"From Dust You Have Come", OR "Sacrificing"

Anyone else look forward to Lent every year?

Anyone? Anyone? Beuler?

Lent really is one of my favorite times of the year. And I think it all goes back to one particular Lent, five years ago. Until that year, I hadn't given much though to it; Lent had always seemed like something Catholics practiced, and I was a proud Protestant. I understood the forty days before Easter were special, because it represented Jesus' return to Jerusalem before the crucifixion, but it hadn't ever occurred to me to "give up" anything for Lent, like I'd heard some people do.

But the previous year had been a difficult one. My marriage had ended, and I'd had to learn to adjust to life on my own over nine very painful, confusing months. I'd gone through up and down periods of growing closer to God and then sliding away. All and all, my life had been a hectic roller coaster, and I decided I'd had enough. I wanted to grow closer to God, and Lent was the perfect season to do it.

So I gave up sugar. Not just sweets or desserts, but all refined sugar. No coffee creamer. No sugar cereals. No sugar in my pasta sauce or bread (it was really difficult to find those). No sucrose, fructose, or dextrose. No sugar substitutes, either (bye bye, diet soda). I had to consciously re-arrange my eating habits, shopping habits, and going-out habits to reflect what I had fasted to God over this time.

And I loved it.

I was thrilled with the difficulty of discipline. The extra time in the supermarket and looking at a restaurant menu reminded me of all that God had brought me through in the last year, and how far I'd come by His grace since the previous May. My fasting sugar wasn't simply done to improve my health, or so I could say to people, 'No thanks, I'm fasting sugar for Lent'; every time I craved sugar, or had to watch what I bought, I was reminded of God's faithfulness in my life.

Ever since that year, when I truly felt the Holy Spirit moving in me during the season, I have loved Lent. Even more than Christmas.

Tonight is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, and I was excited. The Ash Wednesday service is one of my favorite services of the year. I always felt moved by the Holy Spirit during the service, the calling for us to be holy, as Christ was holy.

My evenings are much more eventful now than they were during that year-and-change I was living on my own. I live much further from my church, and Hillary and I have to wrangle three little girls together to make it on time. Having to leave so early and get home so late makes it difficult, too, as we've actually got to start our bedtime rituals before we leave for church, just so we can get the kids in bed at a reasonable hour when we get home.

Maybe it was the devil holding us back. Maybe it was just poor planning on our parts. Maybe it was a little of both. But, no matter the cause, Hillary and I found ourselves pulling out of the house at 6:45, for a church service that was half an hour away that started at 7:00. There was no way we were going to make it.

So we turned around before we left our subdivision and returned home. I didn't make it to my beloved Ash Wednesday service.

I was so bummed that, when we got home, I put in my headphones and listened to some Ash Wednesday sermons on YouTube while I fixed dinner for me and Hillary. And, like God so often does when I'm in the wrong, He took the time I was chopping sweet potatoes into fries to set me straight.

If there was ever a single meaning for Ash Wednesday, it has long been lost to antiquity. Today, Ash Wednesday has many meanings. One, to remind us that we have come from the dust, and to the dust we will one day return (Gen. 3:19).  Dust and ash, by definition, serves no purpose; it's waste material, only good for throwing out or cleaning up. How much like dust are we to God! God has no necessity of us. He would still be as holy and righteous, ruling over His world, had He never brought man into existence. But that itself is a testimony of God's love: even though we are worth nothing, of no value, God still loves us and makes plans for our lives and desires nothing but the best for us.

Ash Wednesday is also a reminder of the Old Testament tradition of mourning, where the mourner would put ash on their heads as a way to humiliate themselves before God. Humiliate, in this sense, coming from its original root word, 'humility': to take a posture of humility before God in mourning over our own sin that has separated us from Him. During the forty days of Lent, we are to mourn for our sin, understand that it had separated us from God, and spend the season in repentance while we strive to imitate Christ's holiness, because it's God's will that we be conformed into the likeness of His Son. (Romans 8:29).

Lent is a time to prepare our hearts for the upcoming death of our Savior, just as he spent his final forty days in Jerusalem preparing for his own death. It's a time of sacrifice. It's a time of repentance and mourning. And most of all, it's a time to struggle for holiness, a struggle that may have left our sights in the previous year.

And if God was calling me to sacrifice for Lent, maybe the first thing He was calling me to sacrifice was my beloved Ash Wednesday service for the sanity of my family. Because if the service itself had become more important to me than what the service represented - a time of sacrifice and holiness to honor God - then, like many other things I'd given up to God in the past, I needed to let it go.

Don't get me wrong: I don't think there's anything wrong with being bummed because I missed church. There are definitely worse things to be sad about! But, if time simply wasn't going to permit it this year, I needed to pull myself out of my funk and find where God could use me at home. So I pulled out my earbuds, finished making dinner for me and Hillary, and started Lent by helping get my kids ready for bed with my wife.

I may not have gotten the cross drawn on my forehead with ashes, but it was still a reminder just what the season of Lent is supposed to mean. It's a season of setting myself aside to listen to the Holy Spirit's calling of my life. It's intentional denial of something I normally love, to remove one of the many sources of white noise in my life that prevent me from hearing God's calling. And it's a reminder that I'm a sinful man, that I mess up and need a Savior to remind me of my need for repentance.

I'm going to giving up sweets this year, with two exceptions: a little creamer in my coffee every morning (but no more than one cup), and whatever sugar substitute that's in Shakeology (my breakfast every day). I'm also giving up swearing; even though I don't do it much, it far too often makes its way into my private conversations. And I'm giving up useless internet time, because that bad habit often destroys my evenings and keeps me from making the most of the time God's given me.

