There are certain news stories I simply do not understand. Which is a total surprise in the world of dumbed down reporting and non-stop celebrity gossip. I never studied finance--so perhaps I should ask a real expert to explain--but it makes no sense to me that a default by tiny Greece is threatening to bring down the world's economy.
I've heard these stories before--how AIG or Merrill Lynch or Fannie Mae--were all the final straws that threatened to bring down the U.S. economy. And, after a taxpayer funded lifeline, the sky remained above. So I'm a little jaded about this whole Greece mess. However, if it's true that a solvent Greece is the lynchpin upon which our entire world's financial system depends, I have a few ideas that might help the Greeks raise a few euros. In case anybody reading this is friends with a bigwig at the IMF or at the European Union HQs, please feel free to forward a link.
FIVE WAYS TO SAVE GREECE (and save the world)
1. Feta Fridays. This is really just a marketing idea. Remember when Wednesday was Prince Spaghetti day? Well as long as that ad campaign ran, Prince Spaghetti ruled the dry pasta market. The ads stopped--and where's Prince Spaghetti today. Nowhere! If the Greeks started a similar campaign promoting their signature goat milk cheese, "Eat it every Friday!" sales could skyrocket.
2. Limit access to Greek Yogurt. I know this sounds counterintuitive, but I've eaten Greek yogurt. It's amazing! And, I already am willing to pay three times the cost of regular yogurt to get some for my morning smoothies. Imagine what could happen if my supply simply dried up! If the Middle Eastern nations gained a stranglehold on the world's economy by limiting the supply of oil through OPEC, what's wrong with the Greeks doing the same with their yogurt. I know the thoughts of long lines at supermarkets worldwide is horrific, but with the world's financial system at stake, a little tough medicine won't hurt . . . much.
3. Find a use for olive leaves. With all the olive oil they produce, those leaves must be spread four inches thick across the entire country. This isn't as crazy as it sounds. The Greeks have enjoyed phenomenal success convincing the world to use the leaves from another woody plant (eating grape leaves, really?). Why not find a use for something much more plentiful? Right now the leaves just sit unused. Maybe they contain a medicine that can cure baldness. Maybe woven together they could form a flame resistant fabric. Whatever the use--if the world is willing to eat grape leaves, I'm sure we can be convinced do something equally amazing with olive leaves.
4. Sell an island. The Greeks have thousands. Would it really ruin their country to lose just one? Think about it. What could Santorini fetch in the open market? Several billion euros for sure. And Crete? Would the Greeks really miss Crete all that much? What a great place to warehouse retirees from Hong Kong or convicts from Brazil. I'm sure selling Crete would fill their coffers and then some.
5. Stage a worldwide bake sale. Bake sales have funded youth sports programs for decades. What about bake sales to save the birthplace of the Olympics? The Greeks would supply the baklava through their embassies, and the rest of us would set up tables and collect cash. If volunteers will sell and buy cookies to support losing sports teams, out of love and loyalty, think how many people would do the same for Greece--out of love and loyalty for it's gifts to the world: Aristotle, wine, spanakopita, Jackie Onassis, just to name a few.
I'm sure if I tried, I could come up with more fantastic ideas how to save Greece, and save the world. And, to think, I wrote this whole piece without even drinking a shot of ouzo!
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
Existential Musings from the New Jersey Housewives
Who knew that the Real Housewives of New Jersey followed the Sunday Scripture readings from the Common Lectionary? I was knocked on my keister with that discovery.
If you think your family is nuts, spend five minutes watching the Real Housewives of New Jersey on the Bravo Network and you'll see family disfunction ratcheted up to a whole new level. This Sunday, four of the five featured "housewives" appeared on the second part of the season wrap up reunion show, where they rehashed much of the season's antics. While an hour of finger pointing, head bobbing and hair tossing was truly entertaining, I was dumbfounded when host Andy Cohen asked the women a question I'd expect to hear at a Bible study: "What does the word 'family' mean to you?"
The women didn't miss a beat. They easily shifted from endless accusations of copycatting, lying and cheating--to philosophical musings. And they did this without rolling their eyes or pushing up their breasts--not once (well maybe only once). In an instant they were transformed from mindless bimbos to serious sages. It was truly remarkable. Of course since these were the New Jersey Housewives, their thoughts on family included self-serving digs veiled in words like "respect" and "integrity."
I was immediately reminded of the Gospel readings from the past four Sundays in which the Pharisees bombarded our Lord with seemingly simple questions, all with the purpose of trapping him. Surely he would say something they could use against him. This Sunday's question was, "Which commandment is the greatest?"
In Luke's version of this same story, after Jesus tells his questioners that the greatest commendments are to love God and to love your neighbor, a lawyer asks a logical follow up question, "Who is my neighbor?" To me, that's when the story gets really interesting and the dialogue on family involving the New Jersey Housewives became particularly poignant.
The New Jersey Housewives sounded amazingly Pharisaical in their answers. Family, they all agreed, share a common bond of blood--and that even though you may fight and squabble, family is always there when you need them. Unlike "friends" who come and go, family is a constant bedrock you can depend on. However, the pat answers about family began to unravel when the women had to explain their own actions regarding how they treated family members. It was clear that to these women inlaws weren't fully family--afterall they married into the family for selfish reasons. And even full blood relatives were only "real" family as long as they fulfilled the needs of the person speaking.
The Pharisees in Jesus' day weren't all that different. If obeying God's law required loving their neighbors, then they would define "neighbor" in the narrowest way, allowing them to hate and exclude people who were foreign or who refused to follow their interpretation of Scripture. Loving your neighbor meant loving the people you liked, all the while believing God approved of you hating and scheming against those whom you disapproved. What a neat system.
Jesus, however, turned self-serving relationships on their head. Not much of a stretch really to love people who like you and do what you demand. Loving your enemy, serving the Samaritan, and opening your heart to all who would enter, well that's way too difficult. It's also why we read the Gospels and study the saints. People who recognize that "family" includes our entire human race are so exceptional, so rare, that their stories seem somehow unreal.
The New Jersey Housewives may be clowns looking to exploit family members and personal relationships all for a few moments of fame, but are they really so different than the rest of us? Are we close-minded and self serving in our relationships or are we truly able to see every human person as a brother or sister created in God's image?
Jesus only condemned those who would use their power or position to abuse others. However, for even the vilest of sinners, Jesus always used words of love and acceptance.
So as you look at the people you encounter today and this week, ask yourself, "What is family?" And, "Who is my neighbor?" As you answer these questions, look into your heart and see whether you're sounding more like a New Jersey Housewife or a disciple of Jesus Christ.
If you think your family is nuts, spend five minutes watching the Real Housewives of New Jersey on the Bravo Network and you'll see family disfunction ratcheted up to a whole new level. This Sunday, four of the five featured "housewives" appeared on the second part of the season wrap up reunion show, where they rehashed much of the season's antics. While an hour of finger pointing, head bobbing and hair tossing was truly entertaining, I was dumbfounded when host Andy Cohen asked the women a question I'd expect to hear at a Bible study: "What does the word 'family' mean to you?"
The women didn't miss a beat. They easily shifted from endless accusations of copycatting, lying and cheating--to philosophical musings. And they did this without rolling their eyes or pushing up their breasts--not once (well maybe only once). In an instant they were transformed from mindless bimbos to serious sages. It was truly remarkable. Of course since these were the New Jersey Housewives, their thoughts on family included self-serving digs veiled in words like "respect" and "integrity."
I was immediately reminded of the Gospel readings from the past four Sundays in which the Pharisees bombarded our Lord with seemingly simple questions, all with the purpose of trapping him. Surely he would say something they could use against him. This Sunday's question was, "Which commandment is the greatest?"
In Luke's version of this same story, after Jesus tells his questioners that the greatest commendments are to love God and to love your neighbor, a lawyer asks a logical follow up question, "Who is my neighbor?" To me, that's when the story gets really interesting and the dialogue on family involving the New Jersey Housewives became particularly poignant.
The New Jersey Housewives sounded amazingly Pharisaical in their answers. Family, they all agreed, share a common bond of blood--and that even though you may fight and squabble, family is always there when you need them. Unlike "friends" who come and go, family is a constant bedrock you can depend on. However, the pat answers about family began to unravel when the women had to explain their own actions regarding how they treated family members. It was clear that to these women inlaws weren't fully family--afterall they married into the family for selfish reasons. And even full blood relatives were only "real" family as long as they fulfilled the needs of the person speaking.
The Pharisees in Jesus' day weren't all that different. If obeying God's law required loving their neighbors, then they would define "neighbor" in the narrowest way, allowing them to hate and exclude people who were foreign or who refused to follow their interpretation of Scripture. Loving your neighbor meant loving the people you liked, all the while believing God approved of you hating and scheming against those whom you disapproved. What a neat system.
Jesus, however, turned self-serving relationships on their head. Not much of a stretch really to love people who like you and do what you demand. Loving your enemy, serving the Samaritan, and opening your heart to all who would enter, well that's way too difficult. It's also why we read the Gospels and study the saints. People who recognize that "family" includes our entire human race are so exceptional, so rare, that their stories seem somehow unreal.
The New Jersey Housewives may be clowns looking to exploit family members and personal relationships all for a few moments of fame, but are they really so different than the rest of us? Are we close-minded and self serving in our relationships or are we truly able to see every human person as a brother or sister created in God's image?
Jesus only condemned those who would use their power or position to abuse others. However, for even the vilest of sinners, Jesus always used words of love and acceptance.
So as you look at the people you encounter today and this week, ask yourself, "What is family?" And, "Who is my neighbor?" As you answer these questions, look into your heart and see whether you're sounding more like a New Jersey Housewife or a disciple of Jesus Christ.
Monday, September 19, 2011
The Hex is Ex
In the summer of 1987 Ronald Reagan was in Berlin challenging Mikhail Gorbachev to "tear down that wall." Axl Rose was on the airwaves singing "Welcome to the Jungle." And I . . . well I was training for my first-ever olympic-distance triathlon in suburban Chicago.
To say I was training is a bit of a stretch. I swam laps at a local pool, ran five miles three times a week, and, after buying a used Schwinn 10-speed, did some biking as well. As my wife sometimes tells me ignorance is a sin. And, on this day, my ignorance nearly cost me my life.
Race day began at Navy Pier in downtown Chicago. At 7:00 a.m., it was already 80 degrees. Chicago was wilting with Africa hot, sticky air blanketing the city. Determined to race, I gamely stroked through my first-ever open-water swim in choppy water, then furiously pedaled my inadequate bicycle up and down Lake Shore Drive, and, feeling totally exhausted, I attempted the run.
