My Friend, the Godly Atheist

Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. God’s love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins. Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us... Those who say, ‘I love God’, and hate their brothers or sisters,^* are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister^* whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen. The commandment we have from him is this: those who love God must love their brothers and sisters^* also. ~ 1 John 4:7-12, 20-21 

I have a friend who is an Atheist. He does not believe in God, and he most particularly does not believe in religion. He does believe in science, intelligence, compassion, and justice. Yesterday, after a group of religious people entered the offices of a newspaper in Paris and murdered 11 journalists because they thought God was offended by things the paper had printed, my friend wrote on Facebook:

Goddamn religion. Makes me want to puke.

Considering the news from France, it was hard to disagree with him.

Which is why I was especially gratified to find this passage from the first letter of John in this morning's lectionary. They were words I needed to hear: words that everyone needs to hear: especially those of us who embrace religion as a source of spiritual and moral guidance.

Everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. What an amazing and radical idea to preach to a church that was at that time being persecuted into extinction by the Roman empire. There is no call to defend God. No enlisting of Christian Soldiers. To the contrary, John says Those who say, ‘I love God’, and hate their brothers or sisters,^* are liars... This is tough stuff to swallow. The implication here is obvious and in a way terrifying. Whoever hates another person, hates God.

How do we love Christ? We obey his commandments. And how do we do that?

I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. ~ John 13:34

 Would Jesus murder a newspaper reporter? Would he lie to a customer to keep their business? Would he cheat on his wife or beat his child or collect guns or fight against the "War on Christmas?" Would he turn his eyes away from the beggar at the traffic light or the drunk who is passed out on the curb? Would Jesus gossip or spread stories about people that he didn't know were true? Would he change the way he spoke or the jokes he told, depending on who was in the room? No, he would not have done any of these things, because they express disrespect and contempt, and whoever disrespects a person they can see, can never love the God they cannot see.

If we want to love our invisible God, we have no choice. We must love the people whom God has placed before us. Love is our business in this world. Maybe if we would mind that business, our religion would be more palatable to my friend who does not know the church, but knows God better than he may realize.

Let us love one another... For love is from God.

Bob

In Re: 9-11... Do This In Rememberance

It is a strange accident of the English language that words with completely different origins can form connections as they are blended into the rainbow of our dictionary. So it is with remember -  from the Latin rememor: to bring back to mind -  and dismember - from the Latin desmembre: to separate the parts.

Because of their similar sound in modern English, the two words are connected in a way that seems especially meaningful today.

To dismember is to tear apart, to divide, to reduce. To be dismembered is to find yourself disconnected and disjointed. So much of what was true about you yesterday is no longer true today. You can no longer do things the way you used to do them. It is often violent, brutal, and cruel. It is always catastrophic. The one who is dismembered is changed forever.

In this vein, the word remember suggests a restoration of what is lost. Reconnection. Reconcilliation. Redemption. True, the literal meaning of the word remember is about calling something back to your mind or a return to mindfulness, but by virtue of the connection that English provides, the word is much richer than that. It is much more than a mental or emotional exercise. To remember is to take on the difficult task of rebuilding what has been destroyed.

On this terrible day of remembrance, we fly our flags, keep or moments of silence, say our prayers, and change our Facebook profile pictures, promising to never forget. But that is only the first step in remembrance. The question we must answer is this: now that we are once again holding that day in our memory, what are we going to do to respond, restore, and return to a way of life that honors the best parts of our nature that were revealed in the smoke of that dreadful morning?

Revenge? Retribution? Retaliation? These too are distant cousins of remembrance. But revenge often proves to be a cold and unsatisfying meal. The punishment of our enemies can never restore what we have lost.

Only remembrance can do that.

Not in a literal sense. Nothing we can do will make it September 10th again. The broken bodies and sense of safety of that long ago yesterday will never return. Nothing will ever give meaning to the deaths in New York and Washington and Shanksville. But we can restore ourselves. We can reveal our best nature, not our worst. We can imitate those courageous First Responders by showing up at the pile with courage and strength and love: forces more powerful and more noble than fear and rage.

I believe the scripture that teaches us we were made in the image of our Creator. We are creatures of light, imitations of the Love of God. The people who did the murders of September 11 were angry and frightened. They saw their world in danger and lashed out with hatred and violence. Not long after, many in my country did the same thing. The corridors of Hell roar with laughter when the children of God use the tools of Satan against one another. Hundreds of thousands of families, children, parents, lovers, have been separated, wounded, tortured, killed all over the world in the wake of September 11.

Humankind. Dismembered.

On this anniversary of horror and fear, may God grant us the courage to truly reconsider... the strength to do the work of responders... the compassion to restore what can be restored... that we might one day know the joy of redemption: a world once sold to fear, bought back with love.

Never forget? No never.

But more importantly, with God's help, we will always remember.

Peace,
Bob

The Voyage of the Pennsy: Morning Prayers

As the crew gathered for morning prayers today, we were reminded of who our true Captain is. We have shared many adventures together, and survived many storms that would have ruined ships with stouter timbers and richer cargo. We endure because we are blessed. We sail with confidence because our God has proven to be faithful. The most experienced pilot can never know what lies beyond the horizon, but we hold our course with courage, knowing that our Heavenly Master holds us, even in the gravest danger. Looking back, we can se how our greatest trials gave us wisdom and confidence to face even greater ones. We have known great fear, but even greater joy. Our most bitter losses have always been our teachers, preparing us for unforeseen blessings. We have suffered, yes. But we have never suffered alone. Our current trials are dire, ant the seas toward which we sail hold dangers and obstacles we can only imagine. There is much work to do, and precious little room for error. I would be a liar if I said that I feel no fear. But in my heart, I also know the strength that comes from love. It fills the Pennsy's sails as. Surely as the gentle breeze in the golden sunrise. Everything we have done... Every storm... Every battle... Every loss and every blessing has prepared us for the weeks to come. 

We seek to love and serve ourselves, our neighbors, and our faithful God, wherever the journey may lead us. And God has blessed us with loving friends and hopeful, grateful hearts. 

The good ship Pennsy sails on... But she never sails alone.

Ecclesiastes: Eat, Drink, and be Merry? Is this "Bible?"

He was the wisest, richest, most admired and most powerful king Israel ever knew. His reign represented the high point of the Hebrew empire. Unlike his legendary father, the teen-aged giant killer who came from nothing to become Israel's first great king, Solomon started at the top, and went up from there. Entire books of scripture are attributed to him, and they range in subject matter from war and politics to child rearing and sex. Structures he built in Jerusalem are still standing today. His reputation for wisdom is of mythic proportions. It's hard to believe such a man ever really existed.

Until you open the "Book of the Preacher": Ecclesiastes. This is not the frightened young Solomon, newly crowned, asking God for the judgment to be a good king. Nor is it the handsome devil who won the Queen of Sheba's heart with a glance. This is a man who has done it all, seen it all, has it all, and finds it all to be meaningless. "Vanity of vanities," he mourns again and again, "all is vanity."

