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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.