The first time I was told I might have cancer was in 1973. I was a junior in high school, and had seen a specialist because of severe pain in a part of my body I really wanted to keep. The specialist said that it looked like I had a tumor, it might be cancerous, but if he had to remove my body part that I could still have “a normal life.” I don’t recall any sympathy or empathy as he delivered those lines to me. It was more of “this is the way it is, kid, deal with it.”
A few days later when I woke up after surgery, I looked at the bandages and wondered what was there and what was missing. It was a while before I heard the good news that I did not have cancer and still had all my body parts. I remember feeling relieved and grateful, but it didn’t become a turning point in my life after which I dedicated myself to smelling the roses everyday and all that kind of stuff. It had all happened pretty fast, and I didn’t have a lot of time before the surgery to ponder what cancer might have meant to me. Although my physical activity was restricted, within a few days I was back at school, going to class, doing homework, laughing with my friends, and doing all the kinds of things a 16 year old does.
The second time I was told I might have cancer was just over two weeks ago. I had been under the care of physical therapists and a sports medicine specialist for a pain in my left leg that just wouldn’t go away. The original diagnosis was a hamstring injured while running which turned out to be an accurate yet incomplete assessment. I was under treatment for most of the fall and into the winter before the specialist decided to order an MRI.
Two days after the MRI, I met with the specialist and a resident who was learning the finer points of doctoring. I wondered later what he learned that day. The specialist came in and announced, “I am afraid we’ve got some bad news, Mr. Bane. The MRI revealed that you have a large growth in your leg, and it might be cancer. It will have to be removed.” Now, I was already sitting down, so he didn’t have to say, “Mr. Bane, please sit down.” I didn’t fall over because I don’t think I absorbed what he said right away. My initial verbal response was: “Well, does this mean I’ll be in the wheelchair division (of races)?” No one laughed.
He took me out to a computer, brought up the MRI, and showed an image of a large mass that didn’t belong in my leg. He had a name for it that sounded less threatening than tumor, but within minutes I couldn’t remember what it was. He said he was turning me over to his partner whose specialty was surgery and oncology. Who wants to have an appointment with any specialist with the word “oncology” on his card, anyway? I was given a date for a week later and was out the door and into my car and driving home.
Not counting the time I spent waiting to be seen, the entire visit was about 15 minutes in length. Other than the fact that I got to see an MRI, the interaction was roughly equivalent to the “you might have cancer” conversation I had had 38 years before.
The events might have been similar, but my response to them was not because in the 38 years separating those “you might have cancer” conversations I have actually grown quite fond of living. As a 16 year old I didn’t want to lose that body part; as a 54 year old I didn’t want to lose my life just yet. I have learned in those 38 just what a loss it would be to die, for you see, I am not a Buddhist or a Hindu. I don’t believe in reincarnation. I am a Christian and I believe that this life is the only one I am going to have.
Now, you might be thinking about me: “What a dunce. Doesn’t he know that even if he has cancer, it doesn’t necessarily lead to death? And why did he immediately assume he has cancer anyway?” –OR- “What a shallow, faithless person (especially for an ordained minister). Doesn’t he know that everyone who lives will die someday? And doesn’t he realize what a blessed and long life he has lived compared to most of the world’s people? And shouldn’t he be looking forward to a future in heaven – the sooner, the better?”
Intellectually, I did know that a cancer diagnosis does not have to be fatal. I have known many people who have been successfully treated for cancer (even if they did lose a body part or two along the way). And I also knew that I have led a truly wonderful life with so many, many blessings. God has been very good to me. And after presiding at so many funerals, I think I have faced the fact that someday my body (like everyone else’s) will give up the ghost.
But my clinical intellect was no match for my emotions. Cancer felt like death to me, and I wasn’t prepared to die yet. My father died a week shy of his 48th birthday, and I remember the relief I had when I turned 48. I felt like I had passed an important threshold leading to a new phase of my life. Was this new phase to be so very short?
I have always kept a journal, but the day after the second time I was told that I might have cancer I stopped writing in my old notebook and started a fresh one. At the top I wrote: “The Rest of My Life Journal.” I feel that this second time for me is a turning point in my life regardless of how much longer my life might be. I don’t know what kind of turning point it will be yet, but I sense that it is pivotal.
Since I started that new journal, I have had surgery and a growth larger than my fist was removed from my left leg. On the back of that leg, I have an incision about seven inches long which is held together by staples. It looks like something stitched together by Victor Frankenstein, and once it heals it should provide a disturbing enough scar to scare the average child. If only short shorts were in fashion again.