The heat was unrelenting. By 11 a.m. when I donned running shoes, the mercury had climbed well above 90 degrees. I struggled through the course. By the time I reached mile 6, fewer than 250 yards from the finish line, I collapsed in a heap, done in by a heat stroke and poor preparation.
As I regained consciousness in an ambulance that whisking me off to Northwestern Hospital, I remember praying, "Dear God, if you let me live, I'll never do anything this stupid again." And, true to my word, I hung up my running shoes and got rid of the Schwinn. My racing days were over.
Fast forward 23 years. It's 2010 and I'm trying to encourage my daughter with her own foray into endurance racing. She wanted to run triathlons--and I needed to get in shape. So I began training with her. And, when she started entering races, I started to think. Maybe that prayer in the ambulance was a little rash. Maybe by vowing "never to do anything that stupid again" I meant entering a triathlon without proper training. God would understand, wouldn't he?
In June 2010 I entered my first triathlon as a mature adult. This time I competed in the sprint triathlon category, which is half the distance of the race I failed to complete years earlier. And, this time, I finished the race. Like before, I struggled through the open-water swim, pedaled furiously on an antiquated bike (found another Schwinn 10-speed), and ran with pretty good speed. Flush with success, I entered a second sprint race in August, and finished that one as well.
As racing season ended, I started to think about "next year." Since I will celebrate my 50th birthday in October 2011, I knew that I would compete all season as a 50-year-old athlete. Rather than being the oldest guy in the 45-49 group, I would be the youngest guy competing against 50-54 year olds. And, I found a group of people to train with who were serious competitors. With year-round training, a better bike, and some expert coaching, I dreamed of triathlon glory. The 2011 race season couldn't come fast enough!
These dreams almost went unrealized. In January 2011 I needed a double hernia repair, brought on by aggressive swim training. My recovery took a while. I was out of the pool for two months. I was barely running, either. In March when I started swimming again, I hurt my shoulder. Dreams of my "breakout" season were slowly slipping away.
But, in April, I started training again. Very slowly at first, and then picked up speed. As June arrived, I decided I could sign up for a sprint triathlon. Though not in my best shape, I was better prepared than I had ever been for an endurance race. Further, for the first time I rented a wetsuit for the swim and borrowed a "real" bike. On race day my finish times improved significantly. I felt back in business.
However, finding follow-up races proved difficult. My mother's health was in rapid decline, and I got busy fixing up my rental property. Further, several weekends were spent packing up Amelia for her trip to Chile and with our preparations for a two-week trip to Madrid. All of a sudden summer was almost over and I had not entered any more races.
Then I noticed two September races: one in Tawas in northern Michigan, the other in Detroit on Belle Isle. After the death of my mother, I was ready for a personal "pick me up" and I believed a race was the right tonic. And, I wanted to run olympic distance (1.5 kilometer swim, 40 kilometer bike, 10 kilometer run). Opportunity knocked when Clarisa and I were at dinner with another married couple. In the course of the evening I shared with the husband, "Hey, there's a race I'm thinking about entering near your cottage." He responded, "Let's go together." I had a place to stay and a companion for the trip.
The race in Tawas, Michigan was billed as one of the most beautiful courses in the state. The swim was in Lake Huron. The bike ride largely took place in a national forest. And the run was a flat course along the lakefront. It sounded ideal.
Day of the race dawned sunny. Temperatures were perfect: 62 degrees at 7 a.m., with expected highs that day around 70. The water was 68 degrees, warm enough for me. I was finally going to finish an olympic distance race! I knew it.
The swim portion went well. In and out of the water in less than 30 minutes. I mounted my bike and headed for the woods. It was a gorgeous late summer day--and I truly enjoyed the ride. I turned the corner on the bike course at midpoint, and started the return to the transition area. Never before had I felt so strong this far in an endurance race. My mind started imagining my finish. Maybe today I could earn a spot on the podium with a top-three finish. Yet my dreams of glory quickly evaporated when I ran over a sharp rock . . . twice! Both the front and back tires of my borrowed Cannondale racer quickly went flat.
There I was by the side of the road--racers whizzing by me. I had a spare tube and air with me. But repair two flats? Impossible. My race was over. I telephoned my friend, who picked me up and we left. I avoided all post-race activities. I was not going to stand around listening to athletes talk about their races while I repeated my sad sack story of defeat. For penance I returned to my friend's cottage and pulled weeds. So much for my breakthrough triathlon season.
But there was one more race left on the calendar.
Friends and family encouraged me to try again. After all, I was in good shape and the race was close to home. So I signed up.
At first I doubted my decision. The weather that week turned wet and cold. Repairing the borrowed bike also proved a challenge. Immediately after the race I took the bike to a shop in northern Michigan and replaced the blown inner tubes. Back home on Tuesday, three days later, I took the bike out for a spin--only to hear, barely five minutes into my ride, a sickening sound yet again of a tire going flat. Fortunately I was close to a local bike shop--the same shop where my daughter bought the bike.
I walked in and they fixed my flat. "Hey I don't have any money with me. I'll be right back with some cash," I said to the guy who fixed the flat. "Yeah, likely story," he replied with a smile.
I quickly pedaled home, grabbed my wallet, and went back to the shop. After paying, I rolled out of the store and, within two blocks, "POP". Flat again. Same tire. My fourth flat in three days. The triathlon gods were frowning on me for sure!
My resolve began to flag. Maybe this was all a big mistake. Maybe God was warning me to give up the dream. No. Maybe instead of doubting I needed to listen to Kanye's words, "Now th-that don't kill me. Only makes me stronger." I would plod on.
Sunday morning dawned. Fifty-six degrees outside with clear skies. Not bad. I loaded up my gear and headed for Belle Isle. My "racing chip" (you wear for accurate timing) was handed to me by a friendly face, a classmate of my son Isaac's who was working as a volunteer. "Good luck Mr. Piecuch," she said with a broad smile. Another good sign. Next I went to body marking where they wrote my race number on my upper arm and left hand. On the left calf they wrote "T"--which indicated my race. On the left calf, the number 50. My racing age. I then donned my wetsuit, borrowed from a friend, and headed to the water front.
The olympic distance men were the first "wave" or group to enter the water. Five additional "waves" started in five-minute intervals behind us. The water was surprisingly warm. Sixty-seven degrees. Another good sign
We lined up at the starting gate, a horn blasted, and we were off.
Swimming in the Detroit River can be a challenge. Unlike the crystal clear waters of Lake Huron, the river is murky and sometimes has floating debris. The first leg stayed close to the beach and took swimmers to the Detroit Yacht Club. Along the way we swam through beds of weeds and water so shallow I actually touched bottom with my arms at one point.
At the Yacht Club, the course turned left and then left again as we swam back toward the starting point, this time in considerably deeper water that had a nice downstream current. The wetsuit adds to your bouyancy, and I felt like a cork bobbing along on a moving sidewalk. I dug in hard after making the final turn and swam to the beach. Trotting out of the water I felt OK considering I swallowed a little more of the river than I planned. "I hope I don't get sick from this," flashed through my brain. Fortunately at the first watering station I chugged some Gatorade, which washed the nasty taste away.
Pulled off the wetsuit pretty quickly, threw on my bike shoes, helmet and sun glasses and I was off. Four laps around the island. Not too bad at first, and then made my first big turn--and hit a stiff head wind. I downshifted--and fretted as serious bikers whizzed by on their five-thousand dollar Italian bicycles wearing aerodynamic helmets that looked like headgear worn by the Greek God Mercury. Actually my borrowed Cannondale was a huge step up from my Schwinn 10-speed. My goal was simply to hang on and not lose too much ground. And, I vowed as biker after biker passed me, "I'll see you again on the run."
After each lap my children Lonelli and Isaac screamed, "Way to go Piecuch!" They had cheered me out of the water as well. And now, going into the run, they encouraged me yet again. "You're almost done!" they shouted.
At first I took the run slowly--stretching out my hamstrings cramped after forty kilometers on the bike. The course was two laps of a five kilometer loop. While I didn't feel fast, I definitely felt strong enough to finish. Toward the end of the first loop I saw my friend Joe who loaned me the wetsuit. A two-time ironman and frequent training partner, he asked me, "How do you feel?" I said, "great." He said, "you look fresh." I smiled. As I passed, Joe urged, "Pick 'em off one at a time." Immediately I set my sights on a guy in black running shorts and picked up my pace.
Throughout the second lap I continued to press. And, as the last mile rolled around. I decided to go for broke. I rapidly passed a number of flagging athletes and I caught up with a woman who had sprinted ahead of me at the begining of the run. We had 100 yards to go and I had caught her. "Let's pick up the pace," I urged as we ran neck and neck. "I'll try," she said, but she couldn't and I blew past. Later I found she had ran the fastest 10 kilometer run among all the women athletes. And I ran faster!
I dashed across the finish line with Isaac matching me stride for stride. Both he and Lonelli were there to congratulate me. Isaac also telephoned my wife who expressed her enthusiastic praise as well. Twenty-four years later, I finally conquered the olympic distance triathlon. And I crossed the finish line, cheered on by family and friends, feeling elated.
Turns out, my times weren't too bad, either. My 48-minute run was the fastest I'd run 10 kilometers in twenty-five years. My 26-minute swim was a personal best as well. The bike . . . well let's just say I have lots of room from improvement. When the results were posted, I was stunned to see my name listed third among the men aged 50-54. It was a "podium finish." I earned a medal given during the awards ceremony. Not a bad way to end racing season.
Assuming God grants me long life, I expect I will remember 2011 as a difficult year. We've experienced four family deaths. My employment situation remains unsettled. And, family relationships have proven more challenging than usual. However, September 18 will stand out as a personal victory. Even old guys like me need encouragement to bolster our courage to face obstacles we see every day. But, whatever the obstacle, I feel extra pride that no matter the challenge, I face it knowing I'm the third-best triathlete in Michigan!
Troubled times better get moving! Kevin is in the house.
To say I was training is a bit of a stretch. I swam laps at a local pool, ran five miles three times a week, and, after buying a used Schwinn 10-speed, did some biking as well. As my wife sometimes tells me ignorance is a sin. And, on this day, my ignorance nearly cost me my life.