What do we accomplish with all our work? People are born and die. Seasons come and go. The sun rises and sets and nothing ever happens that hasn't happened a thousand times before. Nothing we do changes anything, and we will all be forgotten when we die. In the first of many chilling passages, Solomon grieves,

What is crooked cannot be made straight, and what is lacking cannot be numbered.

 All the wise king's pursuit of knowledge has taught him is that wisdom brings grief and knowledge increases sorrow. It changes nothing. It is meaningless. He calls it "grasping for the wind."

Adding to the vanity of life is the absence of justice. Good people suffer while evil ones thrive. Some live for pleasure, others for wisdom, but all end up in the same cold grave.

Next comes the strange hymn that many of my generation probably think was written by these guys.



In the jingle-jangle of 'Sixties Pop-Folk, the words seem sanguine as if to say, "it's a big world. There's room for everything, man. Things may have been bad, but they're going to get better." But in Solomon's mouth, the words lack the sweet smell of Patchouli and leather jackets. The preacher seems to hold up the absurdity of a life where everything is equal. We are born and we die. We plant and we pull up. We gain and lose, tear and sew, love and hate and there is a time for all of them. There is no virtue strong enough to eliminate the vice it mirrors. No peace lasting enough to prevent the next war. We work and strive and none of it makes a damn bit of difference.

And here the Preacher repeats a theme that will echo throughout the book.

Nothing is better for a man than that he should eat and drink, and that his soul should enjoy good in his labor. This also, I saw, was from the hand of God.

A modern reader can't help but trip over the passage. Is this really "Bible" I'm reading? Do the scriptures really tell us to quit worrying and be happy? Enjoy life and stop banging your head against walls that you can't break? How many sermons have you heard preached on Ecclesiastes? Not many, I'll wager. There are some pretty radical ideas in here.

I said in my heart, "concerning the condition of the sons of men, God tests them that they may see that they themselves are like animals... Surely, they all have one breath; man has no advantage over animals, for all is vanity.

We want to know we are important. We want to be the center of the universe. We want to mean something. But here is Solomon telling us that our lives have no more meaning than an ox or a mosquito. He also savages what we contemporary folk might call our "Puritan work ethic."

Again, I saw that for all toil and every skillful work a man is envied by his neighbor. This also is vanity and grasping for the wind... There is one alone without companion: He has neither son nor brother. Yet there is no end to all his labors, Nor is his eye satisfied with riches. But he never asks, "For whom do I toil and deprive myself of good?" This also is vanity and a grave misfortune.

 Then comes a strange little passage about something that is not meaningless at all: companionship.

Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. for if they fall, one will lift up his companion. But woe to him who is alone when he falls. for he has no one to help him up. Again, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one be warm alone? Though one may be overpowered by another, two can withstand him. And a threefold cord is not quickly broken.

Where can we find our treasure, then? In wages stored up after labor? In books we have written or the people who work for us or the "legacy" we build in a futile attempt to live on after we are dead? Vanity! Our one true pleasure comes from enjoying the company of the people we love, and who love us. There is no "meaning." There is only delight in the world God has made. Everything that exists is going to perish one day. There is no tomorrow. There is only today. At last, Solomon comes to a phrase that I have to confess I did not know came from the Bible.

So I commended enjoyment, because a man has nothing better under the sun than to eat, drink, and be merry; for this will remain with him in his labor for all the days of his life which God gives him under the sun.

The first question and answer from the old Westminster Catechism was, "What is the chief end of man? The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever." Solomon is much more terrestrial in his conclusion. He seems to be saying that our chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Creation for as long as we are allowed to be a part of it.

The meaning of life, it's purpose, our reason for being is Joy.

I could go on and on, but even in this, the wise old king has a warning.

Of making many books, there is no end, and much study is wearisome to the flesh.

It's just not that complicated...

Fear God, and keep His commandments, For this is man's all. For God will bring every work in to judgment, Including every secret thing, Whether Good or evil.

And how should we live?

It is good and fitting for one to eat and drink, and to enjoy the good of all his labor in which he toils under the sun all the days of his life which God gives him; for it is his heritage.

Joyful obedience. Grateful delight. A life dedicated to the pleasures that come from sharing God's creation with one another. That's why we're here. The rest? Riches? Glory? Status? Meaning?

... All is Vanity.

Birthday Serenity

God, give me grace to accept with serenity

the things that cannot be changed,

Grace... it's the gift that you don't have to earn. It's the thing you can never get on your own. Grace is the blessing that cannot be bought or sold, only freely given and received.
Serenity... the gift of peace with yourself. Calling a truce with your own flaws and faults. I acknowledge all that I am today, and embrace the person God created me to be... the person I choose to be.
So much of life is beyond my grasp and control. Circumstances. Situations. The choices other people make or don't make. In spite of all my best efforts, my health can still fail me. Neurons misfire. Chemicals flood or dry up. Rogue cells can grow into tumors, no matter how many green vegetables I eat.
I cannot change natural law... natural consequences. To embrace that, I must release my hold on this. Pick up one end of the stick, and you  must pick up the other. I can choose how much of myself I share with you, but I cannot change the way you react to what you see.

Courage to change the things

which should be changed,

Courage is the triumph of love over fear. It is the act of will that says, " I will try to do what I know is right, no matter the cost or consequence." Courage is not satisfied with half-measures and good intentions. It is action. It is force. Courage sees the potential for good in the world, and refuses to accept past failure as destiny.

and the Wisdom to distinguish

the one from the other.

The fool shakes his fist at the clouds,
While the sage is building a shelter for the village...

Living one day at a time,

Enjoying one moment at a time,

Ashamed of yesterday,
Afraid of tomorrow,
I will be left paralyzed...
blind to the magnificent possibilities of today.
I cannot redeem what has been lost, or control what is to come,
I can only accept the grace of Now,
The gift of God that is this moment
My moment
To fill with love or fear
With life, or living death.

Accepting hardship as a pathway to peace,

And when the obstacles come, as they must
May I see them for what they are...
Life passing by
Water flowing along the sides of the ship of my life,
Events and circumstances.
Time and space,
The river of life whose channel I navigate
As each eddy and current presses me this way or that
As branches and garbage float in my path
Sand bars
Floods
Wind and ice
Each showing me more about the river and my own little part in it.
They are my teachers
Guiding me toward safe harbor

Taking, as Jesus did,

This sinful world as it is,

Not as I would have it,

"Thy will be done," he prayed. Not because he accepted the injustice and cruelty of this world, but because he knew that only open eyes can see what is and what is not. How many times have I looked at the world through the filter of my own desire?, my own interpretations? How often have I seen what I wanted to see, choosing to ignore whatever did not fit into the framework of my own imagination? To see the world as Jesus did is to look through God's eyes, not our own. It is to accept each creature as a being with integrity and flaws. It is to respect... to look again and again... always searching the heart, not the surface... always seeking the truth of what is, never settling for the smoky reality of what I believe might be.
And finally, seeing through God's eyes means honoring the choices that other people make. God has the power to bend any creature to his will, but chooses to allow us the freedom to act according to our own conscience instead. God grants us that dignity... we are free to be who we are. If I am to embrace the world as God does, I can do no less.

