Once a Masochist, always a masochist

I took a little jog in the woods about two weeks ago. It started before first light and ended within an hour of the sun's final shine. Yep. That's a long time. But why? Was something/someone chasing me? No. Was I getting paid to do this? Unfortunately not. Did I lose a bet? Hardly.

About twenty years ago, David Horton said to me, "Betcha can't run fifty miles." I proved him wrong after he goaded me with his snide remark. I ran that distance for the first time in 1994 and came in second place for the women. Since then, I placed first, claimed a bunch more seconds, a third, and then stopped counting positions when I ran out of wiggly little tootsies to help me count. One year I left town on race day so I wouldn't be tempted to run on still-recovering feet and ankles post surgery. Twice I ran the whole course but as a sweeper, picking up streamers marking the way, and keeping an eye on the folks at the end of the long train winding it's way through the forest. Two other times I began the race but did not finish it, done in by a strange anomaly of not being able to breath, hands and feet turning Smurf-like blue. That was disappointing.

In the "old days," I approached the start line of most my races, including this race, the Mountain Masochist Fifty Mile Run (MMTR), with miles of tough training tucked under my hydration belt. Confident  I could trust my training, I was able to push the envelope. Sometimes it resulted in a great race. Other times, the price of racing hard sent my quads quivering, shins shouting, and lungs lifting gasps and groans into the air. Still, the end result was usually pretty decent. I raced often, was recognized when I walked into a room, and bore the weight of performance expectations from myself as much as others. For many years, that combination of circumstances earned me the privilege to wear a sponsor's name or two across my chest and on my feet.

Oh, how things change.

When I arrived at the start line this year, it was after soundly sleeping through the night. Nary a thought of break-neck racing or anticipation of a personal best interrupted my deep sleep. That was novel. It's not that I had miles in the bank or was coming off a full racing schedule that had whipped me into a fine piece of trail-racing flesh. Nope. None of that. My miles were low, restricted to running workouts with my cross country team, save a rare long run now and again. And in the crowded room at the pre-race dinner the night before, only the  seasoned (read that, old) runners recognized me. I was invisible in a sea of young, eager faces. My time in the spotlight had come and gone. I had entered a different phase of life-a much slower one, at that- and it was okay. Actually, more than okay.

I went into the race with fifteen finishes. I told myself last year that fifteen was a perfectly good number. Stop while I was ahead. No other woman had that many finishes. (I liked that.) But the thought of going for twenty completions made me cough up the money and drop a check and registration info into the mail. If I ran five in a row, including this year, I would complete the task at age 61. Oh, boy. It sure doesn't get easier from year to year. On top of that, the course revisions and additions makes the course about thirty minutes longer for us mere mortals. But the die had been cast. It was sixteen or bust. I had to run this one on experience and smarts. I made a pact with my soul to be patient, take things as they come, and enjoy the journey.

So me and my non-sponsored self (unless you count the label on the inside of my shorts that says "Wash in cold water") started down the road. I listened to those chatting, to advice being given. Secretly, I laughed at some. I liked the way the darkness hid me despite the thundering herd that surrounded me.

I splashed across the creek, and chugged my way up the first mountain, finding pleasure in counting steps when the way got steep. Run fifty. Walk fifty. I felt calm.

And then I began to sing.

Bless the Lord, O my soul
O my soul
Worship His holy name
Sing like never before
O my soul
I'll worship Your holy name. (10,000 reasons)

Up and up I climbed, singing, even if under muffled breath. The sky promised to break it's hold on the darkness within minutes. I sang the first verse, a most perfect verse.

 The sun comes up, it's a new day dawning
It's time to sing Your song again
Whatever may pass, and whatever lies before me
Let me be singing when the evening comes. 

Bless the Lord, O my soul
O my soul
Worship His holy name
Sing like never before
O my soul
I'll worship Your holy name.

Once on the single track trail, my steps felt light and free. The day had overcome the night and I was running free. Free to be me. Free to be who God intended me to be. A runner who felt God's pleasure, watching leaves float through the air and catching glimpses of distant peaks through the nearly-bare branches. Bless the Lord, oh my soul. Indeed, let me be singing when the evening comes.

