"Wearing Down", OR "Adjusting"

This is my first blog post in quite a while. Nearly five months, in fact. And I didn't actually realize just how long it had been until I typed the words.

Of course, I'll blame my lack of writing on the fact that I haven't had a laptop in a number of months.  I recently changed jobs, leaving behind a teaching job I loved at a school I loved. My previous laptop belonged to the school I'd been employed with for the last three years, and I had to return it to them.

So if the job was so great, you may be asking, why did you leave it? 

Simply? I felt called to do so.

The old job was a thirty-minute commute, one way, every day. The distance was putting a strain on Hillary, since she was solely responsible for picking up and dropping off the kids and the dog every morning to the places they had to be. That, and I wasn't making it home to my family until 5:30 or 6:00 every night, and I felt like I was missing out on valuable time. So I applied for a teaching job in the county in which we live, the school system in which my two stepchildren are enrolled. The same school system which didn't hire me last year, though I applied for multiple positions.

I was offered a job at a middle school less than two miles from my house. So I took it.

The year has been amazing. I love my students, I love my co-workers, and I love finally living and teaching in the same count, for the first time in nine years. I love investing in a community in which I am an active member.

But this is, after all, a blog about running. So it's time I got to writing about running.

At the beginning of August, I found myself nursing a hamstring injury which sidelined me for two weeks. I had been ignoring it since the first week in April, trying to convince myself that running through the pain was the best medicine. Turns out, it wasn't. When I finally saw a doctor at the beginning of August, he told me to take it easy for two weeks, and he prescribed some stretched to engage in when I returned to running.

 So,  I begrudgingly took it easy for two weeks. Two weeks that, it seems, have set me back YEARS in my running ability.

Even now, being back to running for nearly two months, I feel slower and more out of shape than I ever have. I run out of energy quicker. I feel the usual running aches and pains sooner. I feel worse when I finish. And my stupid hamstring STILL hurts.

Am I just... getting old?

Yes, I've officially been a dad for more than a year now, but it feels more cemented in reality this year than it did last. Maybe it comes from being recognized in the community as "Faith and Zoe's dad". Maybe it's because I can actually pick up Faith from her after school program at a decent hour, and actually spend real time with her. But "Dad" feels like a deeper part of my soul now than it ever has. And I could not be happier.

But does this mean I have to get "old", too? Is my body suddenly wearing down quicker, just because I feel older than I ever have? I'm not yet thirty three. Guys twenty and thirty years older than me are beating the pants off of my best marathon time. So what's the matter with me?

My brain is trying to attribute it to the fact that I have only been able to do short runs lately (running in the morning is very doable, but my school starts so early that I can never go long). I guess I'll find out next weekend. I'm running the Iron Horse Half Marathon in Midway, Kentucky, just a few miles from our home. Maybe I'll break my old half marathon time. Maybe I'll simply finish feeling good. Or maybe I'll be hobbling around like a lamed animal after eight miles.

The problem is... I'm not sure what I'll do with myself if it's the latter.

"Choosing Not to Share", OR "Butter"

"I feel thin, Galdalf... like butter, scraped over too much bread."  - Bilbo Baggins

This has been the theme of my life, as of late. And I hand't actually realized it until very recently. Within the last week, to be exact. 

Two weekends ago, Hillary and I went to Cincinnati for the Flying Pig Marathon weekend. Among the festivities were a 5K, 10K, kid's 1 mile fun run, 2 mile "run with your dog" jog, half marathon, and full marathon. For the truly insane, the Flying Pig offered the Skyline Chili 3-way and 4-way challenges: to run the 5K, 10K, and half marathon or full marathon, all in the same weekend. 

I was registered for the 4-way challenge, plus the 2-mile dog run; a grand total of almost 38 miles. Because I have a death wish or I want to start hating running or something. 

We might have gotten up a little early for Rory's tastes. 