Some people get a tattoo as a visible reminder of a significant event in their lives. I have thought about getting a tattoo before, but I won’t need one now. That scar will be my tattoo.
I still don’t know if I have cancer or not. The initial biopsy of a small part of the tumor was negative, and I should learn this week about the biopsy on the whole mass. I feel like I am running to escape the forest that is filled with monsters, I can see the clearing ahead, I glimpse the sunlight, I am almost there, but something might just get my ankle and pull me back in. I am not out of the woods yet.
Regardless of what I hear this week, I hope that I respond with a sense of gratitude and thankfulness because 38 years between my first and my second cancer scare is longer than what many people live. I haven’t just had a “normal life,” but a life richly blessed. I have no complaints to lift up to God or to anyone else. I’ll seek to be happy with whatever years I might have left. In the meantime, I try to live out these words of Paul in Romans 12:12: “Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer.”
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
I would give my right arm for...
Nine out of ten. That’s how many of the 2010 Oscar best picture nominees that I have seen so far. This tells you what I do with some of my free time. I call it “sermon research.” Just saw “127 Hours” a couple of days ago, and like some of the other nominees it is not a movie for everyone. I first heard the story of Aron Ralston (on whom the film is based) about three years ago, and I have shared it as a sermon example in our church as well as a lesson for churches I have coached. In my preaching, I almost always prefer true stories (no matter how many loose ends) to “minister stories” or fables such as the person throwing starfish back into the sea or the “I am a battleship/ I am a lighthouse” tale. Don’t even bring up Footprints. I figure that if I can’t find a true story to illustrate a passage of scripture, then I need to preach on a different text.
As you likely know, Ralston became famous for his courage in overcoming an incredible challenge. While hiking alone in Utah’s Blue John Cavern in 2003, Ralston became trapped when a boulder came loose and pinned his right arm to the cavern wall. During his 127 hours of captivity, Ralston explored a number of options before ultimately deciding to cut off his arm so that he could escape.
Ralston did not want to cut his own arm off but any less drastic measure would have meant his death. Before managing to free himself, he had even scrawled his name on the wall along with the date and RIP. He knew the consequences of staying trapped.
When I have talked about Aron Ralston, I have invited people to think about whatever it is that might be trapping them and holding them down. With some local churches, the large cost of maintaining an aging building is the boulder that is killing them and preventing them from realizing new life. Individuals (and organizations) are often held back by unhealthy relationships, patterns of behavior, addictions, or debts.
In many cases, the boulder (like Ralston’s right arm) was once healthy and life-giving. Those churches needed those big buildings back in their boom times. Those old patterns of behavior were once new and fresh and effective. But over time, healthy can become deadly. The rock on which people once built their lives now crushes them; the building which enabled ministry now prevents it. I have suggested to churches that in order to have a fresh start that they might have to cut off their right arm – that building which they love so much – because to stay in it will lead to the grave. The same is true for individuals. There is no question about whether it will hurt. It will hurt a lot. The only question is whether the person or group is willing to endure the pain so that they can be free.
There is an old expression that goes like this, “I would give my right arm for…” This saying expresses the passion that someone possesses for a certain goal and their willingness to sacrifice a great deal to get it. It is not meant to be taken literally. But Aron Ralston came to understand during his 127 hours of captivity that he would have to give his right arm if he wanted to live. It was not just a metaphor for him.
What would you give your right arm for? What are you personally prepared to sacrifice so that you might have new life? Or bring new life to others? Some individuals and organizations have already carved their names and dates and RIP’s on a wall in a cavern that will be their graves. They have chosen a path of pain avoidance. Their 127 hours are counting down. It is only a matter of time. But their choice to die does not have to be your choice to die.
I believe that God offers each of us choices that can lead to life. We always have a choice, but those decisions are often very, very tough. That’s why we try to evade them if we can. Ralston’s autobiography is called "Between a Rock and a Hard Place." Is that where you feel you are today? No matter what you decide to do, even if you choose to do nothing, there will be consequences, won’t there?
“I have set before you life and death, blesses and curses. Choose life that you and your descendents may life.” Deuteronomy 30:19
While he was trapped in Blue John Cavern, Aron Ralston had a vision of a young boy – a child he understood to be his son. In 2009, Ralston married Jessica Trusty, and in 2010 their son Leo was born.
As you likely know, Ralston became famous for his courage in overcoming an incredible challenge. While hiking alone in Utah’s Blue John Cavern in 2003, Ralston became trapped when a boulder came loose and pinned his right arm to the cavern wall. During his 127 hours of captivity, Ralston explored a number of options before ultimately deciding to cut off his arm so that he could escape.