Race day began at Navy Pier in downtown Chicago. At 7:00 a.m., it was already 80 degrees. Chicago was wilting with Africa hot, sticky air blanketing the city. Determined to race, I gamely stroked through my first-ever open-water swim in choppy water, then furiously pedaled my inadequate bicycle up and down Lake Shore Drive, and, feeling totally exhausted, I attempted the run.
The heat was unrelenting. By 11 a.m. when I donned running shoes, the mercury had climbed well above 90 degrees. I struggled through the course. By the time I reached mile 6, fewer than 250 yards from the finish line, I collapsed in a heap, done in by a heat stroke and poor preparation.
As I regained consciousness in an ambulance that whisking me off to Northwestern Hospital, I remember praying, "Dear God, if you let me live, I'll never do anything this stupid again." And, true to my word, I hung up my running shoes and got rid of the Schwinn. My racing days were over.
Fast forward 23 years. It's 2010 and I'm trying to encourage my daughter with her own foray into endurance racing. She wanted to run triathlons--and I needed to get in shape. So I began training with her. And, when she started entering races, I started to think. Maybe that prayer in the ambulance was a little rash. Maybe by vowing "never to do anything that stupid again" I meant entering a triathlon without proper training. God would understand, wouldn't he?
In June 2010 I entered my first triathlon as a mature adult. This time I competed in the sprint triathlon category, which is half the distance of the race I failed to complete years earlier. And, this time, I finished the race. Like before, I struggled through the open-water swim, pedaled furiously on an antiquated bike (found another Schwinn 10-speed), and ran with pretty good speed. Flush with success, I entered a second sprint race in August, and finished that one as well.
As racing season ended, I started to think about "next year." Since I will celebrate my 50th birthday in October 2011, I knew that I would compete all season as a 50-year-old athlete. Rather than being the oldest guy in the 45-49 group, I would be the youngest guy competing against 50-54 year olds. And, I found a group of people to train with who were serious competitors. With year-round training, a better bike, and some expert coaching, I dreamed of triathlon glory. The 2011 race season couldn't come fast enough!
These dreams almost went unrealized. In January 2011 I needed a double hernia repair, brought on by aggressive swim training. My recovery took a while. I was out of the pool for two months. I was barely running, either. In March when I started swimming again, I hurt my shoulder. Dreams of my "breakout" season were slowly slipping away.
But, in April, I started training again. Very slowly at first, and then picked up speed. As June arrived, I decided I could sign up for a sprint triathlon. Though not in my best shape, I was better prepared than I had ever been for an endurance race. Further, for the first time I rented a wetsuit for the swim and borrowed a "real" bike. On race day my finish times improved significantly. I felt back in business.
However, finding follow-up races proved difficult. My mother's health was in rapid decline, and I got busy fixing up my rental property. Further, several weekends were spent packing up Amelia for her trip to Chile and with our preparations for a two-week trip to Madrid. All of a sudden summer was almost over and I had not entered any more races.
Then I noticed two September races: one in Tawas in northern Michigan, the other in Detroit on Belle Isle. After the death of my mother, I was ready for a personal "pick me up" and I believed a race was the right tonic. And, I wanted to run olympic distance (1.5 kilometer swim, 40 kilometer bike, 10 kilometer run). Opportunity knocked when Clarisa and I were at dinner with another married couple. In the course of the evening I shared with the husband, "Hey, there's a race I'm thinking about entering near your cottage." He responded, "Let's go together." I had a place to stay and a companion for the trip.
The race in Tawas, Michigan was billed as one of the most beautiful courses in the state. The swim was in Lake Huron. The bike ride largely took place in a national forest. And the run was a flat course along the lakefront. It sounded ideal.
Day of the race dawned sunny. Temperatures were perfect: 62 degrees at 7 a.m., with expected highs that day around 70. The water was 68 degrees, warm enough for me. I was finally going to finish an olympic distance race! I knew it.
The swim portion went well. In and out of the water in less than 30 minutes. I mounted my bike and headed for the woods. It was a gorgeous late summer day--and I truly enjoyed the ride. I turned the corner on the bike course at midpoint, and started the return to the transition area. Never before had I felt so strong this far in an endurance race. My mind started imagining my finish. Maybe today I could earn a spot on the podium with a top-three finish. Yet my dreams of glory quickly evaporated when I ran over a sharp rock . . . twice! Both the front and back tires of my borrowed Cannondale racer quickly went flat.
There I was by the side of the road--racers whizzing by me. I had a spare tube and air with me. But repair two flats? Impossible. My race was over. I telephoned my friend, who picked me up and we left. I avoided all post-race activities. I was not going to stand around listening to athletes talk about their races while I repeated my sad sack story of defeat. For penance I returned to my friend's cottage and pulled weeds. So much for my breakthrough triathlon season.
But there was one more race left on the calendar.
Friends and family encouraged me to try again. After all, I was in good shape and the race was close to home. So I signed up.
At first I doubted my decision. The weather that week turned wet and cold. Repairing the borrowed bike also proved a challenge. Immediately after the race I took the bike to a shop in northern Michigan and replaced the blown inner tubes. Back home on Tuesday, three days later, I took the bike out for a spin--only to hear, barely five minutes into my ride, a sickening sound yet again of a tire going flat. Fortunately I was close to a local bike shop--the same shop where my daughter bought the bike.
I walked in and they fixed my flat. "Hey I don't have any money with me. I'll be right back with some cash," I said to the guy who fixed the flat. "Yeah, likely story," he replied with a smile.
I quickly pedaled home, grabbed my wallet, and went back to the shop. After paying, I rolled out of the store and, within two blocks, "POP". Flat again. Same tire. My fourth flat in three days. The triathlon gods were frowning on me for sure!
My resolve began to flag. Maybe this was all a big mistake. Maybe God was warning me to give up the dream. No. Maybe instead of doubting I needed to listen to Kanye's words, "Now th-that don't kill me. Only makes me stronger." I would plod on.
Sunday morning dawned. Fifty-six degrees outside with clear skies. Not bad. I loaded up my gear and headed for Belle Isle. My "racing chip" (you wear for accurate timing) was handed to me by a friendly face, a classmate of my son Isaac's who was working as a volunteer. "Good luck Mr. Piecuch," she said with a broad smile. Another good sign. Next I went to body marking where they wrote my race number on my upper arm and left hand. On the left calf they wrote "T"--which indicated my race. On the left calf, the number 50. My racing age. I then donned my wetsuit, borrowed from a friend, and headed to the water front.
The olympic distance men were the first "wave" or group to enter the water. Five additional "waves" started in five-minute intervals behind us. The water was surprisingly warm. Sixty-seven degrees. Another good sign
We lined up at the starting gate, a horn blasted, and we were off.
Swimming in the Detroit River can be a challenge. Unlike the crystal clear waters of Lake Huron, the river is murky and sometimes has floating debris. The first leg stayed close to the beach and took swimmers to the Detroit Yacht Club. Along the way we swam through beds of weeds and water so shallow I actually touched bottom with my arms at one point.
At the Yacht Club, the course turned left and then left again as we swam back toward the starting point, this time in considerably deeper water that had a nice downstream current. The wetsuit adds to your bouyancy, and I felt like a cork bobbing along on a moving sidewalk. I dug in hard after making the final turn and swam to the beach. Trotting out of the water I felt OK considering I swallowed a little more of the river than I planned. "I hope I don't get sick from this," flashed through my brain. Fortunately at the first watering station I chugged some Gatorade, which washed the nasty taste away.
Pulled off the wetsuit pretty quickly, threw on my bike shoes, helmet and sun glasses and I was off. Four laps around the island. Not too bad at first, and then made my first big turn--and hit a stiff head wind. I downshifted--and fretted as serious bikers whizzed by on their five-thousand dollar Italian bicycles wearing aerodynamic helmets that looked like headgear worn by the Greek God Mercury. Actually my borrowed Cannondale was a huge step up from my Schwinn 10-speed. My goal was simply to hang on and not lose too much ground. And, I vowed as biker after biker passed me, "I'll see you again on the run."
After each lap my children Lonelli and Isaac screamed, "Way to go Piecuch!" They had cheered me out of the water as well. And now, going into the run, they encouraged me yet again. "You're almost done!" they shouted.
At first I took the run slowly--stretching out my hamstrings cramped after forty kilometers on the bike. The course was two laps of a five kilometer loop. While I didn't feel fast, I definitely felt strong enough to finish. Toward the end of the first loop I saw my friend Joe who loaned me the wetsuit. A two-time ironman and frequent training partner, he asked me, "How do you feel?" I said, "great." He said, "you look fresh." I smiled. As I passed, Joe urged, "Pick 'em off one at a time." Immediately I set my sights on a guy in black running shorts and picked up my pace.
Throughout the second lap I continued to press. And, as the last mile rolled around. I decided to go for broke. I rapidly passed a number of flagging athletes and I caught up with a woman who had sprinted ahead of me at the begining of the run. We had 100 yards to go and I had caught her. "Let's pick up the pace," I urged as we ran neck and neck. "I'll try," she said, but she couldn't and I blew past. Later I found she had ran the fastest 10 kilometer run among all the women athletes. And I ran faster!
I dashed across the finish line with Isaac matching me stride for stride. Both he and Lonelli were there to congratulate me. Isaac also telephoned my wife who expressed her enthusiastic praise as well. Twenty-four years later, I finally conquered the olympic distance triathlon. And I crossed the finish line, cheered on by family and friends, feeling elated.
Turns out, my times weren't too bad, either. My 48-minute run was the fastest I'd run 10 kilometers in twenty-five years. My 26-minute swim was a personal best as well. The bike . . . well let's just say I have lots of room from improvement. When the results were posted, I was stunned to see my name listed third among the men aged 50-54. It was a "podium finish." I earned a medal given during the awards ceremony. Not a bad way to end racing season.
Assuming God grants me long life, I expect I will remember 2011 as a difficult year. We've experienced four family deaths. My employment situation remains unsettled. And, family relationships have proven more challenging than usual. However, September 18 will stand out as a personal victory. Even old guys like me need encouragement to bolster our courage to face obstacles we see every day. But, whatever the obstacle, I feel extra pride that no matter the challenge, I face it knowing I'm the third-best triathlete in Michigan!
Troubled times better get moving! Kevin is in the house.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Hasta Luego Madrid!
Just got back from Madrid after a visit with Pope Benedict. Had a good time as the Pope and 1.5 million of his closest friends hung out, heard mass, listened to music, slept under the stars, and generally chilled. It was a blast. The following is a report I wrote about the trip for my church newletter. Hope you don't mind the more journalistic style.
