you realize that you’re on a journey of self-discovery, your educational experience will be as pointless as you think it is. Figure out how to feed yourself and when food is scarce, you’ll be more likely to survive than the others. Likewise, figure out how to challenge yourself when the course seems “pointless” or “easy” and you’ll end the semester feeling like a mental giant.
Aside from the daily lessons you’ll have with me this semester, these tidbits are the best advice I can give you. Many of them I learned the hard way, but in the end, they helped make me who I am today. Heed my advice and remember that we’re on the same team.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Thoughts on Parenting
I heard Joel Osteen on television say, "If you don't tell your children who they are, then someone else will." Giving a child a sense of identity is such an important job for a parent, yet kids spend an incredible amount of time searching on their own, wondering who they are. They look everywhere for this identity, when all along, their parents have been trying to keep it in plain sight. Emily and I have no clue who Brody will be, what kind of student or athlete he will be, or what his passions will be. Someday, he'll come to us and ask us what kind of child he was. What would we tell him?
My wife and I haven't filled out Brody's baby books near as well as we've been sure to make posts and notes about him on Facebook. There are all of these memories of various firsts that we don't want to forget; the baby books are never handy or convenient, but FB never fails to be a great forum for us to use in bragging about our son. There are so many images of Brody that are difficult to capture with words, so I've been good about capturing pictures on my cell phone. My screen saver at school is a slideshow of his childhood to date. The point is that I love him with all my heart and I would do absolutely anything for him. He is our flesh and blood, a life created from our love with the grace of God.
I've come to realize that as human beings in this day and age, our models for parenting are our own parents (the good, the bad, and the ugly), what we see on TV or in movies or in books, and the parents with whom we interact on a daily basis. These models come together in our minds to form the ideal parent, the "Super-dad" or the "Mega-mom." We hope and pray that we will do well as parents, and we cross our fingers that our children won't hate us or run out on us. We sit back and look at the problems of other parents and make our judgments. It's sad that we make these judgments, but it's also so easy to make these judgments and to condemn people for their parenting sins. As a teacher and a Christian man, I truly pray that God gives me the wisdom to know better than to make the mistake of prejudging too much from the outside.
I heard a story the other day about a woman who was with her daughter at church camp. One day they were doing dome horseback riding. The woman held her 3-year-old daughter in front of her as they rode. The horse bucked, throwing both mother and daughter. In order to protect her daughter, the mother held her closely, dropped her own shoulder, and used her own body to bear the brunt of the impact. Her hip was broken in two places, she had a couple cracked ribs, and her shoulder was dislocated. The little girl had just a couple scrapes and bruises. She was told that it would be an excruciating road to recovery. The poor woman acted in such a way that any parent should act. After all, who wouldn't want to protect their child in such a manner or in such a situation?
With every bit of my heart, I know fully that I would do just that to protect my son, and I would do much more to protect him. At some point during parenthood, a parent truly realizes how much he really needs to do to put the child before himself. I'm sure that if anyone were to offer the subtlest suggestion that a parent felt any other way, then this parent would be on his feet shouting and punching the air with his clinched fists. But I've seen it too often in the seven years I've been a teacher and coach. Something changes along the way, and people forget to put their children ahead of them.
Somewhere, the questions are no longer "What is best for my son?", "How can I make things right for my daughter?", and "What do I need to do to protect my children?" The questions become "Why isn't my son more like so-and-so?", "How am I going to deal with this mess my daughter has created?", and "What will they think of me as a parent?" For some people, life happens too quickly or too suddenly and before they know it they find themselves stuck in a whirlpool of self-centered thinking.
I hope to never get caught in that swirling vortex of self-centered compulsion. It's nearly impossible to escape once you have become wholly consumed by how things affect you. You naturally find yourself needing to know why things are happening to you, when you are supposed to deal with things, or who might happen to be judging you. Perhaps above all, you constantly ask how on earth you're going to be able to deal with these things. The uncontrollable obsession with yourself becomes a piece of driftwood. It keeps you afloat and allows you to get gasps of air, but you're still being sucked toward the center of the eddy, your submersion becoming more and more inevitable.
As parents, we all run that risk of falling into the whirlpool. We could accidentally swim too close to its current--we'd have had no intention of becoming so self-centered, but we couldn't control it. What is it then that we can do if we should ever become caught? It no longer becomes a question of who's undermining your authority or stepping on your toes, and it's not about how you look as a parent. The question needs to once again come back to what's best for the child. The mother or father must place the child before themselves.