Ralston did not want to cut his own arm off but any less drastic measure would have meant his death. Before managing to free himself, he had even scrawled his name on the wall along with the date and RIP. He knew the consequences of staying trapped.
When I have talked about Aron Ralston, I have invited people to think about whatever it is that might be trapping them and holding them down. With some local churches, the large cost of maintaining an aging building is the boulder that is killing them and preventing them from realizing new life. Individuals (and organizations) are often held back by unhealthy relationships, patterns of behavior, addictions, or debts.
In many cases, the boulder (like Ralston’s right arm) was once healthy and life-giving. Those churches needed those big buildings back in their boom times. Those old patterns of behavior were once new and fresh and effective. But over time, healthy can become deadly. The rock on which people once built their lives now crushes them; the building which enabled ministry now prevents it. I have suggested to churches that in order to have a fresh start that they might have to cut off their right arm – that building which they love so much – because to stay in it will lead to the grave. The same is true for individuals. There is no question about whether it will hurt. It will hurt a lot. The only question is whether the person or group is willing to endure the pain so that they can be free.
There is an old expression that goes like this, “I would give my right arm for…” This saying expresses the passion that someone possesses for a certain goal and their willingness to sacrifice a great deal to get it. It is not meant to be taken literally. But Aron Ralston came to understand during his 127 hours of captivity that he would have to give his right arm if he wanted to live. It was not just a metaphor for him.
What would you give your right arm for? What are you personally prepared to sacrifice so that you might have new life? Or bring new life to others? Some individuals and organizations have already carved their names and dates and RIP’s on a wall in a cavern that will be their graves. They have chosen a path of pain avoidance. Their 127 hours are counting down. It is only a matter of time. But their choice to die does not have to be your choice to die.
I believe that God offers each of us choices that can lead to life. We always have a choice, but those decisions are often very, very tough. That’s why we try to evade them if we can. Ralston’s autobiography is called "Between a Rock and a Hard Place." Is that where you feel you are today? No matter what you decide to do, even if you choose to do nothing, there will be consequences, won’t there?
“I have set before you life and death, blesses and curses. Choose life that you and your descendents may life.” Deuteronomy 30:19
While he was trapped in Blue John Cavern, Aron Ralston had a vision of a young boy – a child he understood to be his son. In 2009, Ralston married Jessica Trusty, and in 2010 their son Leo was born.
Friday, November 12, 2010
The Unbucket List
The Unbucket List
I attended a death conference recently at Akron Children’s Hospital. I decided to go because after an absence of many months death had come back to the church that I serve. After performing too many funerals in too few weeks, I wanted an opportunity to reflect on what I was doing before I had to sit down and compose yet another eulogy. It wasn’t called a death conference, of course, but instead was called “Befriending the Dying on Their Sacred Journey.” I was there with palliative care nurses, doctors, social workers, and a few clergy. You might think that the event would have been depressing or morbid, but instead it was uplifting and life-affirming. You can’t imagine how upbeat that hospice care workers can be.
The main presenter was a nun, Sister Mary Assumpta, and you know how much fun nuns can be. She wore the traditional habit of her order, and I kept thinking that a strong wind would lift her up into the air like the Flying Nun (I know it’s a reference showing my age, but deal with it). It sounds like a cliché to say that her remarks were deep and profound, but they were for me. She understands dying and living in a way that I hope to do so someday. I have thought of her comments and other parts of that conference many times in the past days. And I am sure that I will think of them tomorrow when I attend yet one more funeral – for the death of our longtime neighbor Joe Kelley.
One of the things that Sister Mary counseled all of us to do – those of us who know we will die someday and those of us still in denial – was to put together a Bucket List of things we want to do before we die to help us plan for and prioritize the days that we do have. One of the things on my list was to see a tearjerker movie starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman so that’s one thing that I can cross off.
Now I am not against making a Bucket List, but my thoughts on it are similar to those of Jonathon Beverly, Editor-in-Chief of Running Times magazine. Beverly wrote in a recent issue: “Many life-best experiences lack the obvious pizzazz to make a bucket list. If we focus too much on experiences ‘before we die’ we may miss the true joys of the days of that life.” Bluto Blutarsky once said something like this: “This can be the best day of your life.” Isn’t it true that sometimes the greatest experiences we have are not those we planned for or prepared for but were those we were open to when they came along? They would not have appeared on our list alongside things like climb Mt. Everest, run the Boston Marathon, attend a victory parade for the Super Bowl champion Cleveland Browns, hear Jim Bane preach, and so on, but we wouldn’t have missed them for the world.