A group of seven persons—three chaperones and four youth—represented St. Ambrose Church at the World Youth Day (WYD) gathering in Madrid, Spain. Our group was part of a larger, 300+-member delegation from churches within the Archdiocese of Detroit. Officially, all participants in WYD are known as pilgrims.
Though WYD officially opened on Tuesday, August 16 with an evening, open-air mass in downtown Madrid’s Cibeles Square, the St. Ambrose pilgrims arrived two days earlier on Sunday, August 14. WYD officially concluded with another open-air mass following an overnight vigil on Sunday, August 21. Pope Benedict presided at that mass where an estimated 1.5 million pilgrims were gathered at a Madrid air field. “Firm in the Faith” was the theme for WYD 2011. The St. Ambrose pilgrims returned to Michigan on Wednesday, August 24.
Among the highlights the visit: touring the world-renowned Prado Museum; mass at the stunning Almudena Cathedral in central Madrid; singing, catechism, worship and mass featuring Cardinal George Pell of Sydney Australia; Stations of the Cross in downtown Madrid; a catechism session led by Cardinal Francis George of Chicago; the 8-kilometer hike and day-long vigil prior to the closing mass; a day-trip to Toledo; and an afternoon visit to the Royal Monastery at Escorial.
These events each were unforgettable. But there were other treats as well. For example, we all were greatly relieved by the quality of our overnight accommodations. Our group was housed at the Autonomous University in Canto Blanco, a suburb north of Madrid. The modern dorm rooms were clean and included two beds. Each room was air conditioned and had its own private bathroom.
Other pluses of our accommodations included a cafeteria where we could buy inexpensive food and drink and the ability to meet and mix informally with pilgrims from other U.S. states and foreign countries. Our group met Californians, North Dakotans, Scots and Australians in the dorm. St. Ambrose pilgrims forged a particularly close bond with the pilgrims from Good Shepherd Church in Lincoln Park. We ended up sharing many experiences with the Lincoln Park pilgrims during the week and we look forward to continuing our new friendships.
Our accommodations also were located on a stop on Madrid’s excellent train/subway system. Each pilgrim received a pass giving us free passage on the trains for an entire week. This allowed our group to travel freely around Madrid. We became quite good at reading local maps (Bernie Degnan truly excelled in finding routes) and we found every WYD event held in locations scattered across the city.
More than events and meetings, people connections made WYD a valuable experience. Our pilgrims met youth and adults from around the world. We traded pins and other items with pilgrims from every continent. As the week progressed, our youth became progressively more and more outgoing, freely approaching pilgrims on the street—unafraid to shake hands, trade items, share Facebook names, sing songs, and feel the deep, common bond of faith that brought us all together. These connections will not be soon forgotten.
Finally, it was eye-opening for our youth to see how joyful a life guided by faith in Jesus Christ can be. We all proudly wore crosses, said rosaries, went to reconciliation, sang hymns enthusiastically, and listened with rapt attention to catechists and speakers. Further, we saw hundreds of priests and religious persons who freely shared their experiences and encouraged youth to consider their own callings. For this week, faith was not a quiet, personal matter, but something we shared easily and openly. This is something our young pilgrims had never previously experienced.
At the end of the week, however, the pilgrims left the mountaintop and returned home. Pope Benedict himself personally urged all pilgrims to find ways to share the WYD experience with their friends and fellow parishioners at home. This is a challenge the St. Ambrose pilgrims freely embrace.
As we look forward to the next WYD that will be held in July 2013 in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, the St. Ambrose pilgrims are determined to encourage more youth and young adults from our parish to share the WYD experience. Further, we know that through prayer and study we can better prepare ourselves for a future encounter. Because the next gathering is less than two years away, we will share with our parish throughout the year lessons learned at WYD 2011. Then, by next August, our efforts will focus on WYD 2013.
Thanks to Fr. Tim and all those from St. Ambrose who prayed for us and offered excellent advice and support that helped make our experience so meaningful.
Stay tuned—more to come!
A group of seven persons—three chaperones and four youth—represented St. Ambrose Church at the World Youth Day (WYD) gathering in Madrid, Spain. Our group was part of a larger, 300+-member delegation from churches within the Archdiocese of Detroit. Officially, all participants in WYD are known as pilgrims.
Though WYD officially opened on Tuesday, August 16 with an evening, open-air mass in downtown Madrid’s Cibeles Square, the St. Ambrose pilgrims arrived two days earlier on Sunday, August 14. WYD officially concluded with another open-air mass following an overnight vigil on Sunday, August 21. Pope Benedict presided at that mass where an estimated 1.5 million pilgrims were gathered at a Madrid air field. “Firm in the Faith” was the theme for WYD 2011. The St. Ambrose pilgrims returned to Michigan on Wednesday, August 24.
Among the highlights the visit: touring the world-renowned Prado Museum; mass at the stunning Almudena Cathedral in central Madrid; singing, catechism, worship and mass featuring Cardinal George Pell of Sydney Australia; Stations of the Cross in downtown Madrid; a catechism session led by Cardinal Francis George of Chicago; the 8-kilometer hike and day-long vigil prior to the closing mass; a day-trip to Toledo; and an afternoon visit to the Royal Monastery at Escorial.
These events each were unforgettable. But there were other treats as well. For example, we all were greatly relieved by the quality of our overnight accommodations. Our group was housed at the Autonomous University in Canto Blanco, a suburb north of Madrid. The modern dorm rooms were clean and included two beds. Each room was air conditioned and had its own private bathroom.
Other pluses of our accommodations included a cafeteria where we could buy inexpensive food and drink and the ability to meet and mix informally with pilgrims from other U.S. states and foreign countries. Our group met Californians, North Dakotans, Scots and Australians in the dorm. St. Ambrose pilgrims forged a particularly close bond with the pilgrims from Good Shepherd Church in Lincoln Park. We ended up sharing many experiences with the Lincoln Park pilgrims during the week and we look forward to continuing our new friendships.
Our accommodations also were located on a stop on Madrid’s excellent train/subway system. Each pilgrim received a pass giving us free passage on the trains for an entire week. This allowed our group to travel freely around Madrid. We became quite good at reading local maps (Bernie Degnan truly excelled in finding routes) and we found every WYD event held in locations scattered across the city.
More than events and meetings, people connections made WYD a valuable experience. Our pilgrims met youth and adults from around the world. We traded pins and other items with pilgrims from every continent. As the week progressed, our youth became progressively more and more outgoing, freely approaching pilgrims on the street—unafraid to shake hands, trade items, share Facebook names, sing songs, and feel the deep, common bond of faith that brought us all together. These connections will not be soon forgotten.
Finally, it was eye-opening for our youth to see how joyful a life guided by faith in Jesus Christ can be. We all proudly wore crosses, said rosaries, went to reconciliation, sang hymns enthusiastically, and listened with rapt attention to catechists and speakers. Further, we saw hundreds of priests and religious persons who freely shared their experiences and encouraged youth to consider their own callings. For this week, faith was not a quiet, personal matter, but something we shared easily and openly. This is something our young pilgrims had never previously experienced.
At the end of the week, however, the pilgrims left the mountaintop and returned home. Pope Benedict himself personally urged all pilgrims to find ways to share the WYD experience with their friends and fellow parishioners at home. This is a challenge the St. Ambrose pilgrims freely embrace.
As we look forward to the next WYD that will be held in July 2013 in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, the St. Ambrose pilgrims are determined to encourage more youth and young adults from our parish to share the WYD experience. Further, we know that through prayer and study we can better prepare ourselves for a future encounter. Because the next gathering is less than two years away, we will share with our parish throughout the year lessons learned at WYD 2011. Then, by next August, our efforts will focus on WYD 2013.
Thanks to Fr. Tim and all those from St. Ambrose who prayed for us and offered excellent advice and support that helped make our experience so meaningful.
Stay tuned—more to come!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
I'm feeling sick . . .
Could it be because . . .
. . . my tonsils are so swollen I can barely swallow.
. . . I ate Kentucky Fried Chicken yesterday (original recipe) for the first time in sixteen years. I also had some of the Colonel's mashed potatoes and gravy. ughh!
. . . the Tiger's blew a one-run game in Chicago last night.
. . . speaking of baseball, Isaac's last game of the season was cancelled. Why? Well rain of course.
. . . I just spent two hours scrubbing black mold off my basement walls. Nothing beats the smell of Clorox on your hands. Mmm.
. . . I have hampers of ironing to do and my diet pill is wearing off (extra points if you can name the movie).
Well, I just popped two Motrins and happy hour is minutes away.
Relief is in sight!
. . . my tonsils are so swollen I can barely swallow.
. . . I ate Kentucky Fried Chicken yesterday (original recipe) for the first time in sixteen years. I also had some of the Colonel's mashed potatoes and gravy. ughh!
. . . the Tiger's blew a one-run game in Chicago last night.
. . . speaking of baseball, Isaac's last game of the season was cancelled. Why? Well rain of course.
. . . I just spent two hours scrubbing black mold off my basement walls. Nothing beats the smell of Clorox on your hands. Mmm.
. . . I have hampers of ironing to do and my diet pill is wearing off (extra points if you can name the movie).
Well, I just popped two Motrins and happy hour is minutes away.
Relief is in sight!
Monday, July 25, 2011
Producing Pearls
Yesterday's sermon at St. Ambrose Church included reflections upon a well-known biblical parable--about the guy who searches the world to find a pearl of great value. And, when he finds it, he sells everything that he owns to buy it. The point is clear, that the Word of God is a like a valuable pearl. It may be small and is easily lost. But to look at a perfect pearl is to see great beauty of unestimatable (is that a word?) value. It's worth searching the world to find.
Rather than focus on the big and flashy, sometimes it's what's small, beautiful and hard to find that is of real value. Sometimes small, hidden things are worth much more than what we show the world. When walking down the street we notice the flashy dressers, and the showy jewelry, but a generous spirit and a joyful heart are not immediately evident. Sometimes we need to search long and hard to find them. Like Neil Young sang, "Keep me searching for a heart of gold. I am a miner for a heart of gold. And I'm getting old."
Second point of Father Tim's sermon yesterday--and yes, I was listening despite all evidence otherwise--relates to how pearls are formed. It starts as a grain of sand, an irritant, that get's inside the oyster. To protect itself from this irritant, the oyster secretes a substance that surrounds the grain of sand, and, in time, a pearl is formed. Without on obnoxious intruder, that grain of sand, there would be no pearl.
