Arizona 2017 - Part I
Immediately after arriving at the south rim of the Grand Canyon, we saw the scene above. I scrambled for my camera and snapped this picture of a man standing uncomfortably close to one of the deepest and most abrupt drop-offs I'd ever seen. When I took the picture I wondered, "what is he doing?" Later, awed by the picture that filled the computer screen in front of me, I couldn't help but wonder something different. I wondered, "what was he thinking?" I don't mean that in the crazy "what in God's name was he thinking" sort of way, but looking out over miles of canyon, from his special and momentarily isolated point of view, "what exactly was he thinking?"
I believe wonder is what gives birth to spirituality. When we hear the voice that goes out through all the earth, the words that go to the end of the world - we wonder.
I heard that voice often at the Grand Canyon. It's been a long time since I heard it louder. And it's not like it was a deep, booming shout. Not at all really. It was more like a gentle call. But as I felt myself being drawn nearer to the voice, it felt loud indeed. Do you know what makes the voice feel so loud at the Grand Canyon? There are few places on earth where God's creativity is showcased on a grander stage. Standing with God on that stage, I contemplated just how much we ourselves are designed to create. How much - deep inside - we all long to create something that captures the world's attention, makes it a better place. Whether it's writing a blog post, snapping a photo or drawing a picture, creating a business or a lesson plan, cooking a special dinner for our family or tending to a beautiful garden, on and on it goes. We are all driven to create. I suppose in some cases we create to be noticed, but I think for the most part we create to be appreciated. We want to link ourselves to a world wide web of mutual appreciation. Feeling that way, and seeing it from that stage, why wouldn't I be awed by a God that above all uses his own creation to capture our attention. Why wouldn't my conversations with God be most intimate standing on the edge of the world, or at least what certainly felt like it, looking out over the handiwork of the ultimate creator in a world of creators. I'm not really sure what that man was thinking as I snapped my picture, but I'm grateful he was there. I'm grateful that for just a second, he was a special feature in a creation God used to talk to me, to draw me ever nearer to Him.
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When it came time to register our boys for the YMCA youth basketball season, I made the decision I wasn't going to coach them this year. I'd just finished coaching their flag football teams, my work schedule had been hectic, and something was simply pushing me to take a break. I'll be honest, there was nothing challenging about the idea of taking a break from coaching. It was a Starbucks Doubleshot Expresso just thinking about a season off. What was challenging, though, what did make the decision agonizing, was thinking about someone other than me coaching our boys.
After all, I'm the perfect coach for them, right? I'm the only one who knows the strengths they need to build on and the weaknesses they need to overcome. Is there another coach alive who could motivate them to do either? Absolutely not. I'm their dad. I know them best. After spending nearly a decade with both of them, it's pretty clear to me - and the rest of the world I assume - that I'm the secret ingredient both of our boys need to absolutely own the road to success. No - no matter how badly I needed a break, it would be downright selfish if I allowed someone else to disrupt the progress of my future NBAers. I wish I was inventing the thoughts above to fit into an entertaining basketball story. But I'm not. Each of those thoughts went through my head at least once as I weighed whether or not to coach Elliott and Ian's basketball teams. Now, lest you think my oversized ego has grabbed hold of the whistle dangling around my neck and drug me off to the coaching hall of fame, I need to tell you I laughed each of those delusions off as quickly as they popped into my head. Still, I can't get around it, I fed myself far more reasons why I needed to coach the boys than possible upsides to me sitting this one out. Mainly because I couldn't think of any. But that was before the season started. It only took me watching the first couple of practices of the season to admit both of the boys' coaches knew a lot more about basketball than I did. With me the boys got: have the ball pass it or shoot it, don't have the ball go steal it. And oh yea, always hustle. Without me they were getting crossover dribbles and mutliple zone defensive sets, not to mention set that screen and pick and roll. It may be hard to admit that as 2nd and 4th graders Ian and Elliott have advanced beyond my basketball skills coaching wheelhouse, but it doesn't make it any less true. It also became pretty clear I wasn't the only one who could root for the boys' success. Ian's coach, Coach Wilcox, knew which boys hadn't scored a basket yet as we approached the end of the season. So a couple of weeks ago he spent the entire practice making those boys shoot the ball as soon as they had it in their hands. Over and over. "You can't score if you don't shoot," he told them. "And if you don't score, you're not going to have fun. So shoot the ball!" The very next game Ian shot the ball. And he scored. We were out of town at a wedding, but it was pretty cool getting the text message from grandma giving us the good news. I'm also not sure seeing it could have been as exciting as listening to Ian give us a play by play description of the big bucket later that day. I also loved hearing grandma talk about Ian's coach jumping up in the air and pumping his fist after Ian put the ball through the net. There's a lot of value in our kids seeing other coaches cheer them on. There was also the moment in one of Elliott's games when one of his teammates knocked the ball out of bounds. The referee made a mistake and awarded the ball back to Elliott's team. Elliott's coach, Coach Tolliver, immediately jumped in and told the referee - quite respectfully - that he'd made a mistake and the ball should actually go to their opponents. The referee nodded and put the ball in the right hands. I was floored by that. It was the right thing to do. I hope it's the thing I would have done. I know it was the perfect thing for Elliott to see: doing the right thing isn't just something his dad preaches, it's something plenty of other men and women actually do. Sometimes good things come to people who do good things like that. This past weekend Elliott's team played in the first round of the playoffs. They were the lowest seeded team. They were playing a team that was undefeated and seeded the highest. Long story short - Elliott's team won. I was moved by how emotional Coach Tolliver was on the sidelines. Over and over he kept telling the boys "I believed in you. I just knew you could do it." After the game he told the boys, "I don't even care if we win the championship now. You've already showed me what you're made of and I'm proud of you all." I've watched Coach Tolliver all season. I know he meant that. As the season ends, I know both of our boys are better basketball players and they both took steps away from being boys and toward being young men. That's all I can ask for out of a coach. Whether it's me, or someone else.
I recently confessed to battling a "Friday Night Lights" addiction. It started with a conversation I had with a friend. He told me he'd been tired lately because he was staying up at night binge watching all 76 episodes of the show Friday Night Lights on Netflix. He said as a result he was struggling to stay awake at work and was cranky toward his co-workers. I should have taken this as advice to avoid the show at all cost. But one of my character flaws is I'm prone to mysteriously turning good advice into bad ideas. So I went home that night and watched the first episode.