If you had asked me to compose a Bucket List at the age of 18 or 21 or even 25, becoming a father would not have appeared on that list. I wasn’t against it, but I would not have thought that it would have been something that I had to do before my life was complete. I doubt that becoming a father would appear on the Bucket List of very many men, yet I cannot imagine living my life without the incredible experiences (and even the mundane days) of fatherhood. I’ll take being a husband and a father over any other thing that I could ever list on things I had to do before I died.
I have lost a lot of weight in the past year, and a number of people in our church have expressed concern about my health. One man asked me last week for the name of my doctor so that he would make sure never to be his patient since my weight loss obviously indicates substandard medical care. And the truth is, of course, that every day I get that much closer to the ultimate demise and failure of my body. But then so does everyone else. Even you.
If you have made a Bucket List and are diligently pursuing everything on it, then I salute you. But I would suggest composing an additional list which I am calling the Unbucket List. The Unbucket List would be those things that you want to make sure that you never do (or never do again) because they take up too much of the remaining hours that you have. For example, your Unbucket List might have things on it like this: Thinking about Sara Palin, Watching political commercials, Waiting in line for more than 15 minutes, Being angry about waiting in line for more than 15 minutes, Holding a grudge, Being held captive by guilt, Worrying about what anyone else thinks of you, Trying to earn God’s love which is already guaranteed, and so on. If we spend too much of our time on those kinds of things, we’ll never have a moment for the stuff that really counts, even those surprisingly deep events that occur when we least expect it.
What is on your Unbucket List?
I attended a death conference recently at Akron Children’s Hospital. I decided to go because after an absence of many months death had come back to the church that I serve. After performing too many funerals in too few weeks, I wanted an opportunity to reflect on what I was doing before I had to sit down and compose yet another eulogy. It wasn’t called a death conference, of course, but instead was called “Befriending the Dying on Their Sacred Journey.” I was there with palliative care nurses, doctors, social workers, and a few clergy. You might think that the event would have been depressing or morbid, but instead it was uplifting and life-affirming. You can’t imagine how upbeat that hospice care workers can be.
The main presenter was a nun, Sister Mary Assumpta, and you know how much fun nuns can be. She wore the traditional habit of her order, and I kept thinking that a strong wind would lift her up into the air like the Flying Nun (I know it’s a reference showing my age, but deal with it). It sounds like a cliché to say that her remarks were deep and profound, but they were for me. She understands dying and living in a way that I hope to do so someday. I have thought of her comments and other parts of that conference many times in the past days. And I am sure that I will think of them tomorrow when I attend yet one more funeral – for the death of our longtime neighbor Joe Kelley.
One of the things that Sister Mary counseled all of us to do – those of us who know we will die someday and those of us still in denial – was to put together a Bucket List of things we want to do before we die to help us plan for and prioritize the days that we do have. One of the things on my list was to see a tearjerker movie starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman so that’s one thing that I can cross off.
Now I am not against making a Bucket List, but my thoughts on it are similar to those of Jonathon Beverly, Editor-in-Chief of Running Times magazine. Beverly wrote in a recent issue: “Many life-best experiences lack the obvious pizzazz to make a bucket list. If we focus too much on experiences ‘before we die’ we may miss the true joys of the days of that life.” Bluto Blutarsky once said something like this: “This can be the best day of your life.” Isn’t it true that sometimes the greatest experiences we have are not those we planned for or prepared for but were those we were open to when they came along? They would not have appeared on our list alongside things like climb Mt. Everest, run the Boston Marathon, attend a victory parade for the Super Bowl champion Cleveland Browns, hear Jim Bane preach, and so on, but we wouldn’t have missed them for the world.
If you had asked me to compose a Bucket List at the age of 18 or 21 or even 25, becoming a father would not have appeared on that list. I wasn’t against it, but I would not have thought that it would have been something that I had to do before my life was complete. I doubt that becoming a father would appear on the Bucket List of very many men, yet I cannot imagine living my life without the incredible experiences (and even the mundane days) of fatherhood. I’ll take being a husband and a father over any other thing that I could ever list on things I had to do before I died.
I have lost a lot of weight in the past year, and a number of people in our church have expressed concern about my health. One man asked me last week for the name of my doctor so that he would make sure never to be his patient since my weight loss obviously indicates substandard medical care. And the truth is, of course, that every day I get that much closer to the ultimate demise and failure of my body. But then so does everyone else. Even you.
