"Basketball Rage" OR "Obedience, First"

The Kentucky Wildcats basketball game is over. My blood pressure is returning to normal. I said some unkind things about Bill Self, Jay Bilas, and the Kansas Jayhawks in general. I might have gotten into flame wars on Twitter and Facebook. All in all, a whole plethora of shameful behavior on my part, no matter what happened in the game.

So now, the game is over, and no amount of complaining or whining is going to change that. I'm already thinking about what I'm going to do at school on Monday. I'm thinking about my grandfather, still in the final stages on Alzheimers, whom I saw for the first time in over a year today. Real life is starting to set in again, as the intensity of sports begins to fade.

And yeah, as I think about my atrocious behavior during the game, it makes me ashamed. It makes me hope that those who know me, and who know I claim to follow Jesus, never see me during a UK basketball game. Actually, scratch that: It makes me hope they've never seen me during a UK basketball game, AND it makes me hope I'll be able to keep myself under control for the next game.

For someone who claims to follow Christ, I find myself having a lot of "I hope no one I go to church with saw that" moments. But at least I find myself in good company. Even those who followed Jesus full-time, in the flesh had things in their life they'd hope people not see. Not because it reflects badly on them, because it reflects badly on their Master.

Unfortunately, we're not treated to much of their personal stories. All these men where human, just like me. They lost their cool, sometimes. They got frustrated. They felt cheated. Did they struggle, like I struggle?

I can' help but feel short-changed as I read the stories of some of the most significant characters in scripture. Even people who played a huge role in the ministry of Jesus, who were in his innermost circle of friends, are maddeningly glossed over in biblical history.

Take Matthew, for instance.

We know next to nothing about Matthew except that he was a tax collector, and that he was a Jew. To a certain extent this is enough, because so much is implied. As Jewish collector of Roman taxes, Matthew is a traitor. A pariah. Probably enviable only to the lepers, social outcasts themselves. But there is still so much of the author missing from the Gospel that bears his name.

What was Matthew's life like before Jesus called him to leave everything and follow Him? Had he been looking for an excuse to quit his job? I like to believe he had been, because I can't imagine the taunts and ridicule he dealt with from his fellow Jews when they had to come to him, one of their people, and pay taxed to the foreign force occupying their holy city. And the tax collectors had a reputation of being crooks; was Matthew included in them? Did he have days where he resisted skimming a little off the top, trying to show his countrymen that he was still one of them? Where there days, after he could no longer take the jeering, that he stole an extra portion for himself, feeling he deserved it for having to put up with such torment?

Did he worship God? Could he even show his face in the Temple?

In my experience, Jesus rarely sends only one person to work on the heart of someone He wishes to save. How many other people had tried to soften Matthew's heart? How many times had he been invited to return to the Temple, only to refuse because he was afraid of the cries of 'hypocrite' and 'sell-out' and 'traitor'?

What did he see in the face of Jesus that awakened his soul? No one simply gets up and leaves a job, especially one for which the government could bring down the full force of the law upon you for abandoning your post. Yet he saw something, heard something, in Jesus' simple phrase of, "Follow me," that set his heart afire, telling him:

"This is the moment you've been waiting for. Now is the time."

After Matthew started following Jesus, did he have doubts? Regrets? Moments when he did something, or said something that cast Jesus in a bad light? Did Jesus ever have to pull him aside and say, "Look, if you're going to say you're my follower, you have to stop saying things like that."

Did he still see the same spark in the face of Jesus that caused him to want to follow him in the first place, even months and years later?

Yeah, this seems like a lot of questions to ask, this late on a Saturday night, after such an emotionally exhausting basketball game. But this is sort of what happens when I come down from a "sports high." Reality becomes so much more stark and bright. I have to face the words I yelled at the television, my cell phone, which was thrown across the room right before halftime, and re-read my tweets and Facebook posts to make sure I didn't actually type all the expletives that were going through my head.

I wonder how it was so easy for Matthew to leave behind everything - his old self, his old job, his old preconceived notions about God and faith and religion - and boldly go forth and follow Christ. And I wonder why my vocabulary from my 'old self' always seems to come out when a basketball game's officiating is less than fair. All it took was one phrase from Jesus, and Matthew leaves behind his oldness for Jesus' newness. How did he do it?

Seeking answers, I opened my Bible. Almost immediately, I found a page of commentary from Dietrich Bonhoeffer regarding the calling of Matthew and Jesus' simple phrase of "Follow me."