Coming back to the story of the mother who got bucked off the horse with her daughter, I don't think she ever cursed the horse for undermining her authority and pushing her into the control of gravity. Nor do I think she considered how to land safely so that she didn't hurt herself. Instinct took control and she protected her daughter, much the same way I pray that I will always watch out for Brody. May God give me the strength, wisdom, and guidance, and by putting Him first--truly first--I will have no problem in doing so, and Brody will know that he has always been a key component of the most cherished part of our lives--our marriage. He will know--whether it's from his baby books, our online blogs, or the affirmations we say to him--that his identity has always been blessed with our love.
My wife and I haven't filled out Brody's baby books near as well as we've been sure to make posts and notes about him on Facebook. There are all of these memories of various firsts that we don't want to forget; the baby books are never handy or convenient, but FB never fails to be a great forum for us to use in bragging about our son. There are so many images of Brody that are difficult to capture with words, so I've been good about capturing pictures on my cell phone. My screen saver at school is a slideshow of his childhood to date. The point is that I love him with all my heart and I would do absolutely anything for him. He is our flesh and blood, a life created from our love with the grace of God.
I've come to realize that as human beings in this day and age, our models for parenting are our own parents (the good, the bad, and the ugly), what we see on TV or in movies or in books, and the parents with whom we interact on a daily basis. These models come together in our minds to form the ideal parent, the "Super-dad" or the "Mega-mom." We hope and pray that we will do well as parents, and we cross our fingers that our children won't hate us or run out on us. We sit back and look at the problems of other parents and make our judgments. It's sad that we make these judgments, but it's also so easy to make these judgments and to condemn people for their parenting sins. As a teacher and a Christian man, I truly pray that God gives me the wisdom to know better than to make the mistake of prejudging too much from the outside.
I heard a story the other day about a woman who was with her daughter at church camp. One day they were doing dome horseback riding. The woman held her 3-year-old daughter in front of her as they rode. The horse bucked, throwing both mother and daughter. In order to protect her daughter, the mother held her closely, dropped her own shoulder, and used her own body to bear the brunt of the impact. Her hip was broken in two places, she had a couple cracked ribs, and her shoulder was dislocated. The little girl had just a couple scrapes and bruises. She was told that it would be an excruciating road to recovery. The poor woman acted in such a way that any parent should act. After all, who wouldn't want to protect their child in such a manner or in such a situation?
With every bit of my heart, I know fully that I would do just that to protect my son, and I would do much more to protect him. At some point during parenthood, a parent truly realizes how much he really needs to do to put the child before himself. I'm sure that if anyone were to offer the subtlest suggestion that a parent felt any other way, then this parent would be on his feet shouting and punching the air with his clinched fists. But I've seen it too often in the seven years I've been a teacher and coach. Something changes along the way, and people forget to put their children ahead of them.
Somewhere, the questions are no longer "What is best for my son?", "How can I make things right for my daughter?", and "What do I need to do to protect my children?" The questions become "Why isn't my son more like so-and-so?", "How am I going to deal with this mess my daughter has created?", and "What will they think of me as a parent?" For some people, life happens too quickly or too suddenly and before they know it they find themselves stuck in a whirlpool of self-centered thinking.
I hope to never get caught in that swirling vortex of self-centered compulsion. It's nearly impossible to escape once you have become wholly consumed by how things affect you. You naturally find yourself needing to know why things are happening to you, when you are supposed to deal with things, or who might happen to be judging you. Perhaps above all, you constantly ask how on earth you're going to be able to deal with these things. The uncontrollable obsession with yourself becomes a piece of driftwood. It keeps you afloat and allows you to get gasps of air, but you're still being sucked toward the center of the eddy, your submersion becoming more and more inevitable.
As parents, we all run that risk of falling into the whirlpool. We could accidentally swim too close to its current--we'd have had no intention of becoming so self-centered, but we couldn't control it. What is it then that we can do if we should ever become caught? It no longer becomes a question of who's undermining your authority or stepping on your toes, and it's not about how you look as a parent. The question needs to once again come back to what's best for the child. The mother or father must place the child before themselves.
Coming back to the story of the mother who got bucked off the horse with her daughter, I don't think she ever cursed the horse for undermining her authority and pushing her into the control of gravity. Nor do I think she considered how to land safely so that she didn't hurt herself. Instinct took control and she protected her daughter, much the same way I pray that I will always watch out for Brody. May God give me the strength, wisdom, and guidance, and by putting Him first--truly first--I will have no problem in doing so, and Brody will know that he has always been a key component of the most cherished part of our lives--our marriage. He will know--whether it's from his baby books, our online blogs, or the affirmations we say to him--that his identity has always been blessed with our love.
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