You're rich in love, and You're slow to anger
Your name is great, and Your heart is kind
For all Your goodness I will keep on singing
Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find

I did not float through the whole race. Onlookers may have called it more of a waddle, shuffle, or something kin to a slog. I had to deal with cramping in a calf and twinges in a hamstring. I had to remind myself to be patient. Just keep moving. But as the miles piled up, my goal remained: Keep signing. Be sure to sing when the evening comes. 

And on that day when my strength is failing
The end draws near and my time has come
Still my soul will sing Your praise unending
Ten thousand years and then forevermore

With six or seven miles to go, my legs felt new. I'm not sure why, but they responded to my request to run faster. There was little protest when passing landmarks that, in past years, made me wince and wish for the end. Down off the mountain I ran, closer and closer to the finish. Even the final road section could not stifle the song.

Bless the Lord, O my soul
O my soul
Worship His holy name
Sing like never before
O my soul
I'll worship Your holy name.

I was singing when the evening came.

Your Wild and Precious Life: A guest blog by Author Leslie Fields

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with this one wild and precious life?"    ----Mary Oliver

I ditched my island a few days ago---for a smaller one, the 42-foot fishing vessel  “Dreamer.” I spent the day and nearly the night with a friend, Dave, and his crew. I went with camera and raingear,  to watch how others live and catch fish. To get wet and work on the deck beside them. I went, in short, to see how they lived---the first of many trips ahead on other boats and places and islands, to see about this life on the ocean, how others live it, survive it.

 

I am beginning (finally!) a sequel to my memoir, Surviving the Island of Grace, and already, such grace comes. A new book grants permission for such things.

My job was to stack corks as they were winched on deck. A quarter mile length of corks, piling so

high I soon could hardly reach them and had to stand on the rim of the stern to keep going. At the end of each set, more than an hour of cork-stacking later, I was breathless, wet, and ponderous. 

Sometimes we are given holy moments when we look up from our commute over a river bridge, from cleaning a bathroom, from cutting our elderly mother’s toenails, from surveying the view from a mountain summit, from wiping a baby’s bottom, from stacking corks on the back deck of a fishing boat in Alaska-----and we are astonished. We find ourselves, suddenly, for a few minutes, strangers in our own lives. How did we get here? How did this life come to us? 

We blink in momentary blindness  as the thin tether of memory and history lets go and we are unmoored, drifting, strangers in our own

lives, seeing the strange work of our hands. And a few long seconds later, we wake and remember the decisions that set us exactly where we are, that led us to the man we said yes to and the children that came, to the job interview and the promotion, to the building of the house on the island, to the nursing home where our mother lives, to the stern of a fishing boat. And the flash of possibility is over.

My day on the boat ended at 1 a.m.  It was just dark then. The small boat  chugged the miles back to my island. A skiff took me to shore, dropped me off in water deeper than my knee boots. I plunged into icy water, shivering. It woke me. It was a low minus tide, the skirt of the ocean pulled back, our gravel beach  deeper, further than I had seen it for awhile, the ghostly lights of the boat glowing our beach warehouse yellow.  


What was this place? I trudged up the beach with the ocean in my boots, up the long hill, tired from a day and night working on the deck. I did not know myself or this haunted island or the hulk of house looming in the dark that I walked toward. How have I come here?  Whose life is this?

I opened the door and stood for a moment in the night-still house. I could  hear breathing. I heard the kettle steaming on the oil stove, saw my mug beside it. The dog stirred and came to me, sniffing and licking my wet legs and feet. Then from the bedroom, “Leslie, is that you?” my husband calls. 
I return to my life, my own house. Yes, the house I built with Duncan. I remember now.

Did we plan our lives? How have they come to us?  Out of a thousand possible places to live and a million people we could have joined----how are we here, with these people, now? There is only one real answer---and it cannot be spoken because it is like the wind and the Spirit that blows through and around us. We don’t know where it comes from or where it is going, but we read in the Psalms, that before we were even made, “All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be.” 

Somehow we have chosen. We have chosen again and again the lives we are living, though so much of the time we did not understand what we were choosing. And some of what we are living is what others have chosen for us, what we never would have chosen for ourselves.  