Trusting that You will make all things right,

If I surrender to Your will,

And it is that surrender, that submitting to things as they are that is the hardest part, isn't it? To accept that all things are as they should be feels weak somehow. Complacent. The sick are sick because that is God's will? The poor? The suffering? Is there nothing to be done?
There is a lot to be done. But change requires two things: serenity and courage. It requires the serenity to accept the truth of things as they are, and the courage to seek and obey God's guidance as you work to make the wrong things right.
So I surrender to God's will, I accept the things I cannot change, but I never surrender to the fear and death that keep me from serving my Creator and the creation of which I am a steward.

So that I may be reasonably happy in this life,

And supremely happy with You forever in the next.

And what is it to be happy? It is to live at peace with yourself, with creation, with your Creator. To be happy is to live in love with the world, and see it through the courageous eyes of one who is not afraid of the truth. To be happy in this word, or any world, is to embrace a spirit of gratitude for the lessons of the past, for the possibilities of the future, and for opportunity of the present.
I'm 53 years old today. And I am blessed. I have people who love me. I have a life that has come close to ending more times than I can count. I have lost most of my worldly wealth, but in that loss, I have become as rich as anyone. I continue to grow. I continue to learn. I continue to run. And I thank God for all that I have.
It's a hard lesson... but after half a century and then some... I believe that I'm learning to be happy.

Amen.

Peace,
Bob

The Father Who is There

I loved his company. He was a Vietnam war vet and a skilled poker player and a man of the theatre. We toured together for a brief, happy time back in the 80's. My friend had three kids. Three different women. Three different states. He never saw any of them.

I judged him pretty harshly for that. I wanted to be a father so much, almost more than anything else, and I couldn't understand how anyone could just walk away from such a gift. 

One day, he got the phone call. His oldest son who lived far away in a big city down south had been shot and killed on the street. My friend was dry eyed and ghostly as he told me the few sketchy details the boy's mother had shared with him. "When are you going down?" I asked. "Nothing I can do there," he answered, shaking his head numbly. It wasn't as if he didn't care, exactly. It was more like he knew that a moment, a lifetime had been missed and that there would not be a second chance. 

I got a glimpse of how that felt on a day, weeks later, during a poker game at the table in the back of the tour bus. We were on a country road, on our way to some little college someplace, and we passed a cemetery. As is so often the case, there was a lot next door where stones were sold. For some reason, we both looked up from our cards at the same time. There, by the side of the little two-lane road, we saw it. A granite stone, smaller than the others, cut into the shape of a teddy bear. Grotesque. I heard him whisper softly, "Oh, no. No." My friend put down his cards. Folded. Walked away from the table. I judged him a little less harshly after that. He should have been there for his son. Seeing that stone, so ridiculously inappropriate for the inner city tough guy his oldest had grown into, must have touched something in my friend. A memory. A dream. A hope. I don't know. We didn't talk about it at all after that. But I saw a big man cry that day. Tears of shame and of loss for an opportunity that would never be coming back. I believe that at that moment, my friend would have willingly traded places with his son. Laid himself in that grave and put his boy on the bus, laughing, drinking, singing songs and playing cards and enjoying playing Shakespeare to a different town every night. 

And that is the insane, radical vision of God that Jesus offers: not a king, or a cosmic force, but a father. When Jesus taught the Lord's Prayer, he prayed "Our Father," but he used the word abba. It's the word tiny children use to address their dads. The closest English equivalent is "Daddy." 

A cynic might read that and think it's just one more example of the way religion infantilizes us and tries to keep us helpless as children under the authority of the church. But they've never seen what I saw that day in the back of the bus. My friend didn't want to turn his son into a child again. He just wanted him to live. He should have done more. It took the boy's death to teach him that. He had lost the chance to be that boy's "Daddy." Jesus' message on this Fathers' Day is that God does not pass up that chance. God does not walk away. And God suffers with us, God does what no human father could ever do... God takes our place. God dies so that we can learn to love before it is too late.

That is the lesson of Fathers' Day, to me. I remember ugly ties and walks in the woods and hard lessons taught with gentle firmness... but I also remember sacrifice. My earthly father was willing to give everything for his children. In doing so, he was a minister to us from our heavenly Father. Nobody could have ever loved me like my Dad did. And I loved him so much that now, almost 20 years since his death, my heart still aches to remember him. 

And Jesus says that's the kind of love the Creator of the universe has for me. Like the preacher said, "Ain't that good news?"

Peace,

Bob

#466: What Has Running Done for Me Lately?

It's been a rough spring for me, in case you haven't noticed. Personal loss, mental illness, professional set-backs. I am really looking forward to the summer of 2013 with hope. Through all this trouble, my one faithful companion has been running. When it seemed like every other rug in my world was being pulled out, I always knew I could lace 'em up and hit the road. Running has become more than exercise, more even than therapy for me. It has become my touchstone. When things are at their worst for me, running has reminded me just how much I love being alive.

When I learned that my friend was going away, I spent a couple of days holed up in tears, then I went for a run. I ran so hard and so long that I wound up in the ER with dehydration... but running reminded me that I was still strong, even without Coach.

When it seemed like my fundraiser was going to crash and burn under the weight of my emotional breakdown, I went for a run. I ran 28 miles one day and people were inspired to give so generously that we not only reached our goal, we surpassed it.

When I felt  my friend's pain as she lay critically ill in a nursing home with a relapse of the cancer she thought she had beaten years ago, I wrote her name on my bib and went for a run, busting a new Marathon PR and lifting her spirits along the way.

Yesterday, the weight of all the grief and loss and changes and frustrations seemed ready to crush me. There are times when I am so close to despair that I could almost give up. Instead, I went for a run. Nice and slow. Hot and humid. More of a jog, really. I heard the birds, felt the wind and the sun on my face and legs. The tap of my feet on the pavement kept time as the music of my breath drew me along. Gritting up hills. Smiling at strangers. Loving every second of what seemed to be a terrible life just an hour before.

That's what you've done for me lately, Running. You've kept my heart beating. Helped me blow off steam. Let me taste the air mixed with clean, salty sweat on my lips. You got me through the rain and mile 26. You got me out of my bed, off my ass, and out the door. You reminded me that there is a God who loves me and who in the middle of all this loss is still giving me one precious gift... life... and the ability to run toward it.

Thanks for the reminder, old friend. It's a Great Day for a Run.

Peace,
Pennsy

#460: What Job Taught Me About Depression

Albrecht Durher: Job on the Dunghill

I've been thinking about Job quite a bit. Not so much out of pity for myself, as much as a desire to make sense of all that I have lost in the last few weeks. Not that there is much sense to be made of it. Part of me believes that it's just a string of really bad events. Coincidence.

Job's story doesn't offer a satisfying explanation of why suffering exists; but it does teach us a way to respond to the pain of existence.