Some of you know the rest of this story. Over the past two months I've compulsively attempted to squeeze 5 years of Friday Night Lights into two months. I'll save you the math. That's a little over an episode a day. When you have two jobs, two kids, and one wife - boy I'm glad I didn't say two there - that's a tight squeeze. It hasn't been easy. I've been tired at work and occasionally cranky. Who saw that coming? Don't go too far down the road of judging me, my friends, because I have great news. I've kicked the habit. I consider it minor details that I only kicked it after watching the last episode of the series last week, and then, with desperately shaking fingers, I frantically pounded "Friday Night Lights season 6" into google search, only to be told in no uncertain terms there is no such thing. The bottom line is I'm no longer staying up late at night saying yes as fast as I can when Netflix asks me if I want to watch the next episode. Recovery has been hard, but last Sunday I took a giant step forward in my healing. I found forgiveness at church for my recent struggle. Even more than that, I actually left church thinking Friday Night Lights might have been a spiritual awakening God himself slapped upon me. You can't imagine the relief in discovering hours of wasted time were actually appointed by God. Hear me out. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. Sure. But the pastor's message was on identifying and seizing opportunities. In the grand scheme of things he was talking about taking advantage of the opportunities God presents us to share our faith and love with others. To make his point he used several examples of businesses that had taken advantage of opportunities and subsequently prospered. He got my attention when one of those examples was Netflix. Pastor, you don't need to tell me how Netflix's business life changed when they turned their backs on rent through the mail and focused on streaming. All of our lives changed! To conclude his message, the pastor drove home the point that to take advantage of the opportunities God gives us to share our faith, we have to go where people are. We have to engage in culture. (Surely you don't mean instead of lying in bed watching Netflix?) One of the church ministers expanded on this idea. He shared a story of getting his haircut earlier that week. He said he goes downtown to get his haircuts to get a dose of culture. (I'll testify that there's a difference in the downtown Richmond culture and that of rural Mechanicsville). He visits an old-fashioned barber shop where he's the only person that looks like him. Over the years he's bonded with the barber. They've shared stories about family - and stories about their faith. That's when Friday Night Lights really went all religious on me. For those of you who've watched the series, whether over 5 years or a few days, bear with me as I summarize the series. Coach Eric Taylor is a Texas high school football coach. He coaches the Dillon Panthers. Dillon has it going on. Big stadium, a supportive booster club that buys gifts for the team like a giant jumbotron. What high school doesn't have a jumbotron? In today's lingo, Dillon was full of privilege. Coach Taylor was a hard nosed coach, he had a team of talented if sometimes out of hand teenage athletes. After two seasons he leads them to a state championship. It could have been the perfect end to the series, and saved me a lot of sleepless nights. But the story then goes wide right. Politics in Dillon becomes bigger than the program and the kids, and the powers that be run coach Taylor out of town. Or at least to the other side of it. The Dillon East football program had been dead for years. The administration decides to bring it back to life and they higher coach Taylor. And coach Taylor is suddenly smack dab in the middle of a culture that looks and acts nothing like him. Coach Taylor takes a special interest in Vince Howard. Vince is a black kid. His mom is on drugs and his dad is in prison. Vince is headed to juvenile detention, but the authorities tell him they'll cut him a break if he'll play on the East Dillon football team. His decision to take advantage of that opportunity changed his and coach Taylor's lives forever. There's a powerful scene in the last episode of the series that really struck me after listening to Sunday's sermon. East Dillon is set to play in the state championship game. Vince is now the team's star quarterback. Coach Taylor gets wind that Vince's dad, who is now out of prison, won't be attending the game. Coach Taylor and Vince's dad didn't much care for each other, so I'm sure coach wrestled with how to handle that; he knew how badly Vince wanted his dad there. So coach Taylor goes down to the local bar where he knows he'll find Vince's dad. He walks in and looks round. It's clear by the stares from the patrons he's looking around a place where he doesn't belong. He spots Vince's dad playing pool. He walks up to Vince's dad. Their eyes - filled with anger - fix on each other. Coach Taylor then sets one ticket to the championship game on the pool table, looks at Vince's dad and says, "A young man gets a chance like that maybe once in a lifetime." There was so much in both of their eyes in the wake of that exchange. In coach Taylor's eyes, understanding that the man he was looking at was more than anything in that moment - a dad, just like him, who loved his child. (Coach Taylor had two daughters). Through all of their differences he found respect in that very common ground. In Vince's dad's eyes, there was appreciation for what it took for coach Taylor to embrace a culture that wasn't his, and to put a coach's love for another man's son above those differences. Vince's dad went to that game. I won't spoil it for you, but he was glad he did. You know, one of coach Taylor's popular sayings was: Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose. I thought about that saying as I listened to the minister wrap up the haircut story. What if we all did that. What if we went out into the world - like really into it - with our eyes cleared free of any prejudices or preconceived notions. What if we emptied our eyes but filled our hearts to overflowing with hope. Hope that we could share in each others' stories in a loving and caring way. Because aren't our eyes always muddying the way of our hearts? I can't help but imagining it - clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose. It might not be a Texas high school football state championship - which make no mistake, is huge - but I think the victory might be just as sweet.