The races on Saturday (10K, 5K, and dog run, in that order) went off without a hitch, pretty much. I had some minor hamstring pain because I didn't stretch properly, but Hillary and I wound down that afternoon by watching The Avengers: Age of Ultron in the Newport, KY theater. Sitting on my butt for 3 hours watching superheroes knock each other senseless was just what the doctor ordered. 

Not to mention a late brunch at First Watch. Rory sat in the booth like this the entire time. He ate bacon. 

Sunday morning found Hillary running the half, me running the full. I didn't see her after out separate corrals split, but I managed to snap some pretty good pictures. 

And yes, I took pictures of many of the other mile markers, but this was the one that mattered most. Mainly because of how much pain I was in when it was taken. 

When all was said and done, I finished the marathon in 4:51:39; more than TWENTY MINUTES faster than when I ran the same course last year. I felt much worse after this race than I did the last one, though, which I guess is a side effect of pushing myself harder. If "no pain, no gain" is a universal truth, then the flip side, "have gains, have pains" is also true. 

Hillary was long finished with her race by the time I crossed the finish line. Because I was sore, tired, and more than a little sick to my stomach, I wanted nothing more than to find my wife and begin my recovery. 

She had set up camp in Panera Bread. A mile from the finish line. So, medals jangling around my neck, I trudged one more mile through downtown Cincinnati to find her. 

What feels like an bajillion agonized steps later, I turn the corner to Panera Bread. As I make my final approach, a voice calls out to me: 

"Hey, what're those?" 

I stop and turn. There's a homeless man, whom I must have overlooked because my sights are set on the restaurant that contains my wife. He's sitting against a road sign and pointing at my medals. 

"Oh, they're medals," I say to him, gesturing. "There was a marathon in town today." 

"Oh," he replies. "Can I see?" 

I am in an unfamiliar city. I am physically exhausted. And I have no idea who this guy is. Why does he want me to come closer? Is he going to stab me and try to take my precious, coveted medals? The things I worked so hard for? 

"Sure," I say, against my better judgement, and take a few steps toward him. He approaches me, but I stay outside his arms' reach and display the medals. 

He looks at them with interest. "What do they say?" 

I'm not sure if he actually can't read, or I'm just standing too far from him. But I read the inscriptions to him anyway. Then, as quickly as possible, I step away from him and toward Panera. My wife is a mere few dozen feet away. 

"Hey," he calls to my back. "Are you going to be here this evening?" 

I have no idea why he would ask this. But I hastily reply, "No, me and my wife are going back to Kentucky in a few hours. I'm a youth group leader at my church, and we have a meeting tonight." 

It wasn't until I was inside the restaurant that I realized I had said the worst possible thing. 

It wasn't a coincidence that the homeless man spotted me where he did. Cincinnati is a huge city, and it has more than its fair share of homelessness. When I was running the marathon, and thus during the trek to Panera, I didn't have a dime to my name. But God chose to have the homeless man cross my path right when he did: when my wife was mere feet away, with my wallet, inside a restaurant. It was literally the only point in the day when I could have purchased a meal for this man, shared some testimony with him, maybe learned a little about him. 

Instead, I let the opportunity pass me by, fueled by excuses of "I was filthy, exhausted, hungry and sick to my stomach". But those things were temporary, because a shower, a soft bed, a good meal, and time with my wife were in my near future. It would have taken no time at all to invest in that man. 

Instead I chose to tell him who I worshipped, who I represented, and then did the exact opposite of what my Master would have me do. 

Needless to say, this experience (or lack thereof) has had me examining my spiritual walk over the last few days. No doubt it's not where it should be, or else I would have been much more ready (and able to  hear) the Holy Spirit's call to the opportunity. So where is the disconnect? 

Aside from the needing a long holiday from which I don't intend to return, I really identify with Bilbo. Lately I have spread myself over so many tasks that none of them are really getting the full attention they deserve. 

Husband. 

Dad.

Runner.

Teacher. 

Assistant youth pastor. 

Amateur Writer. 