The point to reflect upon is to think about those things in our life that annoy us, but make us better in the end. As Kanye West said so eloquently, "Th-th-that that don't kill me, can only make me stronger." Sometimes the irritating action require physical activity when we'd rather rest--like cutting the grass in the summer heat, or taking the dog for a walk after dinner. Those are things I'd rather not do, but in the end make me stronger. But more than the physical, there are chores in our lives, things we do out of a sense of responsibility, that help us be better persons.
Visiting my mother in her hospital, talking to Clarisa's 95-year-old great uncle on the telephone, passing the peace to every person within ten feet of me, requires me to stretch oh so slightly. But, in the end, I'm better for extending myself. Kindness and thoughtfulness require effort. It's so much easier to remain wrapped in my own thoughts than to empathize with others, especially those in pain. Empathy sometimes requires putting yourself in the shoes of someone old and alone. It sometimes means touching a person I'm not attracted to.
If your life was always smooth, with no pain or irritants, then we'd never change or grow. We'd just keep going along as always. However, as we encounter difficulties in life, irritants that drive us crazy, we find opportunities for growth and even beauty to emerge. It's as we adapt to hardship that the best parts of our character develop. As we deal with difficulty, we create for ourselves and for other pearls of inestimatable value.
Think about that next time you lend a hand to that annoying neighbor.
Rather than focus on the big and flashy, sometimes it's what's small, beautiful and hard to find that is of real value. Sometimes small, hidden things are worth much more than what we show the world. When walking down the street we notice the flashy dressers, and the showy jewelry, but a generous spirit and a joyful heart are not immediately evident. Sometimes we need to search long and hard to find them. Like Neil Young sang, "Keep me searching for a heart of gold. I am a miner for a heart of gold. And I'm getting old."
Second point of Father Tim's sermon yesterday--and yes, I was listening despite all evidence otherwise--relates to how pearls are formed. It starts as a grain of sand, an irritant, that get's inside the oyster. To protect itself from this irritant, the oyster secretes a substance that surrounds the grain of sand, and, in time, a pearl is formed. Without on obnoxious intruder, that grain of sand, there would be no pearl.
The point to reflect upon is to think about those things in our life that annoy us, but make us better in the end. As Kanye West said so eloquently, "Th-th-that that don't kill me, can only make me stronger." Sometimes the irritating action require physical activity when we'd rather rest--like cutting the grass in the summer heat, or taking the dog for a walk after dinner. Those are things I'd rather not do, but in the end make me stronger. But more than the physical, there are chores in our lives, things we do out of a sense of responsibility, that help us be better persons.
Visiting my mother in her hospital, talking to Clarisa's 95-year-old great uncle on the telephone, passing the peace to every person within ten feet of me, requires me to stretch oh so slightly. But, in the end, I'm better for extending myself. Kindness and thoughtfulness require effort. It's so much easier to remain wrapped in my own thoughts than to empathize with others, especially those in pain. Empathy sometimes requires putting yourself in the shoes of someone old and alone. It sometimes means touching a person I'm not attracted to.
If your life was always smooth, with no pain or irritants, then we'd never change or grow. We'd just keep going along as always. However, as we encounter difficulties in life, irritants that drive us crazy, we find opportunities for growth and even beauty to emerge. It's as we adapt to hardship that the best parts of our character develop. As we deal with difficulty, we create for ourselves and for other pearls of inestimatable value.
Think about that next time you lend a hand to that annoying neighbor.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Let's Do the Time Warp Again
While I'm not much of a Rocky Horror Picture Show fan, nor did I really like the endless film loop known as Groundhog Day, the idea of reliving parts of your life over and over, until you finally get it right appeals to me. Yet at some point in your life relentless replays can become exhausting, especially if you never seem to get that aspect of your life right.
As you've grown older/wiser/more mature, what have you gotten better at. Me? I think I've become a better parent--finding that balance between discipline and encouragement is easier with practice. However, I can't seem to figure out friendships--how to open myself to relationships outside my family circle.
I'd love to hear your stories/observations about personal growth and areas where it's the same thing over and over. We have one life to live, and the more help we get along the way, the better our chances for success.
Cheers!
As you've grown older/wiser/more mature, what have you gotten better at. Me? I think I've become a better parent--finding that balance between discipline and encouragement is easier with practice. However, I can't seem to figure out friendships--how to open myself to relationships outside my family circle.
I'd love to hear your stories/observations about personal growth and areas where it's the same thing over and over. We have one life to live, and the more help we get along the way, the better our chances for success.
Cheers!
Saturday, July 9, 2011
So Says the Doctor
"It's severe arthritis," the doctor said.
We immediately were relieved, having feared a worse diagnosis.
"Look at the spinal column," the doctor explained. We studied the x-ray film closely. "The lumbar are supposed to be flush with each other, but see these raised areas between each vertebrae? That's what arthritis looks like."
It looked painful. "So what do we do?" we asked the doctor.
"Well, with medication, continued exercise and daily doses of Glucosamine, she should be able to walk normally, even run some," the doctor said reassuringly. But now I understood what I had noticed over the last few months. Long a faithful running partner, this year we walked more and ran less. Sometimes, at night, she preferred to stay downstairs rather than climb stairs. The signs of her declining physical abilities were obvious, I just overlooked them. But, earlier that morning, I feared a much worse outcome from our doctor's visit.
Shortly after waking up I found her in the kitchen where she had remained all night. She hadn't even gone to bed. When I tried to help her move, she winced in pain. Had she broken her hip? Was it a stroke? Was her life in danger?
But Carly is not yet ten years old. She suffered no apparent trauma. Yet, seemingly in one day she went from being a vibrant companion with a puppy's spirit to a cautious old dog. And I was concerned.
Carly is my first-ever dog. My parents didn't approve of pets and I carried that bias into my family as well. However, when a free Labrador Retriever puppy became available, even I succumbed to my children's pleadings. "But, if she ever starts costing me money," I warned the children, "I'll put her down in a heartbeat."
Now, almost 10 years later, I was willing to pay a veterinarian whatever it cost to make Carly comfortable. "How long do labs typically live?" I asked the vet. "Ten to twelve years," he replied.
I was astounded. "That's all? I thought dogs lived about fifteen years." "Not big dogs like labs," said the vet.
It felt like a slap in my face. In my heart I know Carly has only a few more years left in her, but the vet's words felt like a death sentence. "Yeah, if you're lucky she could reach fourteen," he added, seeing despair flash across my face. All of a sudden the ongoing conversation about getting a second dog flashed in my mind. I've joked that the same year Isaac, our youngest child, leaves for college, might be the year Carly dies. Talk about an empty nest! We should get another pet soon, BEFORE Carly passes.
I always said Clarisa needed a "pet in reserve," but honestly, hearing from the vet that Carly's demise really is imminent, put me in a panic. What would I do without my dog?
I never expected that I would become attached to an animal. And, I've inwardly chuckled at persons who express humanlike affection toward their animals. But, now that I know what it like to care about a pet, I understand those feelings.
Fortunately Carly is chowing down her meds like a champion and she's moving around now with seemingly less pain. She walked five miles today, and looks like she can do it again tomorrow.
The old girl has a few more years in her--but I'm aware now that the days are numbered and that difficult times await us as she wears down further. I hope Carly understands that her family will walk with her each and ever step until the day she passes.
Reading this I can't believe I feel this way about a dog!
We immediately were relieved, having feared a worse diagnosis.
"Look at the spinal column," the doctor explained. We studied the x-ray film closely. "The lumbar are supposed to be flush with each other, but see these raised areas between each vertebrae? That's what arthritis looks like."
It looked painful. "So what do we do?" we asked the doctor.
"Well, with medication, continued exercise and daily doses of Glucosamine, she should be able to walk normally, even run some," the doctor said reassuringly. But now I understood what I had noticed over the last few months. Long a faithful running partner, this year we walked more and ran less. Sometimes, at night, she preferred to stay downstairs rather than climb stairs. The signs of her declining physical abilities were obvious, I just overlooked them. But, earlier that morning, I feared a much worse outcome from our doctor's visit.
Shortly after waking up I found her in the kitchen where she had remained all night. She hadn't even gone to bed. When I tried to help her move, she winced in pain. Had she broken her hip? Was it a stroke? Was her life in danger?
But Carly is not yet ten years old. She suffered no apparent trauma. Yet, seemingly in one day she went from being a vibrant companion with a puppy's spirit to a cautious old dog. And I was concerned.
Carly is my first-ever dog. My parents didn't approve of pets and I carried that bias into my family as well. However, when a free Labrador Retriever puppy became available, even I succumbed to my children's pleadings. "But, if she ever starts costing me money," I warned the children, "I'll put her down in a heartbeat."
Now, almost 10 years later, I was willing to pay a veterinarian whatever it cost to make Carly comfortable. "How long do labs typically live?" I asked the vet. "Ten to twelve years," he replied.
I was astounded. "That's all? I thought dogs lived about fifteen years." "Not big dogs like labs," said the vet.
It felt like a slap in my face. In my heart I know Carly has only a few more years left in her, but the vet's words felt like a death sentence. "Yeah, if you're lucky she could reach fourteen," he added, seeing despair flash across my face. All of a sudden the ongoing conversation about getting a second dog flashed in my mind. I've joked that the same year Isaac, our youngest child, leaves for college, might be the year Carly dies. Talk about an empty nest! We should get another pet soon, BEFORE Carly passes.
I always said Clarisa needed a "pet in reserve," but honestly, hearing from the vet that Carly's demise really is imminent, put me in a panic. What would I do without my dog?
I never expected that I would become attached to an animal. And, I've inwardly chuckled at persons who express humanlike affection toward their animals. But, now that I know what it like to care about a pet, I understand those feelings.
Fortunately Carly is chowing down her meds like a champion and she's moving around now with seemingly less pain. She walked five miles today, and looks like she can do it again tomorrow.
The old girl has a few more years in her--but I'm aware now that the days are numbered and that difficult times await us as she wears down further. I hope Carly understands that her family will walk with her each and ever step until the day she passes.
Reading this I can't believe I feel this way about a dog!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Didn't Expect to Hear That
So last week I'm visiting my mother in her nursing home and she says to me, "Kevin, can you find my underwear?"
Dumbfounded but without missing a beat I replied, "Sure Mom, what in particular are you looking for? A bra?"