And somehow every path we have taken, the smooth and the rough, is the path already known for us. 

Who can fathom this? But Know it is true. Believe it. 


And believe there is wonder and beauty and love and goodness and purpose even in the hardest places of the life you have chosen, the life you have been given. 

What are you doing with this “one wild and precious life”? 


 Instructions for living a life


"Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it." 

 

Leslie Leyland Fields lives on two island in Alaska, Kodiak Island in the winters and Harvester Island in the summer, where she commercial salmon fishes with her family. She's a Contributing Editor to Christianity Today, a national speaker, the author of 9 books and the mother of 6 kids. She blogs weekly about her "wild and precious life" at www.leslieleylandfields.com .




Lost and Found

It usually starts out with a neatly labeled bin (or two): Lost and Found. Most often located in a common area, these small reservoirs stand at the ready to temporarily stash a misplaced item. Sweaters, shorts, pants, belts, ties, lunch boxes, a single soccer cleat, jacket, a ball or two, a plethora of hair bows, a stray lacrosse stick, and more than a mountain of books accumulate with time. Seekers rummage through the growing pile of debris, some wondering if wearing surgical gloves would be prudent given the moldy applesauce spilling out from a not quite sealed plastic bowl. Nevertheless, the process rewards a few brave souls and saddens the rest (who are more times than not, the mothers of children whose items went MIA).

I've sorted through more Lost and Founds than I care to remember. Getting two boys through a school that required uniform polos, white oxford shirts, khaki pants, blazers, belts, and specified shoes meant impromptu rescue missions when the closet was bare and no school necktie could be located in the entire county. Even if the boys' level of enthusiasm was less than I preferred, I did my own little dance when we managed to find that pricy blazer (albeit sans a few buttons that made it distinctly theirs). 

Unfortunately, we didn't always find what was ours. But once in a while, like before Christmas break or at year's end, the school announced their intention to take all Lost and Found items to the local thrift store. Our loss would be someone else's gain, assuming they had a need for a used lacrosse mouth guard, a holey sock, or well-worn pair of pants. However, if you happened to be at school after the deadline to collect lost items passed, it often proved fruitful.

We found our share of castaway coats, hardly worn. New looking shorts and nice braided leather belts. Hoodies. Towels. A great backpack. How in the world would someone not go looking for such expensive items? How could they bare to part with these things without so much as a quick look through the bins? Though we couldn't understand their lack of concern, we gladly gave those items a new home; a new life.

I know the dark corners of that box. I've been in that box."Lost," it said. But I wasn't thrown in there by a careless owner. I deserved to be cast away. Lifeless. Worn. Dead as a doorknob. Of no use to anyone. No hope of ever crawling out on my own, despair my destiny. But someone found me. He reached in with that big, strong hand of His, pulled me out through the mess, and held me up in His light. "Ah," He said. "I've been looking for this one. I love her. She is my own. I will give her a new life, a new purpose. She will no longer be lost for I have found her."

Praise God.

"For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost” (Luke 19:10).

 

Find the door

Doors are underrated and unappreciated. Just think. When was the last time you thanked God for a door? Probably never, huh?

Consider the door. Some are grand and elaborate. When traveling through Europe, magnificent,

massive cathedral doors are surpassed only by what is found beyond. But those are the exception rather than the rule. Many common everyday doors are non-descript hinged slabs of wood or metal. Some have big windows, little windows, or may be completely see through. Doors can be gleaming and clean, others worn and warped. Brown, black, red, yellow, blue, purple, chartreuse. You name it: you can find a door of any color.

Regardless of size, color, or material, all doors have one thing in common: They are in the context of a wall. Doors provide a necessary passageway through a solid obstacle. No door means no entry, no way to get to the other side. If we try to smash our way through the wall, we come away bruised, bleeding, and battered. We need the door.

So here's the rub. What happens when we "hit the wall"? Is it the end of our journey? We've all been there. An athlete may "hit the wall" when blood sugar drops or muscle glycogen hits all-time lows. A writer "hits the wall" when words won't flow. A working mom "hits the wall" when she tries to do it all.