Job stayed faithful. So did God. When life takes everything away, God remains. Paul prayed to have the "thorn in my flesh" removed, and God's answer was, "my grace is sufficient for you." God isn't cruel and unfair: life is. But what God is, and this is a most radical and difficult idea, what God really  is, is faithful. Did God take away my friends? My health? I don't know. But what I do know is that God will not take away the Steadfast Love that is at the heart of the universe. When everything else is lost, God's love remains. If there is a theme that ties all of the Bible together, I think that is it. Life may be confusing and painful, almost unendurable at times. But it is a pain that we can endure because in our darkest hour, when it seems like everything we need or desire has been taken away, God's love remains.

In spite of the healing I feel every day, there are still times when it feels like the only reason it isn't getting worse is that I have nothing left to lose. But that is not true: my purpose remains. There are still people with cancer. People will find comfort and inspiration in the story I have to tell. People need to know that there is abundant life after cancer. People's lives can be better because of what happened to me.

My life's work remains. And where will I find the strength to do that work? It will be where it has always been. Even when I thought it was coming from smiling faces and kind words. My strength comes from God, who will never abandon me, not even in the deepest regions of the shadow lands.

People in the 21st century might find that a pretty foolish thing to believe. Many of the people I love find Job's story to be silly and superstitious. I can live with that. "Religion is for the weak," others will say. I can live with that, too. If this season of darkness has taught me nothing else, it has taught me just how weak I am. Healthy people don't need doctors. Strong people don't need God. Well, I'm not healthy, and I'm not strong. I need God's love to stay alive.

And by God, I'm staying alive.

A famous theologian, Karl Barth was once asked, "what is the most profound religious truth you have ever heard?" His answer was one that could transform the world, if only we would let it:

Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so,
Little ones to him belong,
They are weak, but he is strong;
Yes, Jesus loves me...
The Bible tells me so.

Peace,
Pennsy

#453: My All Too Public Private Life

I've entered a new stage.

My manic (or hypomanic) pole is characterized by grandiose thoughts and an over inflated sense of my own importance. Here, I am all courage and daring. Bold action, grand gestures. Good judgement? Not very often.

My depressive pole is dark and lonely, sad and hungry. Here is an angry place. A frightened place. I feel isolate from everyone here, even from God. Here, my judgement is even worse, because in this state of mind, it is impossible for me to choose at all. I might spend 15 minutes staring at the floor beside my bed trying to decide which pair of shoes to slip into.

But in this new place, I feel hyper aware. I see things in people that they might not see themselves. I see them afraid of me and the things I might do if I ever go really crazy. I hear them talking about me around corners and behind closed doors. I see them avoid me and cross the room of the hall. I hear them greet me with a smile, but behind their bright teeth, I can see entire monologues of judgement and condemnation being silently directed toward me.

Yes. I've finally made it. I'm in the crazy zone. I am paranoid and delusional. I rehearse imaginary dialogues over and over in my head. Today in the weight room, my mind was finally quiet. I think I know why penitentiary inmates lift weights. Not just so they can be strong and defend themselves, but also because weight lifting is the ultimate escape. You can't worry about anything when you lift heavy weights. You can't afford to be distracted for a moment or you can get very badly hurt. I found real peace under the bar. But then, I went to the pool.

I strapped on my flotation belt and tethered myself to a diving block. I started water running, jogging in place floating there by the side of the pool, and my mind began to race. Faces. Voices. Accusations. Betrayals. Mockery. Lies. Manipulation. I imagined confronting my accusers, flinging barbed wit at them, smashing them to bits with my incisive logic and immovable sense of justice. Before I knew it, my stomach was churning as violently as the water around me. And that's when I realized something terribly important about myself.

It isn't going to be enough for me to just look sane. I'm going to have to get well or I'm never going to be able to come back to work. I'll never really trust myself. I'll never trust anyone else. I'll never be sure that the things I do or say aren't coming from my disease instead of my reason. If I can't get well, I'm going to have to keep on lying about who I am and what I feel... and as it turns out, I really suck at lying.

But even worse than that. If I can't get well, I'll always have this suspicion that everybody knows, everybody cares, everybody is a little amused and even a little afraid of my feeble mental state.

I can't just sit tight until someone tells me that they think I'm all better. I need to be about the work of pulling the pieces of me back together again. Because I don't know how many second chances I have left in this life. The applause of strangers just isn't going to be enough, not this time. I need to work until I know that I am healed. Try and fail. Test the water. Accept the set backs. Do whatever it takes.

I asked myself in the pool today, "What if God is testing me? What if God takes away the Y? Could I accept even that if it were God's will?" I don't know how to answer these questions. Part of me wants to say, "Yes, Yes, Lord. Here I am. Do with me what you will." But then there is the part of me that asks, "What kind of monster gives you the happiest days of your life, then snatches them away for no reason? Are you a God who tortures your children? Who kills their parents? Who steals their sight, their health, their minds? Why would anyone ever want to serve you?" A lot of people wouldn't ask these kids of questions while floating in 10 feet of water, but I told you I was in a crazy place.

I don't know what the future holds. I don't know why God is allowing this to happen to me. I don't even know who I'm going to be when I wake up in the morning. But I do know a few things.

I love working as a trainer at the YMCA. Love it. It is the best job I've ever had. It gives me a sense of purpose and accomplishment that I have never found anywhere else.

I can't work as a trainer as long as I am consumed by fears and depression and distorted thoughts and delusions of grandeur or paranoia. I can't help anyone else if I am in constant danger of bursting into uncontrollable tears for hours at a time.

The only way for me to get back to the work I love, is to find myself again. Again? I wonder if there ever was a time when I knew myself. A time when I wasn't focused on pleasing the grown-ups, being the smartest guy in the room, winning the heart of the beautiful princess. If I ever find the real me, will I even recognize him?

I don't have a choice. I have to try. My work gives me more than just a sense of mission and service. It gives me a sense of purpose. For the first time in my life, I have a reason to be alive. I feel in tune with the creature God intended me to be when I'm working at the Y. For the first time in my marriage, I feel like I have something worthwhile to bring into the partnership. If I lose that... If I lose that purpose, that reason to get out of bed, that reason to be,  I just don't know how I'll go on living.

I am not fighting for my job. I'm fighting for my marriage. I'm fighting for my life. I don't care what it takes, how long it takes, or how much it costs, I simply have to get well. The docs killed my cancer. But only God can take this thing away. I'm going to need all the pills and shrinks and friends that He can send me in order to get well. And I can't stop until the sickness is really gone, or else driven so far into it's hole that I know I can manage it for the rest of my life.

I can't afford to get this sick again. Not ever. There is too much at stake. My friends. My fellow survivors. My marriage.

My soul.

Dear God. I am so lost here. Please help me to get well. Please help me. I'll do my share of the work. I promise, but I can't do anything without you. Please, God. Please.

Peace,
Pennsy

#449: Thanks, Coach

I got an important reminder this morning. A friend carried a message to me from my Coach. Here are a few excerpts.