Sweets.
Swearing.
And scrolling.

Those are my sacrifices for Lent. It's my prayer that God will use these fasts to help me grow closer to Him, that every time each of these fasts affects my life I'm reminded that I'm nothing but a pile of useless dust, beloved by God for nothing that I could offer Him, and that it was my sin that nailed Jesus to the cross, where He went willingly for me.

Happy Lent, everyone.

"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. 

"The Long Run", or "Local Wildlife"

It's been just about a month since my last entry. I don't mean to have such a large hiatus between posts. It's not that there's been nothing going on in my personal life and running life; far from it. It's just been difficult to convince myself to make time for blogging. 

Here I am again: King of Excuses. All hail. 

As anyone not hibernating will be able to tell you, this last winter has been pretty much the worst winter in memory. When I was in middle and elementary school, circa 1994-96, eastern Kentucky was routinely buried under two feet of snow at a time. But the snows weren't as frequent, as cold, or as long-lived as this year. That's put a real hamper on my training for what is shaping up to be a very active spring season. 

Last Saturday, Hillary and I ran the Run The Bluegrass Half Marathon at Keeneland Race Track. Well, she did the 7-miler, and I did the half. But we shared the common thread that the race distance was the longest distance that each of us has run in months (since the weather turned foul, as a matter of fact). 

Despite warm weather earlier in the week, the high that day was 42 degrees F. And it rained. For pretty much the whole race. 

And, despite this, here we are, smiling like lunatics when all was said and done. 

The picture quality is so poor because my hands were shaking from the cold. 

I posted a time of 2' 16", a full two minutes faster than I did last year, despite the strong headwind pushing against me, the old, worn-out shoes I was wearing (didn't want the rain to ruin my good shoes), and, of course, the cold and driving rain. Even Hillary said she felt like her time on the seven-miler was her best racing time in months, even though the crappy weather had kept her inside, too. 

So we both are optimistic about our future spring races! Take that, winter! 

But we're also both still sore, six days later. 

Let me make one thing clear: I'm the least responsible runner ever. I run simply because it's fun. I rarely record my speeds and distances, NEVER keep training logs, and never follow training plans, even though I want to do better at longer races. And very rarely stretch before races. 

So, when I left on Monday morning for a mission trip with my youth group kids, I may have still been feeling the pains of the race. And then I maaaaay have worked all week around Aldersgate Camp in Ravenna, KY, further exacerbating these pains. 

It was a good week, thought. Without going into too much detail, we spend the week helping the camp catch up on some maintenance projects that needed done to prepare the camp for its upcoming week-long summer activities. Many of my youth kids have had intense spiritual experiences at this camp (some of the even gave their life to Christ there), so being able to give back in a meaningful way was a great experience for them. Not to mention that it got me off my lazy butt during spring break. 

Yesterday, we finished our work a little earlier than expected, which resulted in a little extra free time. My back and right ankle had been killing me all week, and I could think of no better panacea than some road therapy. So I laced up the beaten pair of shoes I had brought, put on the shorts I had worn to pain a fence two days prior, and hit the rural road. 

There was no ATT signal this deep in the mountains of Appalachia (big surprise), so my GPS couldn't create a map of the road. However, the GPS satellites were still able to track my speed and distance. So I ended up with this haunting path, through the middle of nowhere. 

It was a good distance, and I even made a pretty good pace (a little slower than 10min/mile). I was chased by dogs at two different places on the trip (almost no one deep in the mountains of Appalachia ties up their dogs, much to the chagrin of runners). At one point the road wound between two cow pastures, and every one of the beasts watched me as I ran by, which was more than a little creepy. 

And, after about two miles, I saw this big fellah. 

Though you can't tell from the picture, this guy was more than a foot long, from beak to tail. After I showed the picture to my youth kids, many of them asked why I didn't pick up this massive snapping turtle and bring him back to camp. 

Bear in mind: these are city kids, who have never seen what a snapping turtle can do. 

As I've mentioned in previous posts, running is a form of therapy for me. It gives me a few moments to be alone, mull over the events in my life, and put things into perspective. I also consider it an act of worship, because it puts me out in a beautiful world created by God, and gives me a while to simply focus on Him and my own footfalls. 

I realized how short life is, and how my youth kids are, one day, going to look back on that mission trip with very different eyes than I will. I hoped I was able to be a good leader to them (this week, and every week), and I hoped I did something that week that really showed them who God is. 

I realized how much I actually missed Hillary and the girls. Having no cell service all week killed my connection to them, but keeping busy almost every minute of every day had distracted me until that moment. Then, on the road, I realized how much I ached to hold her in my arms again, how much I wanted to curl up with Faith and play Adventures Ponies on the My Little Pony website (it's a real game: look it up), and how much I missed Zoe's tight little hugs and simple requests for more milk or another fruit bar. 

And, after that, I once again realized just how amazing and faithful God is. Memories of the past few years sometimes return when I run, but lately they've been coming in the form of thankfulness instead of regret. Thankfulness to God, for all He has brought me (us!) through in the past two years, and thankfulness for His ability to create beauty from a complete mess. And, of course, thankfulness to Hillary, for being willing to listen to the inklings of the Holy Spirit. Because if we both hadn't been listening at just the right time, I doubt our amazing present (and amazing future) together would have ever happened. 

As I was finishing the run, storm clouds were rolling in over the mountains. I said a fast prayer, asking God to hold off the rain until I was safely back at camp. It seems He was happy to oblige, because the real downpour didn't start until after I had been back in the cabin for around fifteen minutes. 

It has rained for two days straight. I don't really mind. Because there are going to be more sunny days to run, more races to train for, and more days when God holds off the storms until I've found cover.