If you have made a Bucket List and are diligently pursuing everything on it, then I salute you. But I would suggest composing an additional list which I am calling the Unbucket List. The Unbucket List would be those things that you want to make sure that you never do (or never do again) because they take up too much of the remaining hours that you have. For example, your Unbucket List might have things on it like this: Thinking about Sara Palin, Watching political commercials, Waiting in line for more than 15 minutes, Being angry about waiting in line for more than 15 minutes, Holding a grudge, Being held captive by guilt, Worrying about what anyone else thinks of you, Trying to earn God’s love which is already guaranteed, and so on. If we spend too much of our time on those kinds of things, we’ll never have a moment for the stuff that really counts, even those surprisingly deep events that occur when we least expect it.
What is on your Unbucket List?
Monday, November 8, 2010
Are You Making Your Mark or Making a Stain?
Are you making your mark or making a stain? I thought of this question as I walked our dogs, Captain and Icarus, through the woods behind our house today. Captain and Icarus aren’t big dogs – they are pugs after all – but when they get into those outdoor settings they are determined to let the whole world know that they have been there. They try to mark as many trees and bushes and plants as they can. I am astonished at the number of locations where those pugs can leave their scent. Sometimes they both choose to mark the same spot, but other times they decide on separate locations. It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other as long as what they do happens outside our house. When it happens inside, it is a mess that needs to be cleaned up. It is no longer making a mark but making a stain. And just so Captain is not offended, I need to clarify that Icarus is the one who occasionally makes the inside mistake.
Our wise neighbor Susan was walking by our house with her dog Fletcher awhile ago, and we got into a conversation comparing people with dogs. She was the one who put the idea into my head that some people make their mark in life while other people just end up making a stain. It might sound like a crass analogy, but isn’t it true that some folks (often men) just seem to spend their time trying to leave their scent on everything? In fact, now and again two men are like Captain and Icarus each trying to make their mark on the same spot. There is even a saying for that which I won’t share here.
How do you know if you are making your mark or just making a stain? I think that if you are making your mark you are not just leaving your smell on something, but that you are putting down a marker – much like the Inukshuk stone statues that the Inuits used to leave. This signpost you leave is not a statue to your accomplishment but is a pointer for others that helps provide guidance for them as they walk the way behind you. Your example gives them hope and encouragement in their own life’s journey. When you make a mark, it is a gift to the whole community. Making a stain, on the other hand, is a selfish act that provides nothing of value to anyone else. It is your way to say, “I was here,” but it does not offer hope or encouragement that benefits others. And when you make a stain, people either have to clean it up or try to avoid stepping in it because no one wants your smell on them.
Most of us have goals, dreams, and hopes for our lives. Most of us hope to be remembered after we are gone. But will we be remembered for making a mark or making a stain? You can learn a lot from walking two pugs on a November afternoon. There is wisdom everywhere, isn’t there?
Our wise neighbor Susan was walking by our house with her dog Fletcher awhile ago, and we got into a conversation comparing people with dogs. She was the one who put the idea into my head that some people make their mark in life while other people just end up making a stain. It might sound like a crass analogy, but isn’t it true that some folks (often men) just seem to spend their time trying to leave their scent on everything? In fact, now and again two men are like Captain and Icarus each trying to make their mark on the same spot. There is even a saying for that which I won’t share here.
How do you know if you are making your mark or just making a stain? I think that if you are making your mark you are not just leaving your smell on something, but that you are putting down a marker – much like the Inukshuk stone statues that the Inuits used to leave. This signpost you leave is not a statue to your accomplishment but is a pointer for others that helps provide guidance for them as they walk the way behind you. Your example gives them hope and encouragement in their own life’s journey. When you make a mark, it is a gift to the whole community. Making a stain, on the other hand, is a selfish act that provides nothing of value to anyone else. It is your way to say, “I was here,” but it does not offer hope or encouragement that benefits others. And when you make a stain, people either have to clean it up or try to avoid stepping in it because no one wants your smell on them.
Most of us have goals, dreams, and hopes for our lives. Most of us hope to be remembered after we are gone. But will we be remembered for making a mark or making a stain? You can learn a lot from walking two pugs on a November afternoon. There is wisdom everywhere, isn’t there?
Monday, September 27, 2010
Do You Deserve A Medal?
When was the last time that someone pinned a medal to your chest, placed a garland of victory flowers upon your head, or handed you a trophy while saying, “Congratulations. Well done. We were all cheering for you to succeed and you did it.” Did you score a goal unit to win the game, correctly spell some obscure word to claim the spelling bee crown, or close the big deal to keep the company afloat?