Bob keep holding on to God. God has the answers and we have to seek them and as we get closer to him the more he will help us God saved you for a reason that means you have a special reason to be alive. but satan knows your weakness and how to use them against you...
Think about how hard satan is working to destroy you that means he knows how much good you can do for the Lord... God has a mighty work for you . 
Dont forget to praise God i know the y and people there have helped you a lot but God sent them to you... He knew what you needed...  People will come and go, but God said he will never leave or forsake us ...
God brought you through cancer; this too he can help you through. I just know God has a great work for you for satan to work so hard to destroy you. Dont let him win. Fight him with all your might...
Remember Paul and Silas while in jail they praised God..I  know its hard to praise him we wonder where he is. I've even blamed God and i started going down hill fast, but we have to realise sometime Gods answer is no... thats why we must trust him and have faith ...
You wrote "unworthy as i am." If God saved you you are worthy...
As you run the marathon tomorrow i know you are running to fight against cancer and help cancer victims, but do me a favor tomorrow while running do me a favor praise God sing his praises give him all the glory some people may look at you funny talk about you but there might be one there that needs to here you sing and praise God. Where else can you be a witness to that many people..? 
God said go out in the hedges and highways and compel the lost to come in. I believe God can heal you. You dont have to live with this. Don't let Satan win. Go run for God and cancer...
I'm very proud of you. After the race, you still have to keep running the race for God.

Many people find that kind of talk to be old fashioned or superstitious. Other people, people I respect and love, would even call it fanatical and weak-minded. Well, if bipolar disorder teaches you anything, it is that your mind is much weaker than you think. If believing in God is weak, then I am grateful for my weakness.

My friend is right. The physicians fought my cancer, but God was the one who healed me. My coaches worked tirelessly to turn me into a runner, but God was the one who taught me to run. God was the one who sent these people to me. What I call my mission or my ministry or my purpose, my friend calls "a mighty work," and God is the one who will give me whatever I need to get that work done.

I do believe in God. I don't believe many of the things that my friend might, and I don't believe in the same way as I did when I was younger, but I know that the only reason I am alive is that God loves me, and has a purpose for my life.

I don't know what Satan is. I don't know if he's a fallen angel or just my own fear and shame. Maybe Satan is cancer. Whatever he is, I know that he will keep me from doing the work God has given me to do. And I don't intend to let that happen.

My friend is old-fashioned. He loves that Old Time Religion and makes no apologies for it. Some people think that's silly or worse. For me, it is an inspiration. I don't know if I will ever return to that way of thinking, but I know that no matter how hard my head gets pulled around, I have to turn it back toward God.

Today I will run. I will race against myself, the clock, the course, and the pain that will scream at me to stop doing something so very, very foolish.

But I will not stop. Not as long as I can still run or walk or crawl. Because I'm not just running for myself.

I am running for the people God has sent. The people who believe in me. The people who need to see that nothing, not cancer, not mental illness, not fear, not even the Devil can keep you from becoming the person you were created to be if you rely on God's help.

I am running for love. For life. For light. And I am running to praise the source of those things.

This is not a sermon. And I don't think it is an insane rave.

It is my testimony. My beautiful friend has reminded me of something I have forgotten.

I am not in this world to be anybody's hero or inspiration. I am here to be their servant. Jesus didn't want praise. He wanted to wash feet. He wanted to feed hungry people. He wanted to comfort suffering people.

That's my job.

Thank you, brother. You had the love and the courage to remind me of that.

Today, I'm praising God for the chance to run. I'm humbled by the generosity of my friends and neighbors. I may weep again today. But I will weep for joy. I will weep for gratitude. I will weep because Amazing Grace saved a wretch like me, and will continue to save me every time I drift off course.

God is my Coach.

And my God, it's a great day for a run.

Peace,
Pennsy

#442: Spider On A Thread

The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked: his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in his sight; you are ten thousand times more abominable in his eyes, than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours. - Jonathan Edwards "'Have a Nice Day' and Other Sermons for Children (Just kidding. Little Calvinist humor, there. It's actually from Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. If you are the sort of demented soul who feels the need, you can read the whole Hallmark card here.)


One of the more insulting pieces of good news I've ever received was on a radiology report: "Analysis of the brain shows nothing remarkable." What they meant was that there was nothing bad in there. My oncologist explained that this is a much better comment than: "Imaging of the brain was negative," which means that they looked, but didn't find anything. So sometimes words can conceal positive results.

In the past 30 hours or so, when I've checked my emotional vital signs, the results have been increasingly positive. Reduced tear production. No evidence of chest convulsions, throat contractions, or sobbing. Heart lightening. Creepy-crawlies subsiding. The subject appears to have turned the corner. We are cautiously optimistic.

But still, I'm wary.

Last night, Mrs P reminded me that depression is only half of my diagnosis. My wife the clinical therapist conjured the full name: Type II Bipolar Disorder with Severe Clinical Depression. No wonder it takes so many pills. No wonder I never speak it's name out loud. That is a disorder for a person who is seriously screwed up.

It's not that I hide it, not really. Readers of FMR know that I hide precious little. Much less than any decent person should.  I wouldn't say I'm a Closeted Crazy. But bipolar disorder is the one gremlin in my life that I would just as soon not name. Ever. I remember the first time I read the words, typed into my file at the mental hospital. "Well, son," I whispered to myself, "Looks like you're the Bull-Goose loony in this nut house now." And until they taught me how I could exercise my way back to the light, I pretty much was.

I stay more-or-less stable when the meds and the therapists and the coaches are all working together. People think of me as a little eccentric; a little emotional; loyal; protective; outgoing; you know, a Leo. When things get out of whack - and the whack often comes from sudden, unexpected grief - I can find myself dangling like a spider on a thread in the wind, blown from giddy with optimism to paralyzed with despair in a single gentle gust. A conversation with a friend can put me on top of the world. Burnt toast can lead me to consider suicide. A phrase in a newspaper article. A lick from the dogs. The song of a mockingbird. A paper cut. I don't know of any more helpless feeling than the one you get when you realize that you have no control over yourself or the size of your emotions. Everything is exaggerated. Bipolar disorder means living in hyperbole.The best you can do is remember that depression and manic states are really a set of lies that you tell yourself - they doesn't last for ever - and your only job is to ride them out without hurting yourself or anybody else.

Mixed results, so far. The folks at work have been supportive, without exception - but they are only human. I expect there will be consequences for my two-week disappearance - I know I'll be imagining what they're thinking about me for a while.

I haven't done myself any harm that I can see - other than shaken confidence and the stubborn stains of shame and embarrassment. I kept up with my training. Ate. Slept when I could. Bathed regularly. No boozing, binging, bruising, or burning of bridges. I said my prayers. Gave thanks for my blessings. Asked help for my trials. Kept writing.

Mrs P got the worst of me. She always does. No rage this time. Just angry confusion for both of us about how a husband can get so damn worked up just because his boss goes away. I think Coach was pretty spooked by the whole thing, too. 250 pounds of nervous breakdown is a lot to handle in a tiny office. I'm not sure either of them felt entirely safe alone with me when I was blubbering to them about What Am I Gonna Do? and Please Don't Go and Oh Dear God It Hurts So Much.

