"Double Booked" OR "The Plate-Spinner"

I used to hate winter. I self-diagnosed myself with Seasonal Affective Disorder a long time ago. And yes, it's occurred to me that the winter depresses me simply because I believe winter should depress me. But I think it's simply the cold, the dark mornings, the dark evenings, and the gray sky that doesn't budge for three months.

But, as I've gotten older (and gotten in better shape), I find myself liking winter more and more. Winter, I've found, has some of the best running weather of the year.  

Yes, running in the morning is out because of the extreme cold (or at least the perceived extreme cold), but I can run pretty much any other time of the day. I'm never forced to stay inside because of rain. In fact, when it starts snowing, that's when I want to lace up my shoes and get out the door.

But, although I've grown to somewhat like winter in the last few years, I'm never sad to see it go.

The weather for the last week has been downright phenomenal. Sunny. Mild. The sound of birdsongs in the air again. It feels like spring is right around the corner. And that means, for me...

RACE SEASON.

This spring's race season looked to be the same as almost every year past. The Shamrock Shuffle 3K in downtown Lexington. Run The Bluegrass Half Marathon at Keeneland. Derby Festival Mini-Marathon in Louisville. And, of course, The Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati, Ohio. My standard spring races, and all my favorites.

It's also Lent, which is one of my favorite times of the year.

For those of you who don't know, Lent is the forty days (not including Sundays) leading up to Easter. It begins on Ash Wednesday and, of course, ends on Easter. It's celebrated in remembrance of the forty days before Jesus' crucifixion, when he returned to Jerusalem one last time to preach and teach, even though he knew it would lead to his death.

Growing up, I was never a big observer of Lent (actually, I was never a big observer of anything in church). Even when I got older and started growing in my relationship with Christ, Lent still seemed like something only for Catholics. But a few years ago I went to my first Ash Wednesday service, and it really struck me just how significant Lent should be to a Christian's life.

It's tradition to give up something during Lent. Not necessarily something bad, but something you could do without for forty days (not counting Sundays) in order to grow closer to God.

Hillary and I decided to give up social media during Lent. In addition, we also decided to take on a book study. We began reading Breathe, by Priscilla Shrirer. The book is about what it means to live a life with God's Sabbath in mind. Not necessarily living for Sundays; simply living life with a margin of rest around it. It's about knowing what things steal our contentment, our peace,  and our rest and keep us from living life.

Ironically, we've had a hard time keeping up with it.

It seems like the more we try to eliminate things from our lives to make room for time with God, the more we encounter things that simply have to be done. And yes, it feels like a trick of the Devil, trying to suck away our time with our Creator, but I'll be darned if it's not effective. It's not like I can just decide not to grade tests, or create lesson plans, or do all the other little non-classroom things I have to do for my teaching job. And Hillary can't simply stop seeing patients, or stop completing long, irksome charts for those patients. Couple that with time with the kids, time to maintain our own relationship, cooking dinner every night, and various other commitments, it feels like every minute of our days are spent simply preparing for the next day. Just so we can wake up the next morning and do the whole cycle over again.

I want to let some things go. But how?

Yesterday, I was writing all my spring races on a Runner's World calendar my brother, Aaron, and his wife got me for Christmas. I was thrilled to find that two of the races I had signed up for were actually pre-written on the calendar!

But I was less thrilled to see them on the same weekend.

The Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati and the Derby Festival Half in Louisville. It didn't even occur to me to check, because the two have NEVER been on the same weekend in the past. The Derby Fest is always the weekend before the Kentucky Derby (thus, the last weekend in April). And the Flying Pig is always the first weekend in May. Consecutive weeks.

Not this year. This year, May 1st is on a Sunday. The stars have aligned in such a way that must choose between two of my favorite races. I'm double-booked.

Neither of these races are bad. In fact, they're both great races, and the proceeds for each go to great causes. But I simply can't do them both. I'm going to have to make a choice.

It seems that God's trying to teach me a lesson. It's no coincidence that this perfectly mirrors my current dilemma about making quiet time for Him.

Like one of the races, something is going to have to go. Maybe I have to change the way I'm thinking about my lesson planning. Maybe I have to look for other ways I waste time (although, objectively, I can't see what else I could cut and still maintain sanity). Maybe He'll simply give me some grand revelation about the whole thing, I'll find the answer I'm looking for, and it'll be so simple that I won't believe I didn't realize it in the first place.

I personally hope He goes for the grand revelation. When it comes to discernment, I'm pretty dense.

Until that happens, I'll keep spinning the plates.

"The Old and the Young" OR "The Size of Our Footprints"

Sometimes I feel like all my posts on this blog revolve around getting older. I'm 33, so I'm not what I'd call "old", but it's fair to say that I'm not what many would call a 'young man' anymore. Then again, it's probably also fair to say that almost no one really "feels" old. Old is a word reserved for people older than YOU. It's for those people who were older than you back when you were really young. Old is a word we use for our parents and grandparents.