She replied, "Well I know I have a whole pile of bras and panties but the aid couldn't find them. Would you please look for them?"
This is what happens when a person's world shrinks after eight months of health setbacks. In little more than a year, my mother has gone from a woman living on her own in a two-bedroom condo packed with possessions gathered over a lifetime, to a woman in a hospital bed with a few family pictures on the window sill, some clothes hanging in a closet, a few books, some jewelry, toiletries, and, well that's about it. I could fit her possessions in a medium-sized suit case. And, unfortunately, there was no underwear anywhere to be found.
At my mother's insistance I telephoned my sister. A few months ago, when my mother could no longer stay in her little apartment after falling and breaking her back, my sister moved my mother's few furniture pieces into storage and is keeping most of her clothes. She explained to me that my mother didn't need additional underwear beyond what the hospital had provided. However, we agreed, that since she was asking, she'd bring some bras and panties to the facility.
Wow. It took nearly fifty years, but that was my first-ever conversation about women's underwear with my mother. Fortunately, when I visit we talk about other things as well. Many topics are new, like how she needs to keep working in physical therapy, that her family loves her and wants to see her up and about, and that if she can't find the strength to get out of bed, we may not have her around too much longer.
While I still believe my mother can recover somewhat and live independently again, there's no guaranty I'll see anything better than this. The years have taken a mighty toll and she's tired. I don't blame her for her condition, because she has been the wronged party in many relationships--from her overly strict parents to her philandering husband, my mother has endured a life where she didn't feel celebrated or wanted. She, however, did soldier on giving unselfishly (though imperfectly) to her family and succeeded in launching four children relatively unscathed into adulthood, which is a pretty amazing feat.
I don't know how to help my mother get better. I know I can be a better son, but I talk to her more frequently now than at anytime in my adult life. I consult with my siblings as we talk about how best to support her, and we've become closer as a result. I've even spoken to medical and legal professionals for advice. However, when I'm with her, there's not much to say beyond, "I pray for you Mom." "I want you to get better." "Your grandchildren would like to see you more." "You can do it!"
And, when I'm with her I'll do whatever she asks, even if it involves looking for errant panties.
Dumbfounded but without missing a beat I replied, "Sure Mom, what in particular are you looking for? A bra?"
She replied, "Well I know I have a whole pile of bras and panties but the aid couldn't find them. Would you please look for them?"
This is what happens when a person's world shrinks after eight months of health setbacks. In little more than a year, my mother has gone from a woman living on her own in a two-bedroom condo packed with possessions gathered over a lifetime, to a woman in a hospital bed with a few family pictures on the window sill, some clothes hanging in a closet, a few books, some jewelry, toiletries, and, well that's about it. I could fit her possessions in a medium-sized suit case. And, unfortunately, there was no underwear anywhere to be found.
At my mother's insistance I telephoned my sister. A few months ago, when my mother could no longer stay in her little apartment after falling and breaking her back, my sister moved my mother's few furniture pieces into storage and is keeping most of her clothes. She explained to me that my mother didn't need additional underwear beyond what the hospital had provided. However, we agreed, that since she was asking, she'd bring some bras and panties to the facility.
Wow. It took nearly fifty years, but that was my first-ever conversation about women's underwear with my mother. Fortunately, when I visit we talk about other things as well. Many topics are new, like how she needs to keep working in physical therapy, that her family loves her and wants to see her up and about, and that if she can't find the strength to get out of bed, we may not have her around too much longer.
While I still believe my mother can recover somewhat and live independently again, there's no guaranty I'll see anything better than this. The years have taken a mighty toll and she's tired. I don't blame her for her condition, because she has been the wronged party in many relationships--from her overly strict parents to her philandering husband, my mother has endured a life where she didn't feel celebrated or wanted. She, however, did soldier on giving unselfishly (though imperfectly) to her family and succeeded in launching four children relatively unscathed into adulthood, which is a pretty amazing feat.
I don't know how to help my mother get better. I know I can be a better son, but I talk to her more frequently now than at anytime in my adult life. I consult with my siblings as we talk about how best to support her, and we've become closer as a result. I've even spoken to medical and legal professionals for advice. However, when I'm with her, there's not much to say beyond, "I pray for you Mom." "I want you to get better." "Your grandchildren would like to see you more." "You can do it!"
And, when I'm with her I'll do whatever she asks, even if it involves looking for errant panties.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Detour on the Path to the Fountain of Youth
The road to maturity is not a straight line. It zigs and zags and sometimes backtracks. Youth on the other hand is fleeting. Once it's gone, it's gone. Youth leaves strong memories that flash to the front of your mind through sights and sounds and feelings.
Baseball reminds me of my youth. So do popsicles and lazy summer days. Something about being outdoors and carefree reminds me of being young. I love summer and I love the memories of summers past.
My summer opened with a flourish this past weekend as I competed in my season's first triathlon. After my successful return to competition last year, I trained throughout the fall and winter with hopes of greater success this summer.
2011 was going to be my breakout triathlon season. Having fallen in with a few seasoned veterans who know how to train, I developed a training routine that got me faster and stronger. Also, because I turn 50 this year, this season I get to compete against older athletes. In fact, in many races this year, I'm going to be the youngest competitor in the 50 - 54 group.
My hopes for great success were dashed somewhat in January when I had my first ever operation--a bilateral hernia repair. That stopped my training for nearly two months. Then, in early April, just when I was getting back up to speed, my left shoulder became so sore, I could barely lift it.
But, I soldiered on, and continued training. Slowly I added more swimming laps, testing the shoulder. Then I started adding distance to my runs. I even took the bike out for a couple of spins. Ready or not, race season was here and it was time for me to get moving.
While competing in triathlons doesn't make me feel young, it does help me contend with aging. Training helps me keep my weight down, my joints flexible, and my spirits up. Since I have no choice but to turn 50 this year, I might as well be the strongest, fastest, meanest 50-year-old I can be. So I run, I bike, I swim, almost every day.
Youth is so attractive, which is why finding the fountain of youth is a never ending quest. While adventurers and explorers no longer drudge through malarial swamps in search of the fountain, hordes of middle aged strivers flock to physicians hoping to find a pill an injection or an operation that will give back at least the appearance of youth.
On the other hand, old age can be repellant. As my mother's health continues to decline, I'm amazed at how uninviting are her nursing homes. Unlike my son's school that is filled with youth and virtually throbs with energy, my mother's nursing home feels cold and lethargic. Though smiling staff give a welcoming appearance, the residents are hunched, unsmiling and lifeless. I want to leave the minute I get there.
So in my quest to remain lively, if not exactly youthful, I've found triathlon training the right tonic for me. As I push myself I'm engaged, alert and alive. It's the best I can do right now.
After Sunday's race, I was satisfied with my results. Considering that I lost almost eight weeks of training this year while recovering from major surgery and injury, to finish 8th of 30 in my age group was not a bad result. My goal is still a top five finish sometime this summer, and I have several races ahead for me to achieve that goal.
Being young is easy. In the world's eyes, you are appealing simply because of your youth. As you get older, however, the world turns its gaze away ever so slightly as each day passes. By the time you're my age, you are interesting only if you've achieved something or can do something for others. As you connect with the world, to stay relevant you must give more and expect less in return. Just at the time when you have more to offer because of your wisdom and experience, the world looks to younger faces for fresh ideas and creative energy. I can't control that.
But I can shave some seconds off my quarter mile splits. I can improve my swimming stroke. And I can get a decent racing bike, finally! And I can crack the top five. Don't worry, you'll be the first to hear it. Haha.
Baseball reminds me of my youth. So do popsicles and lazy summer days. Something about being outdoors and carefree reminds me of being young. I love summer and I love the memories of summers past.
My summer opened with a flourish this past weekend as I competed in my season's first triathlon. After my successful return to competition last year, I trained throughout the fall and winter with hopes of greater success this summer.
2011 was going to be my breakout triathlon season. Having fallen in with a few seasoned veterans who know how to train, I developed a training routine that got me faster and stronger. Also, because I turn 50 this year, this season I get to compete against older athletes. In fact, in many races this year, I'm going to be the youngest competitor in the 50 - 54 group.
My hopes for great success were dashed somewhat in January when I had my first ever operation--a bilateral hernia repair. That stopped my training for nearly two months. Then, in early April, just when I was getting back up to speed, my left shoulder became so sore, I could barely lift it.
But, I soldiered on, and continued training. Slowly I added more swimming laps, testing the shoulder. Then I started adding distance to my runs. I even took the bike out for a couple of spins. Ready or not, race season was here and it was time for me to get moving.
While competing in triathlons doesn't make me feel young, it does help me contend with aging. Training helps me keep my weight down, my joints flexible, and my spirits up. Since I have no choice but to turn 50 this year, I might as well be the strongest, fastest, meanest 50-year-old I can be. So I run, I bike, I swim, almost every day.
Youth is so attractive, which is why finding the fountain of youth is a never ending quest. While adventurers and explorers no longer drudge through malarial swamps in search of the fountain, hordes of middle aged strivers flock to physicians hoping to find a pill an injection or an operation that will give back at least the appearance of youth.
On the other hand, old age can be repellant. As my mother's health continues to decline, I'm amazed at how uninviting are her nursing homes. Unlike my son's school that is filled with youth and virtually throbs with energy, my mother's nursing home feels cold and lethargic. Though smiling staff give a welcoming appearance, the residents are hunched, unsmiling and lifeless. I want to leave the minute I get there.
So in my quest to remain lively, if not exactly youthful, I've found triathlon training the right tonic for me. As I push myself I'm engaged, alert and alive. It's the best I can do right now.
After Sunday's race, I was satisfied with my results. Considering that I lost almost eight weeks of training this year while recovering from major surgery and injury, to finish 8th of 30 in my age group was not a bad result. My goal is still a top five finish sometime this summer, and I have several races ahead for me to achieve that goal.
Being young is easy. In the world's eyes, you are appealing simply because of your youth. As you get older, however, the world turns its gaze away ever so slightly as each day passes. By the time you're my age, you are interesting only if you've achieved something or can do something for others. As you connect with the world, to stay relevant you must give more and expect less in return. Just at the time when you have more to offer because of your wisdom and experience, the world looks to younger faces for fresh ideas and creative energy. I can't control that.
But I can shave some seconds off my quarter mile splits. I can improve my swimming stroke. And I can get a decent racing bike, finally! And I can crack the top five. Don't worry, you'll be the first to hear it. Haha.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Power of Penance
King Nebuchadnezzar felt miserable when he should have been overjoyed. As the King of Babylon and head of an empire that dominated the known world he was certainly the richest and most powerful man in the world.