Depression is like cancer in that way. It is cruel to carry inside you, but think it's even more cruel to the people who care for you. I wish I had done a better job protecting them, no matter how sick I was.

But, today I'm riding... Not high. Not low. Just sort of cruising along. Had a nice short run today. Seven miles on the treadmill and the Legacy Trail. Smiles and laughter, all appropriate to the conversation. As I'm typing, I feel more human, more like myself than I have in many, many days. If I can keep it up for a week, I'll be able to write about what it's like to finally get over a depressive episode. Today, I'm erring on the side of caution. There are still a lot of vulnerable people around me. And I'm still a bull in their emotional china shops.

Things are good at the moment. But vigilance is needed here. Things can change so quickly for a spider on a thread.

Peace,
Pennsy

Source note: Creepy spider picture stolen from here.

#38: Newtown #2

Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. Isaiah 1:18

Why drag the Bible into this? Because even though I identify myself as  Liberal Christian, the Bible is still the foundation for my ideas about right and wrong. I'm not very "churchey" any more, but my relationship with my Creator is as strong as ever. All of this is intended to make the point that I believe we were designed to be rational creatures.

It seems that our culture is in a struggle to suppress that rational part of our architecture. In religion, we do what Paul cautions against: we gulp the milk, but choke on the meat of the gospel. We embrace the comfort Jesus has to offer, but barely dabble in the ministry he calls us to do among our neighbors. In education, we belittle critical and creative thinking in favor of submissive obedience and the mechanical recitation of facts. Public schools are mandated to be institutions where workers are prepared, not incubators for informed, engaged citizens. Much of our art is created to excite, rather than to elevate. The press tends to craft stories to stimulate sentimentality or anxiety rather than to inform the people about how their business is being conducted. And in politics... oh, politics.... It has been suggested that in our post-modern world, the highest value is not truth or love or justice or freedom, but power. Politics and government are becoming a zero-sum game where the goal is not to find what is best for the nation, but to defeat one's opposition. Compromise is interpreted as cowardice. Diversity is corruption. Disagreement is malice or stupidity.

And in all these things, reason - the sapiens part of our species - is not only short-changed, but seems to be mouldering. It's a loss we can not afford.

The ability to express without attacking; to hear without defending: these are fading arts around the world. The corruption of Islam. The tyrannies of Africa. The criminal terrorism of Latin America. The slave states of Asia. The xenophobia of Europe. It is as if we are experiencing the retro evolution of our species. If reason was the tool that allowed humankind to succeed, then its disappearance will surely bring about our failure.

As we struggle to digest the horrors of Newtown, we are bound to disagree about causes and solutions. Our world teaches us that the reason for our disagreement is the ignorance or ill-intent of those who don't think like we do. Isn't it more likely that we disagree because neither of us is exactly right? That the truth lies somewhere out there, in a place that we can only find by reasoning together instead of battling? 

It will demand courage. It will demand forgiveness and humility. Most of all, it will demand love and respect for one another. We're going to have to swim against the tide and admit that winning really isn't the only thing. It's going to be hard. But I believe it is our only hope for survival as a species and as creatures made in the image of the God who calls us to live out our full nature.

Come, let us reason together.

#403: Getting Cancer is the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me

I've only said that out loud a couple of times. Now that I've written it down for the first time, it looks even crazier than it sounds.

My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. (James 1:2-3)

Look, people go through worse than I did every day. I'd rather go through 10 years of chemo than a day of combat in Afghanistan. Every time a single mom comes into the Y, trying to get financial assistance so her kids can go to camp, or a divorced dad comes in to find a way to help the family he can no longer share a home with, I realize how much worse things could be for me. What if it had been Mrs P, and not me? What if Mum hadn't been able to come and stay with us for half a year? What if there had been no hospital that would treat us when my insurance stopped paying? What if there had been no family to help us when the bank finally foreclosed on our house? Believe me, I know how blessed I am.


But that's not what I mean when I say getting cancer is the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm talking about what happened to me because I got cancer.


Just as James' epistle promised, cancer's greatest lesson is patience. Cancer treatment is all about set-backs and changes in plan. I don't think I know anyone whose treatment has gone by the book. To overcome an elusive opponent, you have to be willing to accept the surprises and change your tactics. Cancer teaches you patience, and patience nurtures hope. That's true in the radiation clinic, and it's true in the gym. Healing takes time. You have to trust that truth, and you have to be patient enough for hope to come. Getting cancer taught me that.

There's something else, too. One of my favorite sayings is, "There are an awful lot of things that used to be important to me." 

• How I look
• How little money I make
• The disrespect of strangers
• Dreams that didn't come true

This stuff used to camp out in my head, filling my quiet hours with shame and regret. Now, when I look at my life all I can do is thank God for the chance to open my eyes; to feel the sun; to hear my wife breathing softly beside me in bed; to spend 10 minutes scouting around the yard picking up dog poop in a plastic bag. Every breath I draw is a blessing: a chance to love my life, my wife, my God, my neighbors. Nothing else is really important.

Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal. (Book of Common Prayer, Holy Eucharist II)

Jesus prayed for the cup of Calvary to pass from him, and I would have prayed the same words about the cup of cancer. But I could never have imagined the strength and renewal that bitter drink would give me. I know now that there is nothing that I can't live through, no battle that I can't fight to the finish. I have seen that strength in other cancer fighters, and for the first time in my life, I can feel it in myself. It is strength that comes from inside me, but it is also the strength of all the people who love and support me. Their prayers and kindness make me stronger, and together we can endure anything. 

Renewal? Oh, yes. I don't ask, "Why am I here?" any more. I know why I'm here. I've been called to preach. My sermon? Cancer can kill us, but it can never defeat us if we live strong. Every waking moment, that story is my life's work. A day doesn't go by that I don't encounter at least one person who needs to hear it. There are probably a lot more who are sick of me going on and on about it, but there may come a time when they'll need it, and I'm going to make sure I'm here to tell it - to live it.


My prayer for you is that you won't have to get cancer to learn the things it taught me. You are blessed. You are stronger than you can imagine. You are not alone. You were created to do wonderful, amazing things. You can make the world a better place than you found it. I know those things about you, even if you don't know them about yourself yet. And knowing that about you, has changed me in more ways than I can count or recognize. 


Cancer isn't evil. It's just a blob of crazy cells fighting for their lives. Our real opponent isn't disease. Our enemy is death: not just the death that puts you in a box in the ground, but also the death that kills your spirit and leaves you walking around empty and afraid. Getting cancer gave me the antidote to death. The prescription is one part purpose and one part love. Repeat as needed.


Being a cancer fighter means fighting for life. That's why I'm here. That's what getting cancer gave me. I'm not grateful to cancer. And I won't pretend I'm grateful for the days spent puking or the nights spent shivering while I wondered what would become of Mrs P when I was gone. I don't treasure one moment that I spent with the disease in my body. 

But I'm grateful as hell for what it left behind.


Peace,


Pennsy


You can help cancer survivors like me learn to fight for life. Give to Living Strong at the Y. Follow this link to learn how.