So many hats, and so little time. Literally. So much of my time is eroded that my personal spiritual walk has suffered. I rarely make time for scripture or study. My prayer life has suffered. And when my spiritual life suffers, all of the aforementioned pursuits go with it. Wash, rinse, repeat, in the same vicious cycle. 

It's very clear to me that something has to give. But what? 

The fact is, I'm not going to be able to tell where my energies need to be directed unless I fix this problem at its source: my walk with God. He knows much better than I do where I'm going to be most effective. And, until I clear up the communication issue with Him in my heart, I'm not going to be able to hear his prodding. Missing my opportunity with the homeless man proved that. 

So, it looks like my next, great adventure lies in lots of prayer, quiet study, and patiently listening for His voice. 

"Dropped"

Edit: I was going to proofread this post for spelling and grammar. Then I thought about the content of the post, and decided against it. So spelling and grammar mistakes have been intentionally left. 

I want to be a writer.

I'm not talking about 'being a writer' as 'one who writes'; if that's the accomplishment I'm looking for, then I've been that since I was old enough to pick up a pen.

No. I want to be an author. A published, read, known, and liked author.

For years I've been writing the various stories that simmer to life in my head. There are literally dozens of them, hundreds of thousands of words, recorded on blogs and external hard drives and clouds and Livejournal (yeah, I've been writing since Livejournal was a thing). Some of it has made it into this blog, some of it can be found on Cut and Dry, my creative blog. A large part of it has never been read by eyes other than my own.

I do it because I've always believed in honing my craft. I do it because I like it, and I've always considered it baby steps toward my dream.

Last year, I hit a milestone. I signed my first publishing contract for my young adult series, Who Was Veronica Dawson? Yes, it was a small market publisher. Yes, they specialized in cheesy romance novels. Yes, they wouldn't be able to give me quite the reach I wanted. But they wanted to publish my work. After all, it was my first publication; how could I expect to be picked up by one of the biggies (Penguin, Scholastic, and their ilk) right off the bat?

I received an email very soon after explaining they'd passed my manuscript off to an editor. Seeing as I'd edited the thing a dozen times myself over four and a half years, I was pretty sure my editor was going to appreciate the breather from the rest of the pile in his or her inbox.

Months passed with no word from my editor or publisher.

Finally, in January, I received an email from my publisher saying they'd assigned my manuscript to another editor.

Fine, I thought. Publishing is a "hurry up and wait" business, anyway. 

On Friday, March 6th, I received an email from my publisher saying they'd fired my editor (whether this was the original editor or the new editor, I wasn't informed). Because of this, they had decided to release my manuscript, cutting all ties with me.

I read the email on my phone, while I was in a McDonald's drive-thru.  And, at first, I didn't think much of it. I'd suffered rejection in my writing "career" before (hundreds of times before, as a matter of fact), so one more wouldn't matter. I got my cup of coffee and went about my day.

As things tend to do, the situation began to look more grim the more I examined it.

I started writing the prototype manuscript for Who Was Veronica Dawson? more than five years ago.

It's current, finished incarnation is more than three years old.

 I've received hundreds of rejection letters from agents, publishers, and the like.

My blogs, where I post my writings for free reading, have a reach of only a few dozen.

The more my mind simmered on the facts, the more I began to doubt myself. All this time, I've told myself that the problem lies in those who have rejected my work, rather than with me. But what if I'm wrong?

What if I am simply not a good writer?

I guess everyone, while pursing a dream, encounters seasons of doubt. It's probably normal. I've definitely had moments like this in the past, when a wave of rejection letters returns after I've spend days sending queries. But it feels different this time. The rejection, and my position relative to my dream is more stark than before.

Because, no matter how I try to paint it, years of trying has yielded no progress toward my dream. Today I am, quite literally, at square one.

Somehow I'll muster the confidence to find more agents and publishers. Somehow, I'll compose a new query letter, research their websites, and try to say all the things I need to say to convince someone that my manuscript would be a good "fit" for their organization.