Yet, his sleep was troubled by dreams. Dreams that gnawed at his insides and invaded his waking hours. On top of the world yet during the darkest hours he saw brokenness and devastation.
"What do these dreams mean?" the King asked his trusted advisor Daniel. Daniel hesitated--because he loved the King and hated delivering bad news. "I wish this dream belonged to your enemy, not to you," he said.
"Tell me anyway," the King demanded. "Well," said Daniel, "you have not honored God for your accomplishments, therefore, all this will be taken away from you. Beg God for mercy and maybe this fate will pass."
The story jumps from Daniel's plea to a day in the future when Nebuchadnezzar was on top of his palace, surveying his magnicent city and empire. "What great works I have done," he said to himself with a satisfied smile. Clearly he had never begged God for mercy--and perhaps the dreams ceased to trouble him. In any event neither the dreams nor Daniel's pleas made a lasting impression.
At that moment, the King hears the voice of God who says, "Because you have not honored me, I am taking this all away from you."
The story then shifts to a first person narrative. Nebuchadnezzar speaks directly to the readers and tells of his ordeal--how at that moment he lost his mind and lived like a wild beast. However, after a year, he turned his face to heaven and as quickly as it was taken away, everything was returned to him: his sanity, his position and his wealth.
Apparently that singular act of looking to God was all the King needed to do to show the creator of the universe that he was truly humbled. At that moment he knew in his heart that the splendor of his life came as a result of God's favor, not simply because of the King's merit.
Sin is disobeying God either in the things we do, or the things we fail to do. In Nebuchadnezzar's case, his sin was one of omission, not one of commission. He had not committed any particularly evil act, on the contrary, Nebuchadnezzar's rule was reknowned for its wisdom, tolerance and mercy. No, the King's sin involved a failure to act. In his pride he refused to honor the true power behind his throne, the Lord God Jehovah. And, for failing to acknowledge God, the King was humbled.
Many of us consider ourselves "good" because we don't do a lot of "bad" things. We don't beat children. We don't post pictures of ourselves in our underwear on the internet. And we don't steal from the elderly (though wrong change we consider a "gift").
But how many acts of goodness do we do simply to honor God. Do we praise him for a beautiful day. When breaks seem to fall our way to we congratulate ourselves for our good fortune?
The lesson from the Scriptures is that humans are supposed to praise God not just when the mood strikes, or when we need something, but because from deep down in our hearts praises seem to well up, almost without conscious thought. Until we reach that place--where the love of God is something we feel without any special prompt or reason, we may find ourselves in Nebuchadnezzar's shoes. God's favor is not something we earn. It's not something we can manipulate. God's favor comes when our spirit finds union with the Creator. And sometimes achieving that union, if it comes at all, requires a long sojourn in the wilderness.
May we all find that place of union and harmony with God, without encountering too much pain and suffering first!
Yet, his sleep was troubled by dreams. Dreams that gnawed at his insides and invaded his waking hours. On top of the world yet during the darkest hours he saw brokenness and devastation.
"What do these dreams mean?" the King asked his trusted advisor Daniel. Daniel hesitated--because he loved the King and hated delivering bad news. "I wish this dream belonged to your enemy, not to you," he said.
"Tell me anyway," the King demanded. "Well," said Daniel, "you have not honored God for your accomplishments, therefore, all this will be taken away from you. Beg God for mercy and maybe this fate will pass."
The story jumps from Daniel's plea to a day in the future when Nebuchadnezzar was on top of his palace, surveying his magnicent city and empire. "What great works I have done," he said to himself with a satisfied smile. Clearly he had never begged God for mercy--and perhaps the dreams ceased to trouble him. In any event neither the dreams nor Daniel's pleas made a lasting impression.
At that moment, the King hears the voice of God who says, "Because you have not honored me, I am taking this all away from you."
The story then shifts to a first person narrative. Nebuchadnezzar speaks directly to the readers and tells of his ordeal--how at that moment he lost his mind and lived like a wild beast. However, after a year, he turned his face to heaven and as quickly as it was taken away, everything was returned to him: his sanity, his position and his wealth.
Apparently that singular act of looking to God was all the King needed to do to show the creator of the universe that he was truly humbled. At that moment he knew in his heart that the splendor of his life came as a result of God's favor, not simply because of the King's merit.
Sin is disobeying God either in the things we do, or the things we fail to do. In Nebuchadnezzar's case, his sin was one of omission, not one of commission. He had not committed any particularly evil act, on the contrary, Nebuchadnezzar's rule was reknowned for its wisdom, tolerance and mercy. No, the King's sin involved a failure to act. In his pride he refused to honor the true power behind his throne, the Lord God Jehovah. And, for failing to acknowledge God, the King was humbled.
Many of us consider ourselves "good" because we don't do a lot of "bad" things. We don't beat children. We don't post pictures of ourselves in our underwear on the internet. And we don't steal from the elderly (though wrong change we consider a "gift").
But how many acts of goodness do we do simply to honor God. Do we praise him for a beautiful day. When breaks seem to fall our way to we congratulate ourselves for our good fortune?
The lesson from the Scriptures is that humans are supposed to praise God not just when the mood strikes, or when we need something, but because from deep down in our hearts praises seem to well up, almost without conscious thought. Until we reach that place--where the love of God is something we feel without any special prompt or reason, we may find ourselves in Nebuchadnezzar's shoes. God's favor is not something we earn. It's not something we can manipulate. God's favor comes when our spirit finds union with the Creator. And sometimes achieving that union, if it comes at all, requires a long sojourn in the wilderness.
May we all find that place of union and harmony with God, without encountering too much pain and suffering first!
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Ratted Out at the Club
OK, maybe it was kind of a stretch.
The Detroit Athletic Club has a special membership category for clergy. My good friend has wanted me to join for years. "It will be way cheaper for you," he always said. Until recently I hesitated because I'm not really a joiner--I have a hard time getting all enthused about "exclusive" groups. I want to be known as a person with talents, skills, family, achievements, and a loving generous heart, not the person defined by his affiliations and involvements.
But, lately I've been missing the social side of work I lost when I left American Laser Centers. For nearly eight years I enjoyed the comradery of working with a group of high-powered, kind of crazy, always interesting men. As a "team of one" in my consulting business, it's just not the same.
So, for me DAC membership became interesting as a place where I could make some new friendships and enjoy the company of professional, athletically inclined men. And, since they offered a special price for clergy--and, as you know, I am a clergyman, I thought, why not? I spent many long years earning my clergy credentials and if the DAC wants to honor that, I'll gladly oblige.
When I first contacted the club about clergy membership, I was told there was a waiting list (only 125 members at a time can be in this category), but that I should put my membership application in anyway. "To be ready when a space opens," the cheerful club represenative told me.
So I submitted my membership application. My friend helped me gather required recommendations from exisitng members, and I waited.
In March, out of the blue, the club called and told me that a clergy spot had opened and they wondered whether I was still interesed in membership. I said, "sure" and the representative quickly scheduled me to meet with the club's Board of Directors. All prospective members must meet with Board representatives who then vote on all new club members.
Around noon on Wednesday the next week, I and several other potential club members visited with Board members. I even sat privately with a member who officially interviewed me. Later that day I was telephoned by the club representative who I had been talking to about membership all along. "Rev. Piecuch," she said, "I have wonderful news." "Really?" I replied." "Yes, the Board has approved your membership application." "Great," I responded. And my first thought was, "I wonder how much this is going to cost me?"
In the weeks since I was voted in, I have enjoyed using the club's facilities and eating in their wonderful dining rooms. I've even met a few other members. The decision to join has seemed so right . . . up until Friday.
That afternoon I was working at the Novi Expo Center representing my PhotoTheric business (that's another story), when my cell phone started ringing. Not recognizing the number I answered, "Kevin Piecuch."
"This is Mary from the DAC." Oh yes, the friendly club representative who weeks earlier sounded overjoyed in welcoming me first as a newly elected member. The voice sounded less chipper, but I was in a noisy place.
"Umm, we have a problem with your membership. There's been a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "It's come to our attention that you have a consulting business."
"Yes," I said, a little incredulous.
"Well clergy members of the club must spend all their time doing clergy work. Otherwise they do not qualify for that membership category," she explained, sounding more like my grade school principal than the person who encouraged me to submit my application as quickly as possible.
"I've been upfront with everyone about my work," I said. "I never hid from anyone that I was not serving a congregation at the moment."
"Well perhaps your sponsor didn't know that you did not fit the clergy membership criteria. And we're not suggesting that you tried to hide something. It's just that there are many other club members in your situation."
"There are?" I said even more incredulous.
"Oh yes, many of our members are deacons and active in their churches."
"But I'm a seminary trained ordained clergyman. A deacon is not the same thing."
"Well," she said, "there are attorneys in the club who are also ordained, and they are resident members."
"Really?" I responded, wondering who they were.
"Yes. So, what do you want to do now?"
"What do I want to do?" I asked. "What are my options?"
"Well to move to Resident Member status you'll have to make an additional entrance payment and your monthly dues will increase."
"Let me talk to my wife," I said. "I'll get back to you."
"Yes," she said rather clipped. "I'll send you the portion of the our Bylaws that talks about membership categories. It's all very clear in the Bylaws."
Later I received an email from Mary. Whereas all previous communications from her had been sent to "Rev. Piecuch," now in the greeting she wrote, "Dear Mr. Piecuch." I guess I'm no longer clergy in her mind.
And there it was in black and white. In Section 7 of Article 1 of the DAC Bylaws, it says, "An unretired commissioned officer in full time active duty in the military service of the United States or a member of the clergy serving full time and exclusively as such . . . may be elected to membership in the manner prescribed." The article continues, "Such membership is to terminate upon the removal of said member from the aforesaid prescribed area, or whenever the Board is advised that the member is no longer serving full time and exclusively as a military or clergy person."
Then it hit me: somebody "advised the Board" that I was not working full time as clergy. How the Board didn't know that before I was elected as a member is mysterious to me. Every Board member I met the day I was elected I told that I was also an attorney who works with various clients. They didn't bat an eye--and in fact elected me as a clergy member. But, apparently somebody else in the club felt differently.
Perhaps one of those deacons saw my name on the new member list, or that mysterious attorney who also went to seminary, and ratted me out. Or, maybe some other member aware of my employment status, thought I was trying to "get one over" on the club and called the membership office.