Dear Meg,
I've never written you before, which makes this a bit awkward. Mainly because I'm not sure if people in heaven get letters. Well, there's that and the minor consideration that you don't know me. I suppose that adds to the awkwardness. But then again, if you get this letter there's then a good chance you've heard me talking to you the last few years. Hopefully you've decided that even if that makes me a bit crazy, I'm a harmless kind of crazy. To be fair, it's not like this comes to you out of the blue. Tomorrow marks the 3-year anniversary of the day you moved. The day you moved away from all of us to go live with your heavenly family. Some people will say it's the day you died, but I have a hard time looking at it that way. You've added so much light to my life that it's really hard to think or talk about you inside the dark shadows of death. I realize that's easy for me to say. I didn't know you. When you didn't know someone it makes it hard to miss them when they leave. I hope you understand that. Trust me, the more I learn about you the more I'm positive this letter would be about nothing other than heartbreak if we'd been friends. But we weren't. Besides, I know you'll be overwhelmed with heartbreak letters this week. A lot of people who did know you really miss you. Still. Your mom is one of them. One of the beautiful things that came out of you moving - part of the light added to my life - was me having the chance to meet your mom. We're actually friends now. Not the kind of friends you two were - because Lord knows she does carry on about the special kind of friendship you two had - but even so, we're friends enough for me to know she really misses you. One of the cool things about being friends with her is even though I didn't know you, I've really gotten to know you. It's funny, the more your mom describes the kind of woman you were - thoughtful, gentle, giving, and loving - the more I feel like I'm talking to you when I talk to her. I don't know if you all have that whole apple doesn't fall far from the tree saying where you moved to, but I do think of that saying when your mom talks about you. Enough about that. If I'm not careful this will turn into one of those heartbreak letters. I'm actually not writing to talk about your mom; I'm writing to thank you. You see, your mom, with the coaxing of some influential friends, decided she was going to run a marathon last year. A very long story short: that led me to decide I needed to run one too. Maybe you were watching all this going on. And laughing. You were likely saying, 'Keith, running a half-marathon for Meg was plenty enough tribute for me. You really don't need to - aaaand, maybe you really shouldn't - run any further than that for Meg." Hey, no kidding Meg. You think I don't know 230 pound slow men have no business running marathons? But I did. I ran one Meg. I know, I know. But hey, I had to do it. You already knew that, though, didn't you. You had to. You and I both changed our minds about what this big and slow guy should or shouldn't be doing at the exact same time about mile 20 of that Richmond Marathon. That's the point in the race when I realized thoughts and proclamations of "I'm going to run a marathon" are easier pulled off than the 50,000 or so strides required to actually finish one. It's there when I cried out, "I've gone as far as I can go," and it's there when something came over me assuring me, or threatening me maybe, that I was about to run 6.2 miles further than my self imposed limit. And I did. I ran another 6.2 miles. Tell me, I've got to know, that really was you at mile 20, wasn't it? And it was you at mile 23 when a friend I'd never had before you moved away stood on the side of the road, by herself, cheering me on. I know that was you. It was you at mile 24 when a friend I'd never met before you moved away came running up the center of the course in my direction. This after running his own marathon, and for no other reason than to run next to me. He told me funny stories. He didn't tell me I could do it, he just ran next to me like he knew I would. I'm sorry, that just sounds too much like something you would do. Tell me it was you, Meg, at mile 25 when two friends I'd never met before you moved away joined us for the 1.2 mile homestretch. They didn't come with inspiration, they came with love. Like brothers. I guess if it was you they would have been more like sisters, but still, I swear that was you. And answer me this, was that you at the top of that hill when one by one friends I'd never met before you moved away, including your mom, , came to join me and run (OK, quit chuckling and cut me a break Meg. It was almost running!) down that hill under the finish line as I completed one of the most physically challenging and fulfilling events of my life? Did you send my two young sons out to greet me, maybe thinking about your own 3 little kids, knowing just how special that would be to me. When they got by my side and under my arms where I could feel the full blessing of their pride, were those your tears, Meg, or were they mine? When my wife Katie joined us and it was a family finish line photo, was that your voice I heard, begging me to treasure my family like a momentary gift and not a lifelong promise? Was that you Meg? Of course it was. And I'm sure these are my tears now, but thank you Meg. I really have no right - I'm not sure why any of us do - to the beauty that's come to my life since you moved away. I want you to know, though, I'd give it all back if you decided to move back home. But I know you can't do that. Something tells me that being in the presence of Glory in your new home, and with all that you know about the difference your moving has made in hearts and homes of thousands back here, you wouldn't if you could. I didn't know you, Meg, but I've come to know that's just the kind of woman you were. Your dad once said, "It's not how you run, it's how you run your life." I just want you to know you've inspired a bunch of us to try to do both just like you did. And that's a race we'll keep running. I don't know if people in heaven get letters, but I sure hope they do. Thank you Meg. Your friend, Keith
Shortly before I snapped this picture, I told Katie, with maybe just a wee bit of soppiness, "we'd better make this picture a good one, it's probably going to be our last."
My thoughts weren't mere bah humbug. I was actually reflecting on the scene that took place while we were waiting in line to see Santa. Our Elliott, who often thinks deeper than the surface of the moment, had a serious look on his face. Something told me it was connected to something more than naughty and nice list anxieties. I was right. Before I could ask Elliott what was going on, he told Katie, "I don't want to sit on Santa's lap." Katie asked him why. His response, one that with the force of a hurricane has leveled the Christmastime joy of many a parent: "Because Santa Clause isn't real." In an instant Katie died inside and came back to life just in time to interrupt Elliott's continuing exposition on the merits of this whole Santa Claus deal. She knew we were only seconds away from Elliott making an unbeliever out of his brother Ian and every other Santa loving child within earshot of an unusually passionate Elliott. This boy really had no intention of sitting on this fraud's lap. Katie successfully ended Elliott's speech, but his face continued on with a sudden disdain for the lies of Christmases past. I called Elliott over next to me and I said, "Listen pal, right now, I really don't care whether you believe in Santa Clause or not. I don't. But part of Christmas is finding ways to make other people happy. Santa makes your mom happy. So for tonight, I'm going to believe in Santa, and you're going to sit on his lap and smile like you do too." Looking at the picture above, I'd say he came through like a champ. I'm glad he did, because I'll repeat, it will probably be the last of these pictures. A couple of nights later I found Elliott and Katie snuggled up in bed. I asked them what they were doing. Not that mama and her son snuggling is the least bit suspicious in our house, they simply looked engaged in something more serious than snuggling. It turns out Katie was sharing a letter with Elliott she'd read online. It actually comes from a 2009 New York Times piece titled No Longer Believing in Santa. The letter reads like this:
I'm grateful my wife is our boys' mama. She is always thoughtful about the way she shares life's ultimate truths and lies with them. For sure, it's the teacher in her. Life doesn't have a lesson she isn't up for teaching. But much more than that, she really is the love and magic and hope and happiness that makes her a wonderful fit on Santa's team. As for me, I won't lie. I'm glad the Santa myth is coming to an end. Sure, Ian continues to cling to it. But I know Ian. He'll cling to anything right now that increases the odds of him receiving an extra pack of Pokemon cards Christmas morning. Even the idea those cards were delivered by a larger than real life man whisked around the world in the wake of a mighty team of flying reindeer. But Pokemon cards will soon lose their appeal. He too will soon say, "I don't want to sit on Santa's lap." Don't get me wrong. I'm not opposed to Santa. He's a fun way to bring magic into our kids' lives. But he's a fictional story riding the coattails of the greatest and most truthful story ever told. The contrast in that has always disturbed me a bit. I don't think this contrast is nearly as harmful to kids as it is to adults. Most kids who believe in Santa are too young to grasp the complex difference between a human created myth built on magic and a God created gospel built on the greatest love ever known. Shoot, that reality challenges many adults, including me. But this is the time of the year when I should be fully focused on what Christmas really signifies. The birth of a Savior. The only light in the world that never has and never will burn out. The only answer - and I've experimented with a lot of them - in a world filled with never ending questions, that has ever made sense to me. Everything real and meaningful in my life was born in a manger. Most everything Santa ever brought me has long been forgotten. (Although that little cassette recorder I got when I was about Elliott's age is still one of the coolest gifts ever). The truth is, as our kids cling less and less to the story of Santa, we'll be able to focus more of their attention on the birth of Christ. I don't say that with guilt - I know God knows the love we've poured into our kids through the Santa myth. But our kids grow up, their own stories evolve, and I'm responsible for shaping that evolution. More and more they'll begin to see that Santa may have changed the toys they played with or the clothes they wore, but the Gospel changes everything. There are a couple of songs I listen to almost every day. The reality is Christmas can sing in our hearts as we rise every single morning. The song below is one that helps make that happen in my life. I wish every one of you a very merry Christmas. I hope this season brings you the love and magic and hope and happiness found in Santa. Most of all, though, I pray this Christmas you'll feel embraced by the love of that child in a manger. A love that made a way for each and every one of us to come just as we are - to live in God's presence, forever. The Cayman Islands Half Marathon. Not Sure How I Got There, But It's Where I Was Supposed To Be.12/8/2016 Where The Journey Began
I live in constant amazement of where life's roads lead me. Not the bumpy and pothole-filled asphalt roads that carry me to and from work each day. I'm talking about the roads I can't see. The ones that inconspicuously weave through my heart and soul and then outward to places of beauty I could never get to on my own. I stand in these places never quite sure how I got there, yet, feeling a divine sense of certainty I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
I was in one of those places last week when I traveled to the Cayman Islands to run a half marathon with my friend, Robyn, who lives there. I met Robyn several years ago in the online group, Megsmiles Supporters. This is a group of people, many of them runners, who came together to honor Meg Cross Menzies. Meg was struck and killed by a drunk driver while on a training run for the Boston Marathon in January of 2014. Then, in May of 2015, sometime after Robyn and I became "online" friends, she visited Hanover County and I had a chance to meet her in person at Meg's memorial.