#378: The Law of the Pack

Mom always tried to get me to write thank you notes. For reasons I cannot explain, I resisted her efforts. Wicked child. I didn't know what to say. As if "Thank You," just wasn't original enough somehow.

I've always wanted to be impressive. Umpteen years ago, this blog started under the title Pennsyltuckian.  I started blogging to share my deep insights into God, the Universe, and Everything with a world that was starving for my wisdom and eloquence. The more I wrote, the less impressed I grew with myself. The more words I typed, the more I realized how little I really had to say. The truth is, I didn't know squat about God, the Universe, or Anything. Fortunately, God's wisdom had a course of graduate studies in mind for me. I'm still not nearly as original, wise, or insightful as I want to be, but I do have a PhD in Gratitude. Here's an extract from my dissertation.

I am grateful for the Pack. I live in a world that idolizes the lone wolf, the man who can stand on his own two feet. He think for himself, takes care of his own, minds his business, and keeps his own counsel. I tried so long to be that man.

Maggie

We had cats for years. Lions live together, but most cats are lonely people. Given her 'druthers, Maggie and Kizzie would spend their whole lives curled up in a warm spot, purring quietly, contemplating the mysteries of the universe and occasionally taunting the dogs through the baby gate. Their encounters with each other can be civil and affectionate, even tender, but they always carry a tinder-box in their back pocket.  They will hop up onto the bed when the mood strikes them, but neither is much for hugging. You can love a cat with all your heart, but the cat will always her limits.

Leader of the Pack?

Dogs live in the Pack. They hunt together, sleep together, raise their pups together. The dogs in my life have shown me how to love without limits. We play in the rain. We run in the grass. They have welcomed me into their world, though I can't do a thing for them except scoop dry nasty chunks of food into a bowl a couple times a day. It's a poor substitute for the game they were created to hunt and share in the wild, but they are grateful. I love all the creatures who share my home, but I will never be "one of the cats." The dogs have taken me in as one of their own. They even let me think I'm in charge from time to time.

Humans are slow, weak creatures. Compared to our brothers and sisters in the wild, we are not fast or strong. We can't see our food or smell danger. Our claws are short and brittle, our teeth flat and dull. The one advantage a human has is a brain. We're smart. And our ancestors were smart enough to realize that the only way for us to survive was if we lived together. We learned the law of the Pack. Mrs P likes to tell me, "Everything we do is better when we do it together." As always, she is right.

"We are the Duck!"

When I lost my job, I found a group of people struggling together to make it in the world. We traveled in small groups, trying to sell insurance to people who, for the most part, didn't want to see our faces, let alone buy our products. It could have been a lonely, depressing life - and the truth is, I sucked at selling insurance - but I found a pack who cared about one another. We understood one another's struggles, and when one of us was in trouble, the rest of us were willing to come to their aid. A few succeeded in the business, most of us didn't, but all of us found strength and love in that strange, wonderful Pack.

Stolen image, but this is what crazy feels like.

When I lost my mind, Mrs P knew she couldn't pull me back to sanity by herself, and that I couldn't help myself, either. She took me to the nut house. I spent 10 days there, taking pills, walking the halls, living without shoelaces or a belt. Afterwards, I was in an outpatient program for a month. I met with shrinks and counselors and social workers and big burly types who always showed up when one of us got out of hand. Those people were great. But the most important part of my healing happened in the big room in the middle of the ward, when all the professionals were in their offices doing paperwork, and the nuts would sit together and share our stories. We were depressed housewives, battered lovers, broken-hearted soldiers, grieving orphans. We had been fired, raped, dumped on, cheated on, and born with wired crossed in our heads. Most of us knew what it was to face the choice between life and death, and many of us had tried to choose death. Some of us had days when the pain of getting out of bed was just too great. One by one, we would stop by their room, like a little den, and offer to listen. We didn't have to ask how they were doing. We knew. All we could offer was our presence. The safety of the pack. There were no miracle cures in the nut house. We all went in crippled, and we all came out limping, but we were all a little stronger for the time we had spent together.

If you've been following FMR, you know my cancer story. I'm always blabbing about it. I wonder if people get sick of hearing it. But then I think of the people who might need to hear: the people who stare at the ceiling in the dark, worrying about a cough or a lump or a spot of blood that shouldn't be there; the people waiting for the results of tests that will change their lives; the people who haven't yet decided whether to fight or give up; the ones whose hope is fading; the weary cancer fighters who feel like old lions, left behind to die; the ones who love people with cancer, who don't know how to help and don't know how to keep fighting. Most of the people who hear my story won't need to hear it, but some will. That's my job. They are my Pack.

The Strong Eight - cancer warriors

My Wife. My Mother. My sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles. The friends who call and pray. The strangers who weep and nod in recognition. The church that never gave up on me, when I gave up on it. The theatre who played on my behalf and welcomed me back when the time was right. The Head and Neck Support group who shared my whole healing journey with me, from puking and oxygen tanks to my first half-marathon. The men and women at the YMCA, some vets of the cancer wars, some simply people who loved us, who came together to sweat and laugh and cry for joy at the life we have been given. The lady at the gas station who told me she was having a great day because "I'm a ten year breast cancer survivor." The man who had just had his prostate removed and was afraid he would never make love again. A guy who won the Tour de France seven times. A woman who had just been told she had started her third relapse of ovarian cancer. The people who take the time to read FMR. They are my Pack. You are my Pack.

And so this is Christmas: The Feast of the Incarnation. Believe what you want. Celebrate how you like. In my house, we celebrate the day God turned to creation and whispered, "You are my Pack. I am one of you. We are more whole when we are together. You are the source of love in my life, and I am yours. We each have our own stories. We live our own lives. But our lives are better because we are together."

Emmanuel.

God is with us.

And we are with one another.

The Law of the Pack.

Thanks be to God.

Peace,

Pennsy

#353: My 50/50 Chance.

They gave me a 50/50 chance of seeing this birthday. Flip a coin. Heads, you live to be 51. That's the best the docs could promise me. But I had an ace in the hole.

Love.

Love made me want to live when I felt like dying.

Love knocked at the door, and helped me to laugh when I felt like crying.

Love made me Chicken and Cheddar Chowder, which is even more fun to eat than it is to say.

Love washed my belly when the stoma around my feeding tube leaked all sorts of creepy goo.

Love answered the prayers I didn't know how to pray.

Love picked me up out of the tub afterI  fainted there in the middle of the night.

Love gave me books on tape when I didn't have the strength to hold a printed copy up.

Love wept tears of grief when they told us I had cancer, and tears of joy when they told us it was gone.

Love insisted I get better so that I could act again, then waited for me until I was ready.

Love lifted me out of bed, taught me to walk, helped me to run.

Love found us a new home, when the bank said we had to leave the old one.

Love never left. Not even when I thought it was gone forever.

They gave me a 50/50 chance. Love rigged the game.

On this, my 51st birthday, I thank God for the love that saved my life. From Hell. From cancer. From depression. I don't know how many birthdays I have left. I hope there are many more. But no matter how long I have left on this earth, I am determined to never spend another second without the love that God has given me.