But it's not a world I'm able to use for one of my grandparents anymore.

Around a week ago, as I was celebrating my favorite team winning the Super Bowl, I got a call from my dad, stating that his father, my paternal grandfather, had passed away from complications of Alzheimer's disease. It wasn't a surprise; Elmer Smith had been in the care of a nursing home for almost a decade, and his cognition and lucid moments had been ebbing the whole time.

Two weeks ago, it looked like he was in his final days. So Hillary and I drove to Pikeville, KY to be with my family.

Elmer, my grandfather, my Pappaw, had been transferred to Pikeville Medical Center because he was no longer able to take food and water. There was no feeding tube.

By the end of the week, when Hillary and I arrived, he had been transferred back to the nursing home. Because he'd taken a slightly turn for the better, partly, but mostly because his Medicaid would no longer pay for him to remain in the hospital.

Though she'd never met him, Hillary had heard great things about my Pappaw from her own grandparents, who had been very close friends with him earlier in their lives. In fact, when I had told her grandfather, Ronnie Hensley, that Elmer Smith was my grandfather, he'd been astonished at the coincidence. But upon reflection, all of us acknowledge that such events are rarely coincidence at all, but the hand of God pushing things into place.

When we arrived at the nursing home, Pappaw wasn't awake. Apparently he hadn't actually been awake for a long time; my own parents had said they hadn't seen him open his eyes in over a year. Still, I spoke to him. I held his hand. I introduced Hillary, and told him about the two beautiful great-granddaughters he now had. Hillary spoke to him, and touched his face.

And he opened his eyes.

I'm not sure if there was anything behind those blue eyes, but they were open. He mumbled a few words. He even laughed, although I can't be sure if it was because of something one of us said or simply something in his mind. But it doesn't really matter, because I got to interact with him one last time.

When he passed last Sunday, Hillary and I took off from work to drive in for the funeral. But, after dropping off the girls at school and daycare, a band of snow slammed the area, and we were forced to stay in town. I had no peace about it for the whole day. How could I? Where can someone find peace in knowing they've missed the celebration of a life of someone so prolific?

Over a belated brunch, when we realized we couldn't brave the interstate in the weather, Hillary reminded me that Elmer Smith was not being laid to rest. In fact, he wasn't there at all. Elmer Smith knew Christ on a deep level, and had spent a large portion of his life preaching the Gospel to others in  a little Primitive Baptist Church in their hollow of Blackberry, Kentucky.

Alzheimers had taken Elmer Smith's memories, withered his body, and dulled his mind. But his soul belonged to God, and everything else that had been taken from him had been completely restored. He was not only more whole than he had been in a decade; he was more whole than he had ever been on earth, even at the height of his youth.

It's comforting to know that I will see him again one day, in a way I never got to see him on earth. 'Old' was a word I'd reserved for my grandfather when I was a little boy. The next time I see him, 'old' will not even be in my vocabulary. But it's still not much consolation to those of us left here on earth, staring at footprints that seem so large, far too large for us 'young' people to fill.

I am thirty-three years old. I have two stepdaughters, six and five years old. I am a little younger than my dad was when my brother and I were the age of Faith, my oldest child. When I look at my father, he still seems the same to me that he was then, and sometimes I still feel like the same child who ran around in the hills of Turkey Creek. I don't feel as old as my dad seemed when I was Faith's age. He seemed almost like one of the Greek heroes of legend, able to do absolutely anything.

I certainly don't feel like a Greek hero, although I may be in the eyes of my kids. I can't ask them; it's not really a fair question, not to mention that they might not have any idea how to answer it. And it might simply take the context of years to really put something like that into perspective. No doubt, she at least sees me as old, even though I don't feel it.

When I was kid, growing up, and I didn't understand my parent's seemingly pointless motivations for making me go to bed or eat my greens or whatever, I'd roll my eyes when they'd say, "You'll understand when you have kids."

As the 'young' are apt to do, I thought they were too old to understand.

But they were right. With kids of my own, it all suddenly makes sense.

Maybe my own footprints are getting bigger all the time. Right now, when I compare them to the people who came before me, the old people, my footprints seem so small. But, to those younger than me, how do my footprints appear? When my time comes, will my footprints still seem small to me?

Elmer Smith was a humble man, but I think he had an idea just how large his footprints seemed to us young people.

I recall one summer, when I was a teenager, a family gathering at my parents' old house. Pappaw was there, in full health. There were maybe thirty people there, once all the sons and daughters and cousins and grandkids were counted. I remember, standing next to Pappaw, and saying, as I gestured to the clamor and excitement of all the extended family, "You know, Pappaw, all of this is your fault."

He laughed, and said something to the extent of, "I know. And I'm darn proud of it."

You're missed, Elmer Smith. We'll see you soon.

Elmer Smith in the US Navy, circa 1950, Korean War 

"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.