After our visit, I posted the following on Facebook:
Yesterday I posted an article on my blog about how I see myself as a puzzle piece in God's puzzle. I wrote about the importance of taking the initiative to solve the puzzle instead of waiting for God to tell us where we fit. If you're interested you can read the post here: http://bit.ly/1crI5Ns
Today that message expanded within me. Not only is it important to consider how I fit into the puzzle, but also how we all fit together. Puzzle pieces fitting together for a grander purpose plays out in this group every day. Today I, along with Scott and April Hicks, had the chance to meet fellow Megger Robyn Larkin and her husband Chris from the Cayman Islands. There we were, strangers, puzzle pieces from a thousand miles apart, somehow fitting together at Meg's Memorial in a tiny corner of Hanover County. So unlikely, but tragically wonderful as we stood there and became fast friends. Real-life puzzle piece friends. We don't know what God's finished puzzle looks like. He does. We can only continue inserting ourselves into it, connecting together with one another, and looking toward the day when together we'll see the final product. What a celebration it will be as we come to know just how grand the #megsmiles pieces were to that puzzle. The Cayman Islands
After that visit, Robyn decided to come to Richmond in the fall and run the Richmond Marathon. So I invited her to stay with our family. I'm sure my wife, Katie, thought I was crazy at the time. Maybe even something worse than crazy. It was, after all, the first woman I'd ever met online and subsequently invited to our house for a sleepover. Come to think of it, it was the first woman at all, other than my mom or Katie's, who'd received such an invitation. My wife has always enjoyed puzzles, I'm just not sure she was as sure as I was that this was all a part of one of God's puzzles.
But after Robyn arrived, it didn't take Katie long to see Robyn as I saw her. As a wonderful person and an awesome friend. A very cool puzzle piece. We invited Robyn to come back in 2016. She accepted. She also insisted that we give her the chance to return the favor by hosting us in the Cayman Islands this December. Katie's an island girl at heart, so she was eager to accept. Like jump in Robyn's suitcase and go home with her eager. Me, I wasn't as eager. I was the one who would have to check off the itinerary box that said Cayman Island Half Marathon. Don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of tropical beauty too. But running half marathons tends to make a lot of beautiful things not so beautiful to me anymore. After careful consideration, though, running a half marathon seemed like a small price to pay to make my wife exceedingly happy and visit a place where neither of us have ever been. So off we went.
It didn't take long after we landed in the Cayman Islands for the adventure to begin. For us it was really quite enough adventure watching Robyn climb into the passenger side of her car to drive us back to her place. That's how it's done in Cayman. Their steering wheels are on the wrong side of the car which I can only presume makes it easier for them to drive on the wrong side of the road. Robyn seemed confident in this system so my panic attack was mild. Until we got onto the highway.
We'd just eased onto one of the main roads and Robyn had begun sharing tales of the chaotic Cayman traffic flow, when out of my driver's side window - which isn't the driver's side at all in Cayman - I see a small wheel roll across the road in front of us. As I studied the scene, I saw a small and very old and tattered fishing boat limping ahead in front of us. The kind of limp boats use when they're suddenly missing a very crucial wheel. Several locals were riding in the back of the truck that was laboring to drag the handicapped boat along. I was floored by the noticeable state of calm that swept over their faces as they watched the wheel roll on. A wheel that now seemed to have all the momentum it needed to roll right into the Caribbean Sea. It was a calm that seemed to suggest boat trailers with wheels in the Cayman are certainly nice, but if one happens to escape it doesn't disrupt the journey of that boat and it's handlers nearly as much as it does the traffic around them. It became a running joke the remainder of our stay - although I confess far more strategic than jokester on my part - when I insisted that Katie sit up front with Robyn whenever we were cruising the island. Not that I was trying to throw my wife in the path of incoming boat wheels or anything. I simply knew she'd enjoy the view more than me. And views there were. The Cayman Islands are full of them. We treasured our days leading up to race day when we could get out and explore. I took this picture our first night there from Robyn's back yard - AKA the edge of the Caribbean. Absorbing this scene only left us anxious to see what the rest of the island held.
One of our days began with a trip to hell. A neat place, but nothing on this island remotely resembled hell as I picture it. Well, maybe the temperatures. Especially the temperatures during a half-marathon.
From this stop, I could actually mail my friends and family postcards that were postmarked in hell. I thought about it, but I have some friends who are on the brink of taking up permanent residency here, so I didn't want to jinx them. Just kidding. Really, I'm just kidding!!
I have no idea why I was photographed with the devil and Katie came away from hell looking like an angel. Makes. No. Sense.
Shortly after escaping hell we met Alan. I'm sure that's a coincidence. We met him when we stopped along a coastal highway to observe a blowhole. I'll save you the science of how a blowhole - a giant hole in the ocean rocks - shoots ocean water up to 30 feet in the air depending on the day and size of the waves. You are spared, but we were not. We were scarcely out of our vehicle when a man in a Tom Brady jersey stormed our 4-person huddle and introduced himself as Alan, the Cayman version of Barack Obama. He assured us there was much more to a blowhole than meets the eye, and it was our lucky day to be in the presence of the only person on the entire island who knew anything at all about what that much more was. I don't know if that's true, but after spending the next hour with him, I kind of believe it is.