But in this case, consider the runner. Walls may have been made with runners in mind. Bodies are stretched to the limit. Breathing is labored. Legs feel log-like. Arms go numb and the mind gets confused. Boom! He hits the wall running full-on, knocked backwards from the sudden impact. The runner struggles to his feet and lurches awkwardly forward. Boom! He hits the wall again. This time regaining his feet is more difficult. He knows The Wall is a bad place to be; it is a place of pain and excruciating fatigue. But what choice does the runner have? He submits to The Wall. He concedes defeat. He shuffles off, head hung low, waiting for another day. A better day.

Or does he? Is there another choice?

Yes. Find the door.

Pushing through that door is scary, terrifying even. The runner has no idea what lays beyond. He has never been on the other side. The door has no window to the future; just a promise of the unknown. Arms outstretched, his fingers reach for the door. His mind races. He's never been so close. Should he push it gently and sneak a peak through the open crack?

No! He has finally found the illusive door many seek but few find. He must fling it open for all it's worth. He must commit to see what the other side holds. He must go boldly and without fear for that door is the gateway to making the impossible possible.

My dear team, as you hit the wall, look for the door. Burst through that door with all the power you can muster. The other side is full of promise. The other side is where you drop the weight of previous limits.

Find The Door. Embrace The Door.

Beautiful feet?

Tres' foot

Seriously? Calling this foot beautiful is like calling an elephant petite. This thing with five toes pointing the way is swollen, hairy, and sports colors an artist would covet. The only good thing is that it's probably been soaked and thus, has been de-stinkified. But still, it's hardly comparable to a sunset laden in hues of orange and yellow and brilliant gold while viewed from lofty mountain peaks.

Feet of the unknown

So, how about these feet, the owner of which shall remain nameless for obvious  reasons of privacy and protection from epic embarrassment. The bony, veined, crooked and calloused pedestals have been through the ringer, leaving more than a few toenails behind, some of which have never been seen again. Nine fractures, seven incisions, six screws. Too many miles to count--or at least recall. Nope. Not very beautiful (unless you happen to be an amputee willing to settle for anything).

But I'll tell you what is beautiful. It's the feet attached to the legs of my runners. Why? You might predict (quite accurately) that some of their feet have a good case of the uglies as well. However, that's of little import. What makes them so attractive is they carry their owners to live out a principle:

How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, “Your God reigns!” 

(Isaiah 52:7)

How, then, can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them? And how can anyone preach unless they are sent? As it is written: “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!” (Romans 10: 14-15)

Last Friday my team once again headed for the hills--literally. It was to be a short but intense workout with multiple repeats up and down a particularly difficult incline. As is the usual case, the faster runners surged ahead with the less experienced and slower runners struggling from behind. "As soon as you finish your workout, you can head back down the mountain," I offered, knowing that most wanted to shower and eat before enjoying the first offering of Friday night football.

But something happened. As the lead runners descended the hill for the last time, none left the day's arena. They began to cheer for the slower runners as they continued to confront the unyielding mountain. As I was finishing my own last round trip, I saw Phillip, a senior leader, running shoulder to shoulder with a lagging runner. That was his sixth trip up the hill. Once at the bottom and amidst shouts of encouragement for the finishing runner, he joined up with yet another team member and led her up the hill. He matched the girl step for step all the way to the top--again-- and for the seventh time. It's not that he wasn't tired after his hard effort on the first five. He simply saw the need to deliver good tidings in person.

As Phillip brought the last runner to the finish, high fives abounded and smiles flashed all around. As a coach, I was amazed. Not a single person left early though they were permitted to do so. They stuck around until the last person completed the workout. Then they ran as a happy but tired pack back down the mountain. Together. As one. Like people who really, truly care about each other. But as their coach, I can assure you this is not an uncommon event. For the runners on the Liberty Christian Academy cross country team, this is their everyday. It's who they are. It's what they do.

Sometimes their dog-tired, worn and wonderful, fast (and slow) feet run silent and deep. No need for loud and obnoxious. But other times, like a stampeding herd of buffalo, their feet stomp out the message: "Good news! Great tidings! Our God reigns!"

May these words of my mouth [the path of our feet] and this meditation of my heart
    be pleasing in your sight, Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer (Psalms 19:14).