Take some for yourself. It's my birthday present to you.

Don't worry. I've got plenty.

Peace and Love,,
Pennsy

#339: An Evening Run, a Twilight Tumble, and a Weekend with a Man of God

After a long and emotional trip to visit Brother, whose battle with cancer is almost over, we returned home weary and tear-stained. I had a long run scheduled this weekend, and by 8:00 last night, I really needed it. The sunset was just beginning as I set off on a planned 8 miles. The morning's rain and the day's heat had left the air heavy and damp, "sultry," as they say a little farther south of here. The temperature was down to 78 degrees when I left the house.

I had plotted a new route for last night's run, one that had a minimum of road without sidewalks. Even in my white shorts, I didn't want to be running the road in the fading light. So of course, the only place where I did have to run the white line was where I encountered a jerk in a pickup truck. Now there was some bad luck for him involved here. Just at the point where he would have slipped out a couple of feet to avoid me, three cars came in the opposite direction. He had to stay in the lane as I ran toward him. There is no shoulder there, so I had nowhere to go but forward. He could have done a lot of things. He could have slowed down and passed carefully. He could have rolled down his window and cussed me out. He could have swerved to the right and sent me flying into the bushes. Instead, he started laying on his horn as soon as he saw me, and continued honking like a deranged Manhattan cab driver until he came to a complete stop so he could glare as me as I passed him. I prayed a little misery on him, then shined it on.

This run takes me through a park dedicated to baseball. There are several diamonds that are always full during the day. Tonight, as I ran between two of them, a young girl was taking some batting practice while her dad pitched. A perfect Father's day scene.

Once I left the park, I entered a tree covered walking path that weaves around through a pretty posh looking development. Big, beautiful homes built on what was a big beautiful horse farm, just a few years ago. This is pretty typical here, though the slowing economy seems to be saving more farmland than all the bumper stickers and "save the Bluegrass" campaigns ever did. No use ruining some of the most beautiful country in the world when there's no money to be made.

The path opens out onto a one mile circle around the heart of the development. Essentially, it's a big office park with some retail businesses peppered in. My shrink is in this neighborhood. So is one of our favorite Mediterranean restaurants and a very fine liquor store. But on Sunday night, the businesses are closed and the sidewalks are mostly filled with lone runners and strolling couples. A very peaceful setting.

At about mile 3 1/2, I took my headphones off. I haven't run with them for a while, and thought I'd give them a try. I just found them distracting. My breath and my footsteps have become the soundtrack of my running. The concert of the world around me is so much more pleasant to listen to than recorded music in my ears. An iPod is a great way to escape from the world, but escape is the last thing on my mind when I'm running. I want to be present. I don't want to miss a thing.

Even without my headphones in, I did miss something pretty important.

The sun had set about the time I finished mile 5. Now I was running under street lights in the shady streets of my neighborhood. The homes are a little more modest, here. The people are a little less beautiful and their clothing labels aren't quite so prominent. There are more Chevys than Audis in these driveways. The sidewalks are a little older.

And there's the rub. As I crossed a driveway and stepped onto the sidewalk, my toe caught on an uneven slab of concrete. I experienced that weird slow-motion experience that you feel when you lose control of your car on a slippery road. Your senses are so heightened, taking in so much information so fast, that time seems to slow down. You cram a lot more thoughts and reactions into a few fractions of seconds than you would think possible. I stumbled, sure for a moment that I could catch myself. Soon, my experience of gravity and geometry convinced me that I was going down. I immediately thought of the blood thinners in my blood. If I cut myself, or worse, hit my head, I would be in a very bad situation. I turned my shoulder toward the grass and hoped for the best.

I don't actually remember hitting the ground. Judging from the gravel embedded in my palms, I must have landed on them first. I do remember my hip and right shoulder hitting the grass and sliding for a surprising distance. It was actually pretty cool. I felt like a running back hitting the turf, barely snagged by a shoe-string tackle after busting free for a nice gain. Once I came to a stop, I lay still for a second, taking stock. No searing pains. No broken bones. No head trauma. Just a little road rash on my elbow and what felt like a skinned knee. A pretty successful dive, all things considered. I got back on my feet and did a quick visual check. Everything looked fine. Not even a grass stain. Down the road a little, a woman and her dog had stopped to marvel at the sight of a fat man sliding across the grass, but once I was up and running again, they shook their heads and continued on their way.

I hadn't gone very far when I felt the blood running down my shin. I looked down, but in the dark, I couldn't see anything. It didn't feel like I was cut badly. There was not a river of black flowing down into my sock, and I was still a couple of miles from home. I figured there was no use stopping unless I was going to go knock on a door and ask for help. I wasn't about to present one of my neighbors with a big, sweaty,  bleeding visitor after dark unless there was bone sticking out. So, I moved along.

When I left the house, Mrs P had mentioned how handsome I looked in my running togs. That made me feel pretty good. When I returned, she gasped and went right into nurse mode, counting my wounds, sending me to the shower, and insisting that I slather myself with triple antibiotic ointment, our family's particular cure-all. My knee was skinned pretty well, but it had stopped bleeding. My palms were cut up a little from the fall, and the elbow had little more than a bad rug burn. Of course, a nasty bruise had already started on my right shoulder. I'll spare you the photos unless it turns really dramatic.

So it turns out that one of the shortcomings of running at night is that you don't see low obstacles in the shadows at your feet. Another is that all those endorphins rushing through you at 10:00 make going to sleep a pretty unlikely possibility. It was 1:00 before I put my book down and headed off to bed. I think I'm going to try to avoid evening jogs. At least until I have more reflective clothing. You feel pretty invisible crossing the road at 9:30 at night.

Still, it was good to clear my head. It had been a full weekend at the hospital. You think about a lot of things when someone you love is dying. Good stories. Hard times. Tender moments. Jokes and laughter shared. It isn't all painful, but somehow, it always hurts. The family is grieving. We hurt with him every time he reaches for the button that releases morphine into his IV. But even though he is in pain, Brother is facing his long good-bye with faith, courage, and dignity. Even from his hospital bed, the preacher is still preaching. He taught me a lot this weekend. I was glad to have the chance to run a few miles while I took it all in.

I don't know if cancer is part of God's plan. It doesn't seem like something a Dad would give his children. But I do know that God can make love grow, even among the suffering of a family facing death together. Cancer destroys. God creates. Brother has been a preacher for a long time. It wasn't always easy. Even in a little country church, politics can poison a community and drive folks away. After a long search, Brother found a church he and his family could call home. When he started getting sick, he asked his son to take over when he could no longer be their shepherd. It wasn't an easy decision, but after much prayer and I'm sure many tears, the son agreed to step into his father's pulpit. We all worshipped together on Sunday morning, before going to the hospital for what we feared would be one last visit. Just before Mrs P and I left for home, our nephew leaned over his father's hospital bed and told him about a friend who had been saved at church that morning. Brother burst into tears. After a long moment, he smiled and sobbed, "It's all going to be worth it." I knew he was talking about much more than cancer.