Not much water pressure this day, but with a little imagination I could picture the water shooting 30 feet in the air.
We had dinner one evening on Rum Point. It was beautiful. The next day we returned to explore the beaches and hang with the starfish. That was a memorable location. We actually spent a great deal of our time there checking out the prices of rentals. Never too soon to start planning a return trip.
The perfect place for a just the four of us photo op.
The Race - The Cayman Islands Half Marathon
As much as I'd rather have spent all of our time touring the island, the main event of our visit finally arrived. The Cayman Islands Half Marathon. I was concerned about running this race. I hadn't run much since my first full marathon in Richmond just 3 weeks earlier. The temperatures were also outside of my running comfort zone - especially the humidity - and I certainly hadn't run in an environment like this in several months. But it was my first chance to run a race outside of the United States, so I was committed to getting it done.
At most races the packet pick up is a major event. There are a lot of vendor tables and activities to keep you busy for a couple of hours. That was not the case with this race, though. Here you pick up the essentials, visit one of the few local vendors in the small hotel conference room where the pickup took place, and then move along. There is one difference, however. Here, when you move along, you step outside the packet pick up area into this scene.
Then there was this view from the outside dining area of the little italian restaurant that hosted the pre-race dinner:
After dinner it was home and to bed. The 5 AM start time was going to come early. It was going to be a big day.
Robyn and I were out of bed by 3:30 AM. That wasn't particularly challenging to me. I'm an early riser. But walking out the door into the wall of early morning steam, now that was challenging. Especially as I imagined running 13.1 miles in it. Robyn and many other runners at the race rejoiced that it wasn't as hot as it had been in previous years, but my comparison didn't involve previous editions of the race. My comparison involved I don't do well running in humidity and this morning's air was full of it.
But humidity or not, at 5 AM sharp we moved across the start line and down the road into island darkness.
Not far into the race, we came upon this scene.
Coming Down the Stretch
Every Thanksgiving, and many days in between, I find myself reflecting on verses 12-13 in the 4th chapter of Philippians:
This morning, I was lead to the interpretation of this scripture presented in The Message bible. It says: Whatever I have, wherever I am, I can make it through anything in the One who makes me who I am. I don’t mean that your help didn’t mean a lot to me—it did. It was a beautiful thing that you came alongside me in my troubles. To me, this scripture has always been at the heart of giving thanks. Too often my own gratitude depends on what I have and where I am at a particular moment in my life. When things are moving along comfortably - the bills are all getting paid on time or the doctor says I'm as healthy as a teenager - gratitude flows unconstrained. But when life starts muddying my well drawn picture of happiness - the kids are sick or my hours get cut at my second job - thankfulness disappears like guests at an office party when it's announced the food is all gone. In this scripture though, which the apostle Paul penned while he was in prison, gratitude isn't tied to circumstance. It's tied to our maker. Paul says I can make it through anything in the One who makes me who I am. Sometimes that's a tough thing to remember. No matter how tough times are, we remain the one the One made. Psalm 139:16 says: Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them. In this scripture, the psalmist seems to be reflecting on the same idea Paul reflected on in prison: great strength comes to those who remember why we are here, and who made it possible. When life doesn't go like we want it to, and our capacity for thanksgiving is drained, Paul is teaching us to remember we weren't aimlessly constructed to carry out our own designs, we were lovingly created to share in God's unalterable and beautiful plan. And quite often - God's plan doesn't resemble ours. It's not easy, though, is it, when where we are or what we have includes pain and suffering? One word is left out of The Message translation of Philippians 4:12 that I find particularly useful in this case. In the English Standard Version of this scripture it reads: In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger. The word learned implies the idea of being content in any situation, which certainly makes gratitude easier to grab hold of, isn't one that comes naturally. It takes intentional redirection of our thoughts when they naturally want to drift toward discontent. It takes years of intentionally seeking gratitude after gratitude leaves the party. It takes the discipline required to turn scripture to wisdom. There are a lot of versions of an old saying that says something to this effect: you can't control everything that happens to you, but you can control how you respond to everything. Paul seems interesting in shaping those responses. I hear him saying, whatever happens, first remember the One who brought you where you are. Lean on Him. Trust that a situation that seems all out of whack in your own world is a beautiful and necessary chapter in His. And be grateful for Him. There's also another part of the Message translation of this scripture I had never reflected on before reading it this morning. Paul says: I don’t mean that your help didn’t mean a lot to me—it did. It was a beautiful thing that you came alongside me in my troubles. In this scripture, Paul seems pretty intentional about including the power and beauty of coming alongside someone when they need it most. Although he acknowledges his secret to contentment is calling on God to carry him through every situation, maybe he's suggesting here that God answers with the hands and feet of those around us. And Paul's gratitude for them in this scripture is unmistakable. Today, many of us will be intentional about pausing and reflecting on all we have to be thankful for. Things will probably come to mind we haven't considered in a while. And we'll smile. In doing so, maybe we'll consider the advice of Paul. Maybe we'll make this the day when we begin a daily practice of remembering we are the ones the One made. Maybe we'll find assurance in knowing He loved us before He ever made us, all a part of a plan we can't begin to understand, but one that will ultimately make perfect and beautiful sense out of the parts of our lives that are hardest to be thankful for. And maybe today we'll discover the often overlooked beauty of those who come alongside us in our times of trouble. Last Sunday, I sat in a church service at Cool Spring Baptist Church with a couple of dozen of my best friends and listened to Pastor Brad's sermon. For a bunch of runners like us, his message on taking care of the body was appropriate. Who runs the kind of distances many of us had run the day before without having at least some concern for the bodies we carried with us? But for Christians like myself in the room, the message was even more compelling. Brad's main point in the message wasn't as much about protecting our bodies in the name of personal health, but more for the welfare of the Holy Spirit that resides there. That's an important challenge if we're truly striving to live out our Christian faith through awareness of and listening to and following the voice of that Holy Spirit. Sitting there with friends who the day before had helped me to the finish line of one of the most meaningful moments in my life, I realized the entire journey that led me there had been stirred by the voice of that very Holy Spirit Brad was preaching about. I could suddenly hear that voice and the words as plain as the day I heard it for the first time. "But if I could tell people to do one thing for Meg, I'd tell them to go to church this Sunday. And if they didn't like that church, I'd ask them to try another one, or keep giving their church a chance. All the things people have said they loved about Meg came from Meg's love for her church and God." I was actually sitting on a picnic table just outside this same church the day Meg's husband Scott spoke them to me. He was talking to me about running the Boston Marathon for his wife Meg just the week before. A race she had qualified for but could no longer run after being hit and killed by a drunk driver a few months earlier. So Scott ran it for her. He ran for Meg like so many of us had been doing in the aftermath of her passing. In that one conversation, the Holy Spirit connected for me my sudden desire to run further than I had ever run, with the unshakable love one woman felt for God. A woman I had never met. A love that failed to die when she did. My running journey unofficially began the Saturday after Meg died when I joined over 100,000 people from around the world to run in Meg's honor. It officially began the following November of 2014 when I hastily registered for and then actually ran my first half marathon in Richmond. The video below explains what I think happened that weekend that ultimately led me to the journey I embarked on this past Saturday.