There's a voice that follows anyone who pursues a dream. It's the voice that tells you your time would be better served doing something, anything, else. The voice that tries to keep tally of the countless hours you sink into the dream, wondering if anything will come of it. The voice that reminds you how else you could have spent that time, instead of throwing them into the endless pit of said pursuit.

The next time I send out query letters will be different than the others.

This time, the voice will be saying, "Maybe it's time you quit."

And this time, I won't be certain it's wrong.

"Footprints" **OR** "Just One More Step"

When I first started this blog, around two or three years ago, it was intended as a running blog. I looked all over the internet for review of energy products for runner (gels, chews, blocks, etc.), and, finding so such thing, decided to start my own. And for the first few months, that's what the blog was about.

Then came my divorce, and the posts stopped. I had... other things on my mind.

Since my remarriage to a wonderful woman and gaining two amazing stepdaughters, the posts have taken a much more personal turn. Heck, when so much starts going right after it went wrong for so long, how could I NOT write about it?

Running was always a therapy exercise for me. So, these days, when I run, my mind drifts back to where I am now, and what I had to go through to get here. Consequently, so do my posts about running.

And, in case you don't live in the Bluegrass State of Kentucky, there is currently a lot of snow on the ground. Like, a lot. A lot, a lot. Eleven inches of snow in eight hours.

My wife snuck a picture as I was shoveling the driveway. You never appreciate the varying topography of your driveway until you have to shovel almost a foot of snow off it. 

School's been cancelled for two days in a row. Hillary and I have been stuck inside with our four- and five-year old daughters. And, even with as much as we love each other, all of us were starting to get cabin fever. 

Hillary's parents took the girls for a few hours this afternoon. 

Hillary went to get a diet coke. 

And I went for a run. 

I've got to hand it to Woodford County: the roads of our subdivision looked amazing this afternoon. The road crews must have been scraping for hours, because not only were the roads clear, but the sun had even dried up most of the remaining slush. So, for the isolated roads of the sub, the running was smooth. 

Sidewalks, however, hadn't been shoveled at all. On the contrary: all the snow pushed off the road had to go somewhere, making drifts on sidewalks upwards of three feet high. 

So I hit the local bike path, and broke out these bad boys: ice grippers that fit over the bottoms of my running shoes. 

I didn't take into account that they'd be less effective when the snow is past my calves. Still, better than nothing. 

There are a few things about running through deep snow that I didn't consider before lacing up. 

 - The energy needed to lift my legs high out of the snow drifts. 

 - The energy needed to fight the drag from snow, even when only the tips of my toes dragged through it. 

 - The energy needed to compensate every time my feet landed and slipped at an angle other than 'straight forward'. 

- Basically a whole lot of energy factors that wore me down, quickly. 

Immediately, I noticed that I wasn't the only one crazy enough to go for a run today. There was one set of footprints in the deep snow, not very old. I tried my best to stay in them: less snow to haul with my shoes meant more energy I could use for running. 

Despite my best efforts to stay in the established footprints, the run was slow and difficult. And then I came to something I didn't expect. 

The footprints stopped. 

Though there hadn't been anything to indicate such, I had assumed that I could follow these footprints as far as I wanted to go. I trusted that someone else had been ahead of me, had laid a path I could follow. There was something strangely daunting about being the one to blaze on past those footprints, and I'm not talking just the tole it was going to take on my already tired (and cold) legs. 

But I wasn't done with my run. So I pressed on. 

It was difficult. For a while, I wanted to stop and rest. But that wasn't really an option; if I stopped, then I was simply standing in foot-deep snow, getting colder by the second. If I wanted to stay warm, and watched to reach the end, I had to keep moving, no matter how slowly. 

Eventually I'd had enough, and I came to a cross-road that had been plowed by the persistent Woodford County road crew. I stopped to catch my breath, and when I turned around, the only footprints I saw were my own. 

They took a while to make. They left me tired and sore, and the thought of having to go through them again to get home was intimidating. But they were mine, and someone else could walk in them if they came this way, just like the first set I had used. 