 

 

A Review: "Take Time to be Holy" by Bob Hostetler

You are what you eat. At least that’s what some say, including my dear mother. Probably true. But perhaps just as valid is this: You are what you read. Think about it. My Mother (and probably many other mothers across this fine country) was also known to say, “Garbage in. Garbage out.” I suspect the opposite is also true: “Beauty in. Beauty out.”

 

Bob Hostetler recognized beauty and truth when he was a young man. He was introduced to Samuel Logan Brengle when he read a biography on the life of the Salvation Army’s evangelist. Inspired by that life story, Hostetler consumed all of Brengle’s writings before his twentieth birthday. In a day when comic books may have been preferred over works describing sanctification and holiness, Hostetler internalized the truth and worked out the reality of those revelations in his own life and writing..

Though Brengle met his Lord in 1936, his words live on—only better. In a bold effort, Hostetler, a distinguished author himself, edits Brengle’s devotional works in a compilation entitled “Take Time to be Holy.” Keeping the gist intact by replacing hard-to-understand language and archaic sentence structure, the year-long daily devotional offers substance to the reader. Each short reading includes a Bible verse from which a poignant and illustrative story unfolds. Within moments, the devotional reader is delivered a bit of truth on which to chew all day long.

“Take Time to be Holy” is a fluff-free zone. Read at the risk of developing spiritual insight and progressive sanctification through meditating on God’s truth and living out its application.

Available Sept 3, 2013   Check it out on Amazon!

Suckered

My gut told me that the gentleman who interrupted my walk to the car was going to be trouble. It's hard to tell how old he was. He looked worn from what I presumed to be a difficult life. A couple of teeth were MIA from his mouth. He wore baggy black sweat pants with the legs raggedly cut off about six inches above his holey tennis shoes. A much-too-big Liberty University red t-shirt topped the pants while one of those flimsy sackpacks draped across his back. It was hardly the image of a successful entrepreneur.

"Hey," he called to me. "Can I talk to ya for a minute? I gotta ax you sumpin."

Oh, boy. I started getting very uncomfortable but turned to watch him weave through the cars to come closer.

"My car be stuck in dat park'n lot down der. Can you gimme a couple dollas so I can take da bus back home. Ya, know, off Timberlake Road."

"Your car is stuck?"

"Yeh. Down der. Da alternator, it be bad."

"How much do you need?" I heard myself say, though I sincerely doubted that any car of his was "down der."

"Three or four dollas."

I hated the position I was in. Should I ask to see his keys? Should I call his bluff and ask to see the whole car? Should I offer to take him home? Uh..no. Scratch that third idea. He was a little too creepy for that. But still. Here I am standing in the parking lot of a Christian school, outside of a church, and contiguous with the largest Christian university. Would Jesus hand him some bucks or kindly suggest he get a job. Major ethical dilemma. But could I really say no? Though it was a long shot, what if he was telling the truth?

"OK. Here's four dollars. Make sure you get yourself home." I seldom carry cash but I was hoping he didn't notice the other bills that happened to be in my wallet after selling some books.

He thanked me but as I turned back to my car, I heard him approach another man sitting in a nearby car. Wouldn't you know it?!?! He started spinning the same tale. I turned, took several steps toward him and asked, "Hey, are you asking for more money?"

"You didn't give me 'nough. You gave me three and I need foe," he offered with a side of indigence.

"No, I gave you four. Count it." Sure enough, he held my four crisp bills in my hand. With that, he turned from his newest mark and I continued to my car. I'm sure the guy in his car was grateful for my interruption.

Having to run into a store across the street, I made the short drive and noticed the dirty, ragged man standing on the curb counting his money. And not just my money. In his hand was a stack of bills. Yep. I was suckered. I pulled beside him, rolled down the window and said, "Wow. You sure have a lot of money. How many people have you asked for money? And I thought you said you were getting on the bus."

The money was thrust into his pocket while he told me he really was waiting for the bus. "It comes by right here." I noted the absence of a bus stop sign. There was little I could do although admittedly, I wanted to ask for a refund. Nevertheless, I went on my way and by the time I came out of the store, he was being questioned by a policeman. Good. Maybe they'll put an end to his shenanigans; stop his lollygagging ways.