So there you have it. This past Saturday. the day I'd attempt to make my half a whole. I'd ease my way up to that starting line, arm and arm with the Holy Spirit who'd been encouraging this race for nearly two years now, and maybe for fun throw a few elbows at the devil who told me I wouldn't dare. Then I'd set sail. (Or snail.) For 26.2 miles. I was ready. Or at least I was sure I might be. I'd completed the training. Most of it anyways. I was plenty fired up after listening to the running pep talk from Mr. Accountability Friday himself - Bill Manning - at the Megsmiles pre-race dinner the night before. As part of Bill's address,he handed out recognition pins to all of the runners who'd achieved racing milestones the past few years at Richmond. Standing among them, it occurred to me just how many running journeys had begun because of Meg Cross Menzies. The front of that room was full. Full of people who might have been sitting at home on couches or downtown on bar stools or a thousand places other than the front of that room proudly proclaiming to be a runner. Oh, there was a spirit in the room. Do you want to know what I found to be the most uplifting part of that ceremony. It was who I discovered we were all happiest for. And that who was the other guy. We were all cheering on and smiling and patting on the back - the other guy. The other girl. If Bill didn't get me ready enough, the video honoring Meg sure finished the job. It showed her love for her family and the world. It showed our love for Meg. One of the songs that played in the background of that video was The God I Know. The opening lines of that song go like this: If It Was All About Religion What To Do, What To Say, What To Wear On A Sunday All About Perfection Black And White, Wrong Or Right, Never Grey Well I'd Never Make It I'd Never Be Good Enough I Tried To Walk The Line, Pray That I'd Find Somethin' That I Knew Was Real Began To Realize, The Harder I Tried The Colder I'd Start To Feel Until The Moment The Second I Met Your Love And Then I Threw My Hands Up Worries Down I Remember When He Showed Me How To Break Up With My Doubt Once I was lost but now I'm found No Strings Attached When He Saved My Soul I Want You To Know The God I Know Oh, You Gotta Know Oh, The God I Know I shared with our gathering that since the first time I heard that song, I often hear Meg singing those words when I run. I hear her singing them to all of us, really, with incredible joy. I do believe Meg really does know God now. And I believe she wants us to throw our hands up and worries down and know that we are all - in the words of that song - good enough. I also believe she was looking down on us in that room. Our diversity. Our differences. Yet, it was our sameness I could feel her applauding. Our ONE shared commitment to extend a Meg kind of love with the world around us. She was telling us - I want you to know the God I know - and he loves just like you all are loving each other. You all have cracked the secret. Now share it. It's ironic. Or maybe not. But before we came to the dinner that night I'd noticed my wife, Katie, had slipped a couple of lace charms on the running shoes I would wear during my marathon the next day. (She was actually sad because I wasn't supposed to find them until race morning). The charm on the left shoe says "I Run For Meg." On the right, the charm simply says "Hebrews 12:1" - which in the bible says:
There were dozens of us at that pre-race dinner who were mere hours away from running for Meg. Some of us further than we had ever run. The running races set before us in many cases felt daunting at that point. (I know I wrote it but I'll go ahead and second that right now!) But gathering with that group of incredible people from the Megsmiles family, not just the runners, but the volunteers who helped prepare the meal, the families that supported husbands and wives and kids who trained hours for their races, the people who had crisscrossed the country just to be a part of it, in the midst of us all, I think we all felt something that left no doubt the races we were going to run the next day - well that just wasn't our ultimate race. It wasn't lost on me that the unity we felt that night came at the end of a week when unity in our country seemed as gone as dinosaurs. But there we were, doing what runners do. Pushing forward, one step in front of the other, carrying with us each step of the way a love and togetherness the world is really in desperate need of. I left that dinner reminded of the race I'm really running. But, that sure didn't mean the other race didn't have to be run. And so there we were. Gathered together early the next morning, just before race time. That look on my face in the photo below, well it was about to change. I joked with this group before we went our separate ways and found our spots at the starting line: "Talking about running your first marathon sure is more fun than actually lining up to do it!" So here I am now. At the corner of Grace and 5th. Ready to embark on what I projected would be a 7 hour day of running. Many people I know are easily awed by the 26.2 miles a marathon covers. Me, I was more intimidated by the reality my legs were going to start rolling any minute and they wouldn't stop for 420 minutes. That's 7 straight episodes of Criminal Minds. Including the commercials. Suddenly even talking about a marathon was about as humorous as any of those episodes. The start to the race was incredible. As the waves of runners moved over the starting line, and believe me I was riding the last wave so the waves moved for a looooong time, I could hear the race announcer shout Run For Meg as he saw the Run for Meg shirts parade by him. Each time I heard that shout it sounded more like a command than a cheer. For one final time I was reminded why I was seconds away from crossing that starting line. Not to show something to myself, but to show the world something Meg wasn't quite finished showing them herself. The first 16 miles of the race went exactly as expected. I actually covered them a little quicker than planned. The adrenaline took over at times and I had a hard time going deliberately slower. Doing my Facebook live videos every 4 miles or so helped slow the pace and keep me fresh for the final 10 miles, which I knew were going to be a struggle. The beauty of being slow, and having no goal to finish any faster than slow, is you spend a lot of time by yourself. You get to spend a lot of time reflecting about the world without all the noise of the world. The view from the back of the marathon pack really is quiet and beautiful. Much of this post was written over those miles, at least in my mind.
