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.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
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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