I was a little miffed at being taken. Still, a part of me felt sorry for him. Was there a mother somewhere who worried about her son's ability to make a way for himself? Was my money going to buy him a meal for the first time is a week? What if that was my kid, albeit grown? Would I be grateful for the kindness of a stranger? I was still mulling about these things when I came out of another store. Guess what? There he was, this time standing directly under the bus stop sign. I had to smile. I suppose he was taking the bus afterall, probably smiling and singing "Wee, wee, wee all the way home" (just like "this little piggy"), pockets full of a day's worth of money he wrangled out of people like me.

It was only four dollars. Yes, I'm pretty certain there was no car. And yes, I bet this is how he makes his living. Was he deceitful? Probably. But does that disqualify him from receiving a little mercy, a portion of grace? I concluded he was worth the risk.

"God," I prayed, "Take those four dollars and bless that man. Multiple it and let him see your hand. Help me see through the dirt and ugliness. Let me see a man who needs to be loved. And God, if you could, give me discernment. I want to be your hands and feet but I don't like being ripped off. Still, teach me. Was this a test? Is this what you were talking about through Matthew?"

“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ 

“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ 

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ “Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.  For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

“He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’ “Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.” (Matthew 25:34-46).

Okay. I get it. I think I'd rather be suckered than not see Jesus.

The Robertsons: Anything but quacks

I don't have cable TV. We live out in the country where there is no service. I don't have satellite either. Too expensive. Too slow. But I surely do not live in a social vacuum. I know the Robertson family is the cast of A&E's smash hit, Duck Dynasty. I also know they are an international sensation.

http://wac.450f.edgecastcdn.net/80450F/kygl.com/files/2013/03/robertson-family-630x409.jpg

The family's business of making duck hunting calls reaches back to the early 1970's. But from carving those calls out of Louisiana cedar, the company has come a long way. Now, they own the market with not only their calls but their brand.

So, what's their brand? Well, it has something to do with faith, family, and down-home, honest living. There are no pretenses. What you see is what you get. Long beards, unfamiliar names like Si, Jase, and Jep, loyal wives, lots of fun, and plenty of country cooking. It's nice to think that the bazillions of Duck followers really believe this family is for real. No quacks here. It's a reality show, right?

But are they? Pedestals and pressure cookers have a way of bringing out the bad. Boom! Just like that, the famous fall from grace. Consider all the Hollywood types gone a muck. It's hard to hide the real you when push comes to shove.

http://www.aetv.com/duck-dynasty/meet-family/jase-robertson/

It was reported last week that Jase, one of the big-bearded brothers, was escorted out of a swank New York City hotel, the Trump International Hotel. Jase described the incident on LIVE with Kelly and Michael. Apparently, the hotel employee, when asked where the men's room was located, mistook Jase for a homeless man saying, "‘Right this way, sir'" before escorting him to out the door, pointing down the street and quipping, "‘Good luck. Have a good day.’”

Now, Jase is a famous person. Jase has tons of money. Jase is highly recognizable. But did Jase take offense? Did he make a scene and demand the employee's head be handed to him on a silver platter?  Did he pack his bags and storm out, the whole contingent traipsing behind?

No. He simply walked back in, told his wife why he disappeared, and went on to laugh about the incident as "facial profiling." He even credited his escort as being "very nice,” He certainly did not take himself too seriously. Incidentally, he continued to stay at the hotel.

In comparison with those who act badly, I'd like to think that Jase, along with the rest of the family, live the way they do because of their faith. For, you see, there is a direct relationship between faith and works, between what's in the heart and what comes out the mouth.

An ancient Proverb says "The hearts of the wise make their mouths prudent" (Proverbs 16:23). But a writer a millennium later wrote likewise: "A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of" (Luke 6:45).

Good for Jase. Good for the whole clan. Their dinner time prayers are not a charade. Virtues and values are on display. There is no disparity. They live what they believe. And to be honest, they have it right. Living your faith is way more effective than screaming it.
 