From that point on my race was all about angels. Real live human beings delivering God-sized doses of that Holy Spirit that had gotten me that far. At mile 23, my friend Julie Bowman shows up. Julie's had a rough go of it lately, most recently losing her mom. To see her standing alone along the route, to hear her shout my name and come walk beside me and offer encouragement when I really should have been the one encouraging her, to know her gentle spirit was pushing me on when my spirit might not have been dead, but it was breathlessly ill, well that WAS Megsmiles. That was her goodness trying to do what my stamina was no longer capable of. And believe me, Julie Bowman has an endless tank of goodness. She was definitely booster rocket one. A mile later my buddy Bruce Hayes came running toward me. Bruce is the only guy I've ever called my coach. I'm sure that's a source of humiliation to Bruce, but he hides it nicely when he's around me. But Bruce once said there are days he's headed out for a ten mile training run and realizes a couple of miles into it he doesn't feel like running that day. So he doesn't. I hired him on the spot. It was an added bonus when he encouraged me to eat more cheeseburgers. So Bruce shows up and just starts walking along side me. He made sure I was OK, but then just walked with me. There were times I broke into a hobbled trot and Bruce kept walking and still stayed ahead of me. He's pretty quick, that Bruce. Bruce told me he would have been there sooner, but some locals hanging out at a bar on the race route offered him a free drink. He couldn't refuse. They sat around telling football stories. It was just the kind of crazy, are you kidding me story I needed to hear to distract me from the story of my impending death - which I was sure those same guys at the bar would be talking about any minute now. Bruce was definitely booster rocket number two. Then I hit mile 25. A mile from home. And there standing on the street corner, arms folded like security guards waiting to check my race credentials, were Jorge and Mo. They let me through. In fact, they encouraged me to move through. We were a line now. 4 across. Motoring the final mile of the longest day of my life. Mo had been there before. He ran me home the final yards of the Run the Bluegrass in Lexington. (I couldn't help but notice Tracey Outlaw, who ran me home the final 4 miles of that same race Run the Bluegrass, was nowhere to be found in our line. Tracey spent a lot of time that race telling me things were looking up and while I spent an equal amount of time telling him to shut up. That may have influenced his absence). I was definitely the one guy struggling in this line. But I couldn't have felt more surrounded by brothers. These guys - three of the greatest guys I know - were definitely rocket booster number three. I will never be able to thank them enough. Rocket booster number four. Well, I still tear up thinking about that booster. I know it probably wasn't thundering like those boosters thunder when they launch rockets into space. But it sounded like it. And maybe the ground didn't shake like the ground shakes around those rockets when they blast away from earth in the blink of an eye. But if felt like it. The sounds of those cowbells and the yells of my Megsmiles family couldn't have been drowned out by a World Cup soccer crowd this day. Not in my ears. As I inched closer to the finish line their cheers grew louder and louder and with each next step it all became worth it. Every mile. The emotions were creeping up on me. My brothers would point to all the Megsmilers and I'd fight back the tears. I was sure I could do it. This was going to be a happy ending, not a crying one. And then Meg's mom Pam joined me in the line. I've spent hours the last several years imagining what Pam goes through every day missing her daughter. I can't feel what she feels, but I have 7 and 9 year old boys who are the light of my life, so I can imagine it. As she jumped in that line, I couldn't help but wonder how proud she must be of her daughter, to know all of this, all the day's finish lines, the hours of training, the joy of this family now surrounding the slowest runner of them all, how proud must a mom be to see a daughter's legacy roll toward a finish line in a giant wave of love. That's why this is one of my favorite photos of the weekend. I didn't totally completely lose it in Pam's company. But when I saw the lights of my life, those two little boys hurdle the barrier and come running my way, that was all she wrote. I can't imagine I'll tell those boys anything more over the course of their lives than "trust God" and "don't ever give up." To show them in that moment that the talk can walk - and run - 26.2 miles, that meant the world to me. Running down that hill with those boys, and Pam, and the whole Megsmiles family was the ultimate expression of my running mantra. I hate running! Every second I'm doing it, I just don't care for it. But there's little that makes me happier than saying I just ran. And on this day, in this race with these people, crossing that finish was not only one of the happiest I-just-rans of my life, it was one of the most joyful moments of my life period. And here's the thing you need to know about that. All of those people with me, that was their plan. To make that moment special for me. We don't do that enough in this world anymore. Ask ourselves how we can make someone else's day. But this Megsmiles group, that is ALL they do. They celebrate the other guy. The other girl. Sure, a lot of them run to feel good about themselves, but they live their lives to make sure others know they feel even better about them. Spend 10 minutes with someone who knew Meg and that's what you'll hear about her. She was all about the others. I grow more thankful every day that I'm part of this group that is finishing the race Meg started, that we hear that Holy Spirit, and we respond in love. The moment would have been empty without the three people who are my world. And a dose of Bart Yasso for good measure. A Medal and a Hand Shake Never Felt So Good Do you know how many people I'm going to pass on the highway and quickly dive in front of now just so they can see my 26.2 sticker? Look out world. Marathon Man road rage. Hey, Outlaw did show up for the party! Love this guy. My first marathon would have not been complete without the guy who's been there from the beginning. The Final Run To The Finish Line
1. Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, But Words Will Surely Kill Me
When we were young, many of us probably heard the old adage "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." That adage may have been born in the wisdom that violence is an inappropriate response to verbal abuse, but I fear it's evolved into a general acceptance that words themselves really are harmless. What a dangerous notion to teach our kids. What a destructive belief to our personal relationships. Far more than the consequences of who is elected in tomorrow's election, I fear the damage done to our relationships on the way to this year's ballot box. Additionally, because of the way I've seen many Christians talk about each other's candidate, because of the language many of them have used toward one another in their uncivil debates, and because of the unprecedented access we all have to those conversations, I fear for the damage done to the image of Christ. You see, the power of Christ is found in the capacity of Christians to rise lovingly above the world we live in. Our impact is in our difference, not in our sameness. When the world around us grows vulgar and vile and cruel, we're to respond with inexplicable love, not with a spirit of spite and vengeance. Not with a fear of being one upped in a political contest. Many days I feel like this election has chained Christians to the ways of this world. I'm beginning to wonder if we'll break free from them when it's over. A few months ago I taught a lesson to our youth at church about the power of their words. Mainly, how their words can be painful and lasting to friends and peers on social media. In preparing for that lesson, I discovered eye opening new meaning in several scriptures from the first chapter of Genesis: 3 And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. 6 And God said, “Let there be a vault between the waters to separate water from water.” 9 And God said, “Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place,and let dry ground appear.” 11 Then God said, “Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds.” 14 And God said, “Let there be lights in the vault of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark sacred times, and days and years, 15 and let them be lights in the vault of the sky to give light on the earth.” 