A fancy medal was draped over my head as I bowed to accept it last weekend at Canal Park in Akron, Ohio. The fact that thousands of others were receiving similar awards did nothing to diminish my sense of personal accomplishment. I had somehow managed to stumble my way into the stadium after completing 13.1 miles as part of the Road Runner Marathon. I participated in the ½ marathon, others were part of relay teams, while still others ran the full marathon of over 26 miles.
A few days before the race, I had shared with the “Faith and Fitness” group at our church that I had three major goals: 1) Finish the Race, 2) Not Get Injured, and 3) Not Be Last. Well, as Meatloaf once sang, “Two out of three ain’t bad.” I thought I had stretched adequately (doing everything I had always done before), but there was too much lag time between my major stretching at 5:30 am and the start time of the race at 7:00 am. I stretched, ran a little, and walked a lot as I waited for the race to begin, but it wasn’t enough.
Race day was a beautiful morning in Akron, Ohio, and the temperature was around 60 degrees. Since I had never been in an event of this size before (about 7,000 total runners), it was a rush for me. As we gathered on Broadway Avenue in the moments before the race began, there was a smile in my heart and on my face. I was thrilled to be there and was paying attention to all the details.
About four months before that morning and without a lot of contemplation, I had registered for the event online even though the farthest I had ever run in my life was 5 miles, and I had just done that a day or so before. I knew I had to train so I averaged between 25-30 miles a week all summer. This was more running than I had ever done in my life. I felt like Forrest Gump – I started running without a lot of forethought and just kept going. Unlike Forrest Gump, I trimmed my beard and did not attract a single follower. Over the summer, I had a number of runs over 14 miles so I knew I was capable of 13.1.
While those in front (the real athletes) left the starting line at 7am, it took about four minutes for those of us in my part of the pack to even get to that line and over a thousand runners were behind me. People rang cowbells, the Ellet Marching Band was playing, and hundreds of people held up signs of encouragement. After a short distance, we crossed the Y Street Bridge and saw the sun rising on our right. Awesome is the right kind of word to describe that sight. I was looking forward to a joyful morning of running.
About two miles into the race, I felt an ominous twinge in my left hamstring, and I knew that my whole day was about to change. If I had been at home, I would have stopped running altogether and immediately treated my leg. But I wasn’t at home, and I still had 11 miles to run.
Over the next couple of hours or so, the twinge would become “a whole lotta hurt.” Every few miles, I would stop and try some stretching, but the pain would never go away. It was just a matter of how much it hurt. I discovered that if I slowed down that the pain was manageable for awhile. But if I tripped or lost my footing (which I did more than once), it was as if a knife was thrust into the back of my leg. I still appreciated the weather and the encouraging groups that cheered us all on, but that inner and outer smile were no longer present. Hundreds of people glided by me, and I knew that my personal time goal was not possible. My one and only goal became getting to Canal Park alive.
I would love to tell you that in the last couple of miles as we ran on the Towpath and then towards the stadium that I was blessed with a rush of adrenaline that compensated for the piece of bone that was sticking out of my thigh. I would love to tell you that, but it would be BS. There was no bone ripping through my thigh, but neither was there adrenaline or even those wonderful things called endorphins. Just a man feeling a lot older than his 54 years trying to gut it out fifty yards at a time. If you had seen me in those last couple of miles, surely you would have pitied me and wondered what bet I had lost that would result in me running 13.1 miles without any training. You may have concluded that I had been mauled by a wild animal who had granted me a few more minutes of life before he ran me down and finished the job. You would not have described what you saw me doing as running, but, man, it was the best I could do.
So when I managed to haul that nonfunctioning left leg and the rest of my body into Canal Park, it was with a greater sense of achievement than I previously would have thought possible. The medal did not say “Champion” or “Runner-Up” or anything as lofty as that. It said simply “Finisher.” And I was finished in a number of different ways.
I began by asking a question about you: when was the last time you had received a medal – this was my thinly veiled attempt to express an interest in you before I began a long essay about myself. But isn’t it true that most of your accomplishments in life go uncelebrated and unheralded? Sure, if you are lucky, you get awards now and again for things that someone else says are important. But some days even getting out of bed and going in to face your boss and your co-workers takes everything you’ve got, doesn’t it? Some of you who are teachers know how much you have to suck it up even to walk in the classrooms some days. And what about the parent driving one more time to pick up their child at the police station? Or the preacher having the guts to enter the pulpit Sunday after Sunday doing what they can to share God’s word with a group of folks who won’t remember what is said an hour later? Or the person who shows up at a church for the first time hoping to hear a word of hope? Or the person coming forth and being public about their sexual orientation? Or the son or daughter going day after day to visit their Alzheimer parents at the nursing home? Or the single mother who works numerous low paying jobs just to fall a little more behind in their bills every month?