Identify the caterpillars

Isn't it funny, perhaps even odd, where we find inspiration? I found it earlier tonight on Twitter, which in turn caused the gears in my head to spin at mach one speeds. Hence, I sit at my desk as others in my house peacefully (I presume) slumber, desperately trying to control the thoughts
wildly whizzing through the axons and dendrites in my brain.

It all began while I was doing my due diligence in connecting with coaches who might be interested in my latest book ("Best Season Yet: 12 Weeks to Train"). I read through endless bylines of fellow Twitterers and Twitterettes. And then I saw it. The words stopped me dead in my tracks. I'm not talking still sauntering, floundering, or even wiggling on the ground. I mean motionless. Dead. Done for. Slapped-up-side-of-the-head stunned. A football coach from Mesquite, TX, Daniel Penrod, had tweeted these words.

"Identify the caterpillars. Most have no idea they'll one day fly. Tell them, help them, guide them."

In that moment I knew I found the answer to a question posed to me so often these days. "Why do you teach? Why do your coach? Why did you leave your medical profession?" Though difficult to answer in the past, I now know. It's to become an entomologist. It's to identify all those crazy caterpillars.

Caterpillars are interesting little creatures. They are the larval form of butterflies and moths. Some are decked out in an array of colors. Some are hairy and bristly while others are smooth as their silk cocoons. Sometimes they can inch along an extended finger, tickling the touch receptors in our skin. But some caterpillars, harmless as they look, inject a stinging poison that surprises the unsuspecting.

For the few weeks that caterpillars are, well, caterpillars, they eat ferociously, able to chomp their way through entire fields of crops. The estimated 20,000 known varieties are often considered agricultural pests, doing more harm than good. But their period of robust activity and youthful destruction is short-lived. Soon they spin a silky cocoon to hang harmlessly from a branch during the pupal stage of life. To the bystander, it doesn't look like much is going on for one cannot see through the trappings and into the heart of the matter. To the outsider, the dormancy can be as frustrating as trying trying to bail out a sinking ship with a thimble.


A few weeks pass. Still nothing. Still nothing, that is, until one day when the cocoon opens to reveal a winged creature, the only insect with scaled wings. Not until the butterfly's body temperature rises to eighty-six degrees can it take flight. Some can fly to up to thirty miles per hour while others resemble slow moving targets at a blimp-like speed of five per hour. Varieties abound. Some sport colorful, beautiful wings, resembling a work of art and gaining quick attention. But some are not so bright, drab, even. These motley moths blend into their surroundings, hoping, at best, to avoid ravenous predators. I doubt, however, that neither the bold and beautiful nor the drab, not fab types ever thought they would fly high in the sky!

Can you see where I'm going with this? My students and athletes are like caterpillars. There are too many varieties to count. Each has his own story, her own background. Some are easy to admire but the poisonous ones make them hard to embrace. Still, we labor on and watch them enter a mysterious period, never quite sure about how (or when) they will emerge from waiting. As adults, we know the general outcome but sometimes forget to remind them of their own futures. If we did a better job telling them they're destined to fly, perhaps they would be less likely to be eaten up in the process.

"Do you love teaching and coaching?" I am often asked. Sometimes yes but no, not all the time. I don't always love those precious little caterpillars who can be demanding, annoying, and content in their mediocrity.  But do I love mile eight-four of a one-hundred mile race? No. Do I still race? Yes. Do I love toiling in my garden in anticipation of a bumper crop? Not when the sun is scorching. But do I still plant? Sure. Do I love the long hours of lesson preparation and planning? Nope. Not often. But do I still pour over the material? Absolutely. Did I love the pain of childbirth as I delivered a long-awaited child? Seriously? You're joking, right? Yeah. I even did that twice. But here's the thing. Not loving those difficult moments (maybe even hating them) is a fleeting emotion when the final outcome is considered. Just because a warm and happy glow is allusive does not mean the process is not to be embraced, not to be loved.


I want to see my caterpillars take off and fly, soaring high and far. I want them to understand the process. I want to remind them of their futures. I want them to see a bright hope. I want them to understand this:

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11)

Go ahead, inch along, all you caterpillars, for one day you will surely fly.

This is why I teach. This is why I coach.

LCA XC goes into the wild

What was I thinking?