This encounter is a testimony to the absolute, direct and accountable authority of Jesus. There is no need of any preliminaries, and no other consequence but obedience to the call. Because JESUS IS THE CHRIST, He has authority to call and demand obedience to His word. Jesus summons men to follow him, not as a teacher or a pattern of a good life, but as the CHRIST, the SON OF GOD. 

In this short text Jesus Christ and his claim are proclaimed to men. Not a word of praise is given to the disciple for his decision to follow Christ. We are not expected to contemplate Matthew, but only HE WHO CALLS, and his absolute authority

According to our text, there is no road to faith and discipleship, no other road; only the call of Jesus. 

After reading that, I realized that my focus was on the wrong person. Matthew's life isn't explained in painstaking detail because it simply doesn't matter, in the grand scheme of things. It doesn't matter if he had doubts or fears or wanted to quit. What mattered was that he chose to follow Jesus. He was willing to open his heart to the call for Someone greater than himself, and Jesus spoke straight to that.

If I find myself wondering how Matthew so easily ditched his old life and started following, I need to change my focus: from Matthew, to the One who called Matthew.

Because to a heart attuned with Christ, open to His call, no matter where it may lead, nothing else really matters. Not why the other disciples started following. Not basketball scores, now committed to collecting dust in history books. Not fears or doubts or worries or slipping into old habits.

All that matters is obedience to the One who calls us, and to His word. Because with that, everything else that matters slips right into place. And everything that doesn't matter simply disappears.

If I can't understand why Matthew chose to follow Jesus at that simple phrase, the fault lies with me, not him. 

"Mister Know-It-All " OR "It's Time to Move!"

Last Father's Day, my wife and stepdaughters got me a really sweet Polar M400 running watch. I use it constantly when I run. In fact, one of my New Year's resolutions was to learn to use the interval function on it. That, and to write one new blog post a week. So far, so good.

It records distance. It remembers my favorite routes. It estimates calories burned. It shows current pace, average pace, and fasted pace for a run. And it keeps me accountable if I'm being lazy. 

If the watch senses it's been too long since I've moved (like if I'm Netflix-binging or something), a message flashes across its screen, proclaiming, "It's time to move!" 

Most of the time, my response is, "Don't judge me, watch." But then I'll usually get off my butt and go for a run, or do a workout video with Hillary, or go to the gym. 

Usually. 

Fast forward to this morning, at Trinity Hill United Methodist Church. As is often the case, I heard the verses at the beginning of the sermon, and readied myself to take some notes, draw some cartoons, but pretty much know what's coming because I've read the verses before. 

Note that, in previous entries about my New Year's Resolutions, I mentioned nothing about a resolution to grow closer to God. You've stumbled across the reason for this: my "already-read-it-so-God-has-nothing-left-to-teach-me-through-this-scripture" attitude. 

Pastor Steve's sermon started with this verse: "For the gate is small and the way is narrow that leads to eternal life, and there are few who find it." (Matt. 7:14). Of course, I tuned this right out; I've been saved since I was sixteen years old (and that's been, ahem, a long time ago). So I set to cartooning about the Broncos/Steelers playoff game today. 

I've had years to develop my skill at drawing while listening, and as pictures appeared in my notebook, I continued to absorb Pastor Steve's message: yes, the day of Salvation is today, but what about all the OTHER days? Christianity isn't about ONE day of salvation, and sitting on our butts for the rest. (I, of course, couldn't be guilty at all of this, because of all the time I'd dedicated to the youth program and all the mission trips and retreats I'd been on, so, once again, I tossed another scripture in the "heard it, mastered it" pile.) 

God clearly knew that my head was a many-layered thing, like an artichoke, that needed to be repeatedly peeled before the heart was exposed. So he hit me with another scripture, and this one got my attention. 

"Through these* He has given his very great and precious promises, so that through them you MAY participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires." (2 Peter 2:4) 

*These, which Paul mentioned in previous verses, refer's to God's power, giving us life and the ability to live Godly lives. But that's not the part that Pastor Steve focused on, much to my benefit. He focused on the use of the word MAY; moreover, that Paul doesn't say WILL, or another word that implies a guarantee. It's a conditional word. 

God knew what he was doing, because this caused me to set down my pen. And, while he had my attention, he hit me with a haymaker, in the form of another scripture which I'd thought I'd already learned. 

"For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being INEFFECTIVE and UNPRODUCTIVE in your knowledge of Jesus Christ" (2 Peter 2:8) 

I hadn't been sitting long enough for it to kick in yet, but at that moment I wish God would have made my watch flash the "It's time to move!" screen. 

Because I hadn't been moving spiritually in long time.  