Does anyone know what it takes out of you to live your life? Does anyone suspect or appreciate the struggles that you take on every day? When your personal goals get derailed, who weeps with you and for you and helps you pick up the pieces? Who cheers for you to get through your day? What marching band plays to encourage you?
A few days ago I received a medal. It’s a nice medal, but it is nothing compared to what some people deserve for getting through just one day of their lives. My medal says, “Finisher.” What would your medal say?
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Dreaded Husky Section
A law recently passed in Ohio requires schools to determine a student's BMI (Body Mass Index) in the 3rd, 5th, and 9th grades. This is one requirement of the law entitled Ohio's Healthy Choices for Healthy Childen Act. I became aware of it because the local school district where I live is attempting to opt out of this BMI screening which determines whether a person is underweight, healthy, overweight, or obese. If you don't know your own BMI, a number of online programs are available which will tell you what you have probably already determined from looking in the mirror. It just provides a sobering number that will likely depress you.
This new law brought back memories of the public humiliations I endured as a grade school student. Every fall and every spring, all of the children would be herded together in the gym to have their weight and height measured, called out (not whispered) to a person who would be recording it, and then later written down in our report cards. My class had not been introduced to the concept of the Bell Curve, but every kid would have immediately understood it. You see the goal of every boy or girl in my class was to fall in the great middle section of weight or height. No one wanted to be at the ends because the tallest and the shortest, the heaviest and the thinnest, were mocked by the merely average kids. I remember a girl named Kim G. running out of the room crying as she was jeered for being tall. She looked like a model - tall and thin with long dark hair. Kim was taller than anyone else at least for awhile, but I always competed for the crown of fattest and tallest boy. I knew I was fat even without a BMI screening, but apparently the other kids in my class had no idea I was fat until my startling weight numbers were read aloud twice a year. Thank God for Dave T., a gentle giant of a kid who came to our class near the end of our grade school years. Dave was a great guy (and still is), and he will always have a special place in my heart. Dave was a chunk bigger than anyone else and easily claimed the #1 spot on that Bell Curve. There was no silver medal (or attention) for being the 2nd fattest or 2nd tallest kid, and I was able to step into Dave's shadow.
Concepts like self-esteem had not been invented in my childhood, but now and again a few euphemisms were used for fat. When my mother took us back to school shopping in the fall, we always entered the boy's section with hope, but after scrutiny by the female clerks which sometimes involved a tape measure we were almost always sent off to the dreaded Husky Section. You see, "Husky" was not a breed of dog, but it meant "You are too fat for the normal section, kid." There might have been a simple minded child who said, "I'm not fat, I'm Husky," but most of us knew who we were. In the Husky Section, a clerk would throw a tarp over you, cut out a place for your head to poke through, and then give you a piece of rope to use as a belt. It was a simple look that worked whether you lost weight or became more Husky (which meant obese).
This new law brought back memories of the public humiliations I endured as a grade school student. Every fall and every spring, all of the children would be herded together in the gym to have their weight and height measured, called out (not whispered) to a person who would be recording it, and then later written down in our report cards. My class had not been introduced to the concept of the Bell Curve, but every kid would have immediately understood it. You see the goal of every boy or girl in my class was to fall in the great middle section of weight or height. No one wanted to be at the ends because the tallest and the shortest, the heaviest and the thinnest, were mocked by the merely average kids. I remember a girl named Kim G. running out of the room crying as she was jeered for being tall. She looked like a model - tall and thin with long dark hair. Kim was taller than anyone else at least for awhile, but I always competed for the crown of fattest and tallest boy. I knew I was fat even without a BMI screening, but apparently the other kids in my class had no idea I was fat until my startling weight numbers were read aloud twice a year. Thank God for Dave T., a gentle giant of a kid who came to our class near the end of our grade school years. Dave was a great guy (and still is), and he will always have a special place in my heart. Dave was a chunk bigger than anyone else and easily claimed the #1 spot on that Bell Curve. There was no silver medal (or attention) for being the 2nd fattest or 2nd tallest kid, and I was able to step into Dave's shadow.
Concepts like self-esteem had not been invented in my childhood, but now and again a few euphemisms were used for fat. When my mother took us back to school shopping in the fall, we always entered the boy's section with hope, but after scrutiny by the female clerks which sometimes involved a tape measure we were almost always sent off to the dreaded Husky Section. You see, "Husky" was not a breed of dog, but it meant "You are too fat for the normal section, kid." There might have been a simple minded child who said, "I'm not fat, I'm Husky," but most of us knew who we were. In the Husky Section, a clerk would throw a tarp over you, cut out a place for your head to poke through, and then give you a piece of rope to use as a belt. It was a simple look that worked whether you lost weight or became more Husky (which meant obese).