There are a lot of metaphors in this entry for my trials of the last two/three years.  

I eventually made it back to the paved, easy roads of my subdivision. And it, like many subdivisions, is full of large plots of land simply waiting for some enterprising developer to snatch up and fill with affordable luxury homes. 

Someone else got to a particularly large, undeveloped plot today, though, and left a message for all to see. 

I don't know who turned this field into a giant Etch-a-Sketch, but I was glad they did. Because, even though I looked back and saw only one set of footprints, I knew He was still with me the entire way. Sometimes, God doesn't carry you; instead, he simply whispers, quietly, "Just one more step." 

Why I Hate Winter: A Thoughtful Tirade

Why I Hate Winter: A Thoughtful Tirade 

Winter is here, yet again, in case the Christmas lights and Santas on street corners hadn't alerted you. Of course, I've been seeing signs of Christmas since early October, so that's not as telling as it used to be. 

The time right after the holidays always puts me in a certain mood. While I'm normally a very introspective person, looking at a brand new year always makes me examine the Graham that I was in years past. I dredge up old memories, old hurts, old joys, and wallow in a introspective pile for a time. It was during such a wallow when I figured out the real reason I hate winter. 

Let's get one thing clear: I HATE being cold. I would rather be sunburned and drenched in sweat than even mildly chilly. This is usually the part of the discussion where a winter-lover brings up the old defense, 'You can always put more layers on if you're cold, but there are only so many layers you can take off'. This is, of course, a total load. For me, there is a point of being cold when the chill creeps down into my bones. Putting layers on doesn't help; the cold is inside me. Piling more things on top will not get rid of it. 

Though I do hate the cold, it's merely the secondary reason I hate winter. 

Kentucky has very unique weather patters. We haven't had a white Christmas is nearly ten years, but last year my school was cancelled a whopping fifteen days for snow. This doesn't seem like a big deal, but living in it for my whole life has made me resent the entire season. 

Because, you see, winter is a lair. 

Last summer I was married to an amazing woman, gaining two stepdaughters along with her. A time of uncertainty and fear, unlike any I had ever known, suddenly ended. Now, it feels like my life has actually started; everything up to this seems like practice, a scrimmage. Life has begun. 

Today is the first day of a new year. To me, this feels like Year One. I picture what the girls will look like in ten years. I try to figure out who they'll be. I imagine what Hillary and I will have to replace on the house in a few years. I wonder where we'll go on vacation. I'm planning new running routes from the house we live in, where we've planted roots, deep and strong. 

Winter had given me a beautiful day outside, with sunshine and a blue, cloudless sky. It's set my mind alight with possibilities for this year, next year, ten years, twenty years from now. The beginning of January is always like this in Kentucky. 

But winter, like a spoiled child, never knows what it wants. Tomorrow, the temperature might struggle to crest the 30's (for you Celsius folks, that right around zero). Then the sky will turn gray for more than a month. Maybe it will precipitate. Maybe it won't. Maybe it'll be snow. Maybe, sleet. Maybe, freezing rain. Or maybe it'll taunt me with an afternoon in the 60's, only to pull it from beneath me like Lucy with Charlie Brown's football. 

I hate winter for the same reason I hate reality TV and politicians. Winter is disingenuous. It smiles at your face and laughs behind your back. It hands you a cup of coffee, but spits in the cup. Put simply, it is a liar and a cheat. 

I suppose the real reason I hate winter is because it reminds me so much of that cold, uncertain time in my life. There were no visions of the future, because I didn't know I had a future. There were no long-term plans, because I couldn't see further than the end of my nose. Winter, perhaps, strikes a little too close to home. 

That time of uncertainly in my life is over, even if bleak mid-winter is just getting started. There will be cold days. There will be snowy days. There'll be days when muddy sleet makes the garage a mess and ruins the floorboards in my car.

But the winter will end, and spring will come. I'm already picturing what it'll be like.