If Christianity is really a race, as Paul describes it, then I'd stopped at one of the mile-markers and decided to feel proud of myself for making it that far. I could look at at my watch, admire what I'd done and how far I'd come, and kick my feet up. After all, how many people hadn't made it that far? How many people hadn't even laced up their shoes that morning? I was beating all of those folks! 

But God reminded me, as he usually does, that following Him is not a spectator sport. It's not a race you run for a while, and then admire your pretty medal or personalized race bib for the rest of your life. Like running, like anything worth doing, it takes time and energy and practice and grueling dedication. 

But it's the only life truly worth that kind of dedication. 

Part of me only really learned about God the Father after I became a father, and I find myself drawing parallels between my relationship with the girls and God's relation with me (only on a Divine, cosmic proportion). I would be a pretty crappy parent if I did everything for Faith and Zoe and never asked them to lift a finger. Never asked them to educate themselves, to give their best.

And God calls me to do the very same. He calls me to educate myself in Him by scripture reading, following devotions, discussing verses and themes with fellow believers, to not be afraid to take all my prayers directly to God. He calls me to give my best, by devoting my time/energy/finances/prayers/presence to my church, showing love to particularly irksome students, and staying in such close contact with Him that His will is never unknown to me.

But lately all I've been giving him is my laziness, my complacency, and worst of all, my know-it-all attitude. 

So, it's time for Mr. Know-It-All to get off his butt and move. My spiritual butt, that it, and to move spiritually. I've been sitting at this mile marker long enough, and I've got a lot more running to do. 

"New Year, New You!" *or* Practice What You Preach

My brother Aaron posted a very eloquent social media statement yesterday, regarding the exercise world's desire to reel in as many New-Year's-Resolution-ers as they could. In short, he talked about the "New Year, New You!" slogan than gyms, supplement sellers, fitness equipment, and other 'healthy lifestyle' peddlers adopt this time of year.

Even Runner's World, my favorite publication, is not immune.

Runner's World is copyright Rodale, Inc. 

And it's not just this January's issue. As long as I have been a subscriber, this phrase has been on the cover of the January issue.

Not that this is a bad thing: a new year often feels like a blank slate, ripe with all the possibilities of what we could make out of all the time left before us. It's healthy to want to leave behind old habits, especially if those habits are unhealthy, or to want to get better at something you already treasure.

For me, that's running. And yeah, I've decided to become a better runner this year. I haven't set concrete goals yet, which I'm going to have to remedy if I want to achieve anything this year. I have decided, however, to start interval training for the first time in my life.

I went fast(er). On average. Did I do it right? 

Part of me wanted to go to the gym today, instead of hitting the road. Running in the winter is difficult, if only for the amount of synthetic layers I have to wear under my clothes, and a warm recumbent bike at the gym was very tempting. 

But then I remembered that it was the first weekend of the year. And the gym would be full of... 

... resolutioners. 

Taking up all the bikes. Using the weight machines wrong. And, worst of all... WALKING on all the treadmills. 

But, while trying what I hoped was correct interval running today, I thought about all those people who may be walking into my gym for the first time this January. And I realized how much like them I really am. 

I've not always been a runner. On the contrary: back in high school and my earliest years of college, I would have been the absolute last person you would have picked to lace up his shoed and take in 11 miles for fun. It took a long time, a slow progression, and a lot of "gym regulars" having patience with me and my poor form to get where I am. Not to mention that I've still got a long way to go with my fitness goals (evidenced by my lack of understanding of interval training). 

This January, when I'm leaving comments on running blogs and Tweeting noob-level questions at more professional runners... are they going to lump me in with the resolutioners, too? The Johnny-come-latelies, who they hope are destined to drop out in a few weeks? Those desperate to get in on the ground floor, much to the irritation who have devoted years of dedication to their beloved pastime?

And here I am, writing a new blog post for the first time in SIX MONTHS. Do real bloggers see blogs like this one and think, "Oh, geeze, here comes someone else who thinks that, because they're starting a new year, the can do what I do."  

So, with that in mind... 

Welcome, to the gym, all those beginning a New Year's Resolution. 

Welcome to the road, everyone who got their first pair of running shoes for Christmas. 

I'll  give you all the pointers I know, if: 

1.)  you don't mind my fumbling and bumbling with the interval settings on my watch, and 

2.)  you don't mind sub-par blog posts like this one until I can get myself together and start producing a new post every week (and yes, that's a real resolution of mine). 

We all have things we want to accomplish in 2016, and no one's goal is any less or more important that anyone else's. Let's all be good to each other this year. That's a resolution everyone can keep. 

(Yes, I am going to try my best to create a new blog post every week... alternating between this blog, and my creative blog, Cut and Dry. Stay tuned.) 

"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."