I don't know if stores still have Husky Sections. These days they might be called the normal section. With huskiness on the rise in our grade schools, I probably would not be a contender for fattest kid in the class anymore.
I would love to say that since leaving the Husky Section in middle school that I have never gone back, but it wouldn't be true. Like a lot of you, I have had challenges with weight (translation: I have been overweight and obese). If you are battling with your weight, don't give up. There is always hope - over the past year I have reduced my weight and am now at what the BMI measurement would call "normal" or "healthy." Will I stay there? I would like to say "yes." I hope the answer is "yes." But weight that has been lost has a way of finding its way back home, doesn't it? Even if you think you have left it in the dreaded Husky Section.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Dying in Amish Country
A few weeks ago I attended a funeral for an Amish man, the father of one of our members. I wasn't sure what to expect other than the fact that the funeral would be held at the home of the deceased. I gave myself extra time to get to the house - time that I needed because I had trouble finding the place due to the fact that the local newspaper had printed the incorrect address. I arrived about ten minutes before the service was to start - not in the house as I had expected but in the barn. A group of Amish men were standing outside the barn which looked to be packed with what I later estimated to be about 250 people. I was reluctant to seek a seat on the rows and rows of benches that looked almost completely filled. I wasn't sure of the protocol and did not want to offend anyone. I thought of first time visitors to local churches who just want to blend in and not cause any disturbance. I was prepared to stand outside for the service when one of the leaders of the event identified me as an outsider. Although I was wearing black and have a beard, apparently I wasn't blending in. He found a seat for me near the door. It was a seat I would sit in for the next two hours as three different preachers offered their interpretation of God's Word to the assembled mourners (the vast majority of whom were Amish). In those two hours, with the exception of a mother taking one of her children out of the barn, no one else moved an inch or spoke a word. On this hot July day with temperatures in the 90's, we just sat there and listened as each speaker preached mostly in English but sometimes in German. I later learned that a second funeral service preached entirely in German was being held in a tent on the grounds to accommodate another section of the large crowd.
After two hours had passed, each of us was given a chance to walk by the handcrafted wooden coffin. Approximately a half hour later, the coffin was loaded onto the back of a buggy for the man's final ride to the cemetary.
The whole experience was very powerful for me because it was unlike most of the rest of my life. It was not only low tech but no tech. The pace of their service was similar to the pace of the buggy which carried the coffin - unhurried yet purposeful. No one looked at their watches or checked their email, or texted one another. No one expected to be entertained by the proceedings or got up and left early after it went beyond one hour. There were no organs or pianos played let alone an electric guitar or drums. The service was clearly not designed to keep any short attention spans engaged. There were no media clips, PowerPoint slides, or "Three Keys for Dealing with Grief."
"I didn't get anything out of it," can be a common statement of criticism by dissatisfied worshippers. Most of us have heard or said those words ourselves. Most of us have probably felt that way. The Amish funeral experience caused me to look at worship from a different perspective. Maybe true worship is not about us getting anything at all. Maybe authentic worship is about God getting something out of us. Maybe worship is about God getting our time and our attention and our hearts and our minds. Maybe worship is not something that we consume as just one more bit of entertainment. Instead worship should consume us.
After two hours had passed, each of us was given a chance to walk by the handcrafted wooden coffin. Approximately a half hour later, the coffin was loaded onto the back of a buggy for the man's final ride to the cemetary.
The whole experience was very powerful for me because it was unlike most of the rest of my life. It was not only low tech but no tech. The pace of their service was similar to the pace of the buggy which carried the coffin - unhurried yet purposeful. No one looked at their watches or checked their email, or texted one another. No one expected to be entertained by the proceedings or got up and left early after it went beyond one hour. There were no organs or pianos played let alone an electric guitar or drums. The service was clearly not designed to keep any short attention spans engaged. There were no media clips, PowerPoint slides, or "Three Keys for Dealing with Grief."
"I didn't get anything out of it," can be a common statement of criticism by dissatisfied worshippers. Most of us have heard or said those words ourselves. Most of us have probably felt that way. The Amish funeral experience caused me to look at worship from a different perspective. Maybe true worship is not about us getting anything at all. Maybe authentic worship is about God getting something out of us. Maybe worship is about God getting our time and our attention and our hearts and our minds. Maybe worship is not something that we consume as just one more bit of entertainment. Instead worship should consume us.
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