20 And God said, “Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the vault of the sky.” 24 And God said, “Let the land produce living creatures according to their kinds: the livestock, the creatures that move along the ground, and the wild animals, each according to its kind.” 26 Then God said, “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.” I guess I had never given it much thought, but the bible clearly states that the world we see around us, all that it includes, came to life through God's words. Why? Of all the ways God could have painted this world into existence, demonstrated the magnificence of his handiwork through some otherworldly feat, why did he fall back on what would become a very common and everyday human act: talking. I believe God wanted us to understand that through our words, we too have the God-like power to offer life. And I believe he wanted us to filter every single word we say through this test: are the words I'm about to say going to breath life into the world. Ephesians 4: 29-32 explains that test best: Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you. I don't believe we've held that standard in high enough regard as we've carried on our political discourse. I fear there are personal relationships permanently damaged, relationships that might have ultimately introduced someone to the love of Christ. More than anything else out of this election, I hope we'll recommit to breathing life with our words. We'll remember we and everything around us is here because God said. That we'll forever ditch the false and often fatal belief that words don't hurt. 2. God Doesn't Need Our Worldly Laws To Align With His Will Nearly As Much As He Wants Us Our Love To Reflects His Heart. So I'm not a bible scholar. I'm not a pastor. But I've spent plenty of time digging into God's word. I've done so more in this election than I've done in a long time. One of the questions I've researched is how interested Jesus was in the politics of his time. How engaged would he be in our general election. I can't say I came up with a definitive answer, but I have observed this about Christ. He spent significantly more time - nearly all of it - preaching about and displaying the love and peace that will ultimately rule the world to come than he did trying to politically influence the world he lived in. We can't forget: God's ultimate plan is to replace our current government - not join it. I find one political exchange Christ had especially intriguing. It was one of his final human interactions on earth. The Jewish leaders had taken Jesus to the Roman governor in hopes he would be charged as a criminal and killed. That lead up to this account from John 18: 28-36: Then the Jewish leaders took Jesus from Caiaphas to the palace of the Roman governor. By now it was early morning, and to avoid ceremonial uncleanness they did not enter the palace, because they wanted to be able to eat the Passover. So Pilate came out to them and asked, “What charges are you bringing against this man?” “If he were not a criminal,” they replied, “we would not have handed him over to you.” Pilate said, “Take him yourselves and judge him by your own law.” “But we have no right to execute anyone,” they objected. This took place to fulfill what Jesus had said about the kind of death he was going to die. Pilate then went back inside the palace, summoned Jesus and asked him, “Are you the king of the Jews?” “Is that your own idea,” Jesus asked, “or did others talk to you about me?” “Am I a Jew?” Pilate replied. “Your own people and chief priests handed you over to me. What is it you have done?” Jesus said, “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight to prevent my arrest by the Jewish leaders. But now my kingdom is from another place.” Even though Jesus was very clearly a King, he made it unquestionably clear to Pilate that he wasn't involved in the politics of that age. And he was consistent in that stand throughout the gospels. He didn't let the politics of his time stand in the way of his work as a missionary, as a servant, as a man you could more often find hanging with the least of these than lobbying the political elite. Not once can I find where Jesus left an impression that the politics of his age would aid or hinder his mission to love his neighbor in a way that reflected the love of his father. As far as I can tell, Jesus remained committed to teaching and reaching out in a love that no political stance or policy could ever enforce. And one side note: that cruel death Christ suffered outside of human laws - God used it to show me a love that has saved my life. 3. Christ Didn't Just Say He Trusted God To Work Through Those Who Had Radical Political Views. He Lived It. So the Jewish leaders got their way. Christ was hung on a cross and crucified. It was a brutal and tortuous death. But it was on that cross, very near death, when Christ offered an incredibly loving political statement. Maybe his biggest. It's written in Luke 23: 32-38 Two others, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him. And when they came to the place that is called The Skull, there they crucified him, and the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. And Jesus said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." And they cast lots to divide his garments. And the people stood by, watching, but the rulers scoffed at him, saying, "He saved others; let him save himself, if he is the Christ of God, his Chosen One!" The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine and saying, "If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!" There was also an inscription over him, "This is the King of the Jews." The very politicians who radically opposed everything Jesus stood for. Enough to crucify him and mock him in the process. One of Jesus' final acts of love was to pray for them. To ask his father to forgive them. To me, it's one of his most humble and amazing acts of love in the entire bible. Here's what I wonder. Do we believe Christ genuinely wanted them forgiven? And what do we believe God's response to that plea was? Many Christians I know have proclaimed they trust God in this election. That no matter who is elected, they trust God will work through that candidate. But tomorrow, if their candidate doesn't win, will they go humbly to God in prayer and ask his blessing on the candidate who wins? Will their language and interactions over the next four years reflect a humble acceptance that God is working his will through a candidate they don't agree with and didn't vote for? When Christ came face to face with the intersection of love and politics, he chose love and forgiveness. My guess is he knew love would have a broader and more enduring reach than the radical politics of his time. And I believe he was right.
'At the dinner table last night, on the eve of his 8th birthday, Ian asked us an interesting question: "Can people have babies on purpose?"
Looking at that little boy, not long for the sevens, and recalling his now ancient history of mischief and stubborn independence, I so wanted to blurt out: "dear God, no baby is planned." Are you crazy? They arrive unexpected in sackcloths on the front porch or as boxed up consolation lottery prizes courtesy of the UPS man. Who in their right mind would script such an undertaking? I'm sure part of my thinking was a stall tactic - who on earth wants to answer a 7 year-old at the dinner table when he asks if babies have histories more authentic than the tooth fairy? Fortunately, my wonderful wife chimed in and let him know that conversation was a bit more complicated than a dinner time chat. You think? (I'm sure she's as aware as I am that question is not going away in this guy's mind anytime soon) The truth is Katie should have bragged out loud that both of her babies were part of a grand plan. Hers and God's and a faithful reliance that they both knew what they were talking about. And in the case of Ian - it was a plan steeped in both boldness and love. The very long story short - Katie's first planned baby - our Elliott - didn't arrive as planned. Emergency operations and a few tense moments that put both mom and baby in peril - that was not what we had rehearsed. It was never the end or the beginning of the fairy tale we wrote for the day we would become first time parents. But that was our story. I had never admired my wife's courage and other worldly strength - her devotion to life - more than I did that day. That is, until, knowing all of the potential risks involved, not from mere possibility but from anxiously living them out, she decided she wanted to have another baby. On purpose. I always say she knew how much she would love Ian long before he got here. She knew how much he'd unconditionally love her and would forever be a mama's boy - even and especially as an 8 year-old - when she placed his being here with us over every risk she personally faced to make it so. The day Ian was born I once again admired my wife and our boys' mom more than ever. To this day I can't look at either of them without knowing everything she went through to make them so. It adds more to the value of their lives than I could ever dream of contributing. And boy oh boy does it make me grateful we lost that lottery. That's my story Ian, and for right now I'm sticking to it. |