It began as a simple idea: take a bunch of teenagers camping and running in the mountains. But most things that seem simple are about as easy as getting a put-it-together-yourself floor lamp back into the complex maze of cardboard and Styrofoam. Something normally gets broken or left out, neither of which would be a good thing as far as this little adventure goes. It would be extremely bad form to lose, break, or render useless any member of the team.

But the kids (defined heretofore as the Liberty Christian Academy cross country team) showed enough interest that left me with no recourse but to plan, prepare, and pray for the best. So it was set. August 5 and 6. When it was all said and done, nineteen kids signed on the dotted line. A few of my  runners didn't take the bait; didn't drink the Kool-Aid of how fun it would be to run about seventeen miles and summit three mountain tops all in a matter of one afternoon, evening, and then next morning. Their loss.

I figured I would be the only running adult. But who could I con into driving, sleeping on the ground, and cooking over ground-hugging grates? Hum. This might be tough. But sure enough, three dads stepped up and grabbed the golden ring. My young and currently injured assistant coach also made the trip as well as a twenty-something cousin of one of the girls. So, okay. I think I had the adult to kid ratio at an acceptable level.

"Coach," someone asked, "Are we going to do any team building activities."

I smiled before replying, "Yep. Go ahead and set up your tent." I was right. It was team-biuilding as well as highly entertaining.

With a show of hands, most of the kids had never run seventeen miles in a short period of time, even if divided into three different runs. And yet, they excitedly followed me across the parking lot and into the woods for the first assault on Harkening Hill and a slight detour to old Johnson's farm. We laughed, climbed huge rocks, and took breaks in the guise of photo ops along the way. The run was fun and relatively easy running for the back half of the miles. Hence, by the time we got to camp and were met with the smell of charcoal-cooked hamburgers, everyone had miles of smiles plastered on their face. Mountain #1. Check.

In the interlude between runs and after bellies had been satisfied, Dr. David Horton challenged the group with stories of record-setting runs, suffering and satisfaction, and the challenge of doing more than you think you can. As normal, the more he talked, the more the kids realized they were in the presence of someone very special.
 

Though all good things must come to an end, something else must follow. And what followed was a twilight hike to Buzzards Roost and Sharp Top Mountain. The sun set as we watched it's descent before running down the long and twisting road, a safer return trip than the rugged trail we climbed. Though hesitant at first, the group turned off their headlights, allowing their eyes to adjust to the darkness. They were amazed at how easy it was to define the road's surface. What the girls soon discovered, however, was their vision was not acute enough to pick up the guys hiding in the shadows. Time after time, screams rose into the night air as the girls startled at the bodies jumping out at them. Despite that, no one suffered a heart attack and all arrived back at camp, pleased with their nighttime run. Mountain # 2. Check.

I discovered that kids like to talk, cackle and squak- a lot - whether it be around the campfire or tucked inside their tents! From all the noisy bus rides, I should have expected as much. It was a fine line to walk between acting like a wicked witch and a permissive do-anything-you want mama. I certainly didn't want to have the park ranger come calling to chastise us. But never fear. They finally ran out of energy and drifted off to sleep, dreaming, I'm quite sure, of the adventures that awaited them come morning.

Well, maybe not, if their demeanor upon waking was any indication. As a group, they don't seem to be morning people. It took some effort to rouse the campers, especially the girls. But one by one, they staggered to the food table, tentatively chewed on Pop-Tarts, bananas and peanut butter. "We're leaving in 15." Nothing. No movement.

"We're leaving in 10." More dilly-dallying.

"We're leaving in 5." They hardly looked up.

"We're leaving now. Shoes on!" Shoes afoot, the group took off for the 2.7 miles up the Blue Ridge Parkway, made the equally long climb to the summit, enjoyed more rocks (yes, a common theme for the trip), before descending a technical, rocky trail. It was a long morning, legs were getting weary, and most realized they needed calories. Nevertheless, all made it back to camp in one piece, proud of their accomplishments.

Thanks, LCA runners (and parents) for trusting me. Thank you for loving adventure. Thank you for believing in doing more than you thought possible. Thank you for treating each other with love and respect. Thank you for making coaching a pleasure.

I love you, LCA XC.