I am guilty of not reading the Bylaws before joining the DAC. However, I am innocent of fraud. As a fully licensed minister of the Word and Sacrament, I believed (as did many others) that I qualified to join the club as a clergy member. Now, I'm told, I have to pay up or walk away.
While I typically don't like to join clubs, I like even less being thrown out of an establishment before I'm ready to leave. I was not ready to leave American Laser Centers the day I was told to pack up my office. I'm not ready to leave the DAC, not just yet.
However, as I think about this little snafu, I feel perplexed. I try to keep a low profile in life and I believe I'm well liked by those who know me. Every time I find out differently I get surprised. Somebody was bothered enough about my membership that he/she called the DAC office to "tell on me." Who would do that, especially since I was so open about my employment? And, really, who rats out a clergy man, even one like me who earns income outside the church?
The Detroit Athletic Club has a special membership category for clergy. My good friend has wanted me to join for years. "It will be way cheaper for you," he always said. Until recently I hesitated because I'm not really a joiner--I have a hard time getting all enthused about "exclusive" groups. I want to be known as a person with talents, skills, family, achievements, and a loving generous heart, not the person defined by his affiliations and involvements.
But, lately I've been missing the social side of work I lost when I left American Laser Centers. For nearly eight years I enjoyed the comradery of working with a group of high-powered, kind of crazy, always interesting men. As a "team of one" in my consulting business, it's just not the same.
So, for me DAC membership became interesting as a place where I could make some new friendships and enjoy the company of professional, athletically inclined men. And, since they offered a special price for clergy--and, as you know, I am a clergyman, I thought, why not? I spent many long years earning my clergy credentials and if the DAC wants to honor that, I'll gladly oblige.
When I first contacted the club about clergy membership, I was told there was a waiting list (only 125 members at a time can be in this category), but that I should put my membership application in anyway. "To be ready when a space opens," the cheerful club represenative told me.
So I submitted my membership application. My friend helped me gather required recommendations from exisitng members, and I waited.
In March, out of the blue, the club called and told me that a clergy spot had opened and they wondered whether I was still interesed in membership. I said, "sure" and the representative quickly scheduled me to meet with the club's Board of Directors. All prospective members must meet with Board representatives who then vote on all new club members.
Around noon on Wednesday the next week, I and several other potential club members visited with Board members. I even sat privately with a member who officially interviewed me. Later that day I was telephoned by the club representative who I had been talking to about membership all along. "Rev. Piecuch," she said, "I have wonderful news." "Really?" I replied." "Yes, the Board has approved your membership application." "Great," I responded. And my first thought was, "I wonder how much this is going to cost me?"
In the weeks since I was voted in, I have enjoyed using the club's facilities and eating in their wonderful dining rooms. I've even met a few other members. The decision to join has seemed so right . . . up until Friday.
That afternoon I was working at the Novi Expo Center representing my PhotoTheric business (that's another story), when my cell phone started ringing. Not recognizing the number I answered, "Kevin Piecuch."
"This is Mary from the DAC." Oh yes, the friendly club representative who weeks earlier sounded overjoyed in welcoming me first as a newly elected member. The voice sounded less chipper, but I was in a noisy place.
"Umm, we have a problem with your membership. There's been a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "It's come to our attention that you have a consulting business."
"Yes," I said, a little incredulous.
"Well clergy members of the club must spend all their time doing clergy work. Otherwise they do not qualify for that membership category," she explained, sounding more like my grade school principal than the person who encouraged me to submit my application as quickly as possible.
"I've been upfront with everyone about my work," I said. "I never hid from anyone that I was not serving a congregation at the moment."
"Well perhaps your sponsor didn't know that you did not fit the clergy membership criteria. And we're not suggesting that you tried to hide something. It's just that there are many other club members in your situation."
"There are?" I said even more incredulous.
"Oh yes, many of our members are deacons and active in their churches."
"But I'm a seminary trained ordained clergyman. A deacon is not the same thing."
"Well," she said, "there are attorneys in the club who are also ordained, and they are resident members."
"Really?" I responded, wondering who they were.
"Yes. So, what do you want to do now?"
"What do I want to do?" I asked. "What are my options?"
"Well to move to Resident Member status you'll have to make an additional entrance payment and your monthly dues will increase."
"Let me talk to my wife," I said. "I'll get back to you."
"Yes," she said rather clipped. "I'll send you the portion of the our Bylaws that talks about membership categories. It's all very clear in the Bylaws."
Later I received an email from Mary. Whereas all previous communications from her had been sent to "Rev. Piecuch," now in the greeting she wrote, "Dear Mr. Piecuch." I guess I'm no longer clergy in her mind.
And there it was in black and white. In Section 7 of Article 1 of the DAC Bylaws, it says, "An unretired commissioned officer in full time active duty in the military service of the United States or a member of the clergy serving full time and exclusively as such . . . may be elected to membership in the manner prescribed." The article continues, "Such membership is to terminate upon the removal of said member from the aforesaid prescribed area, or whenever the Board is advised that the member is no longer serving full time and exclusively as a military or clergy person."
Then it hit me: somebody "advised the Board" that I was not working full time as clergy. How the Board didn't know that before I was elected as a member is mysterious to me. Every Board member I met the day I was elected I told that I was also an attorney who works with various clients. They didn't bat an eye--and in fact elected me as a clergy member. But, apparently somebody else in the club felt differently.
Perhaps one of those deacons saw my name on the new member list, or that mysterious attorney who also went to seminary, and ratted me out. Or, maybe some other member aware of my employment status, thought I was trying to "get one over" on the club and called the membership office.
I am guilty of not reading the Bylaws before joining the DAC. However, I am innocent of fraud. As a fully licensed minister of the Word and Sacrament, I believed (as did many others) that I qualified to join the club as a clergy member. Now, I'm told, I have to pay up or walk away.
While I typically don't like to join clubs, I like even less being thrown out of an establishment before I'm ready to leave. I was not ready to leave American Laser Centers the day I was told to pack up my office. I'm not ready to leave the DAC, not just yet.
However, as I think about this little snafu, I feel perplexed. I try to keep a low profile in life and I believe I'm well liked by those who know me. Every time I find out differently I get surprised. Somebody was bothered enough about my membership that he/she called the DAC office to "tell on me." Who would do that, especially since I was so open about my employment? And, really, who rats out a clergy man, even one like me who earns income outside the church?
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The Right Gift
Who loves us more: the person who gives us what we ask for, or the person who gives us what we need? The former sounds like a friend--the later sounds like a parent.
"Like" relationships are purely discretionary. Those who amuse us, encourage us, inspire us, are people we choose to be around. However, if those same people become boring, offend us, or no longer raise our spirits, we may choose to end our relationship. Someone I know calls these relationships "flavors of the month." This happens to me all the time. I meet someone new, find some common ground, enjoy their company, and I believe I've just made a fantastic friend.
However, after a few meetings, I discover the person possesses certain annoying habits, may not be as smart as I thought, and becomes less interesting to me every day. And, since I'm not willing to make a special effort to continue our relationship, the person just drifts out of my life. I sometimes even forget their names.
Family members and true friendships, however, are built on more substantial ground. Years of interaction create a rich context for these relationships, a context that includes good times and bad, happy and sad. One bad day shouldn't doom a friendship. One day when we're "off our game" won't get us disowned from family. If our friendships and family relationships are healthy, they are about more than passing amusements. They involve building trust, mutual respect and growth. Our friends and close family give us what we need to be harmonious human beings. Watch an episode of Family Guy if you need a laugh. However, call a family member or friend if we need help with our lives.
Which leads me to the Book of Acts. (OK, my transition is a little abrupt today). In Chapter 3, Peter and John are on their way to pray in the temple. They run into a lame man who asks them for money. The apostles say they don't have money, but can give him something far better. Then, stretching out their hands, they take hold of the man, pull him up and all of a sudden, the man's ankles strenghten and he can walk. In fact Scripture said the man began "walking and leaping and praising God." Talk about lifting a man out of poverty. The apostles knew what the man really needed.
In ancient times the ability to do manual labor might be the only thing standing between life and starvation. Accordingly, physical disability was devastating. Especially as the person grew older and could not depend on the care of parents, life became precarious for the blind, the dumb, and the lame. While a few coins could ward off starvation for a day, what that man really needed was a miracle: strong legs and the ability to walk.
So, in response to the lame man's request, the apostles gave a far better gift.
I wonder, are we giving the right gifts to the people around us? When our children ask for XBox games, do we cave in, assuring ourselves that good parents take care of their children. Or, do we seek to give our children the tools they need to lead a happy and successful life--gifts such as faith, love and discipline--whether or not our children know to ask for them.
And, what are we asking of God? Do we ask for wealth, saying that freed of money worries we can pray more effectively or have additional resources to share with the needy. Do we ask for popularity, saying the more people who like us, the larger circle of influence we'll have to encourage godly behavior. Do we ask God for material goods so that we'll be better respected in the community? These thoughts were captured long ago by Janis Joplin who sang in a voice dripping with irony, "O Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz."
I think I understand this lesson. Jesus promised us, "Ask and it shall be given to you." What Jesus didn't do, however, is define "it". "It" may not be what we asked for--it might just be what we need. So go ahead and ask God for whatever you want. Ask for that flat screen TV. Ask for a better job. Just be sure you understand why you're asking for that particular gift. Perhaps there's a deeper need that God is looking to fill. And, be prepared. What God gives us in response to our asking might just blow our minds . . . and cause us to "walk, leap and praise."
Now God, about that new job . . . .
"Like" relationships are purely discretionary. Those who amuse us, encourage us, inspire us, are people we choose to be around. However, if those same people become boring, offend us, or no longer raise our spirits, we may choose to end our relationship. Someone I know calls these relationships "flavors of the month." This happens to me all the time. I meet someone new, find some common ground, enjoy their company, and I believe I've just made a fantastic friend.
However, after a few meetings, I discover the person possesses certain annoying habits, may not be as smart as I thought, and becomes less interesting to me every day. And, since I'm not willing to make a special effort to continue our relationship, the person just drifts out of my life. I sometimes even forget their names.
Family members and true friendships, however, are built on more substantial ground. Years of interaction create a rich context for these relationships, a context that includes good times and bad, happy and sad. One bad day shouldn't doom a friendship. One day when we're "off our game" won't get us disowned from family. If our friendships and family relationships are healthy, they are about more than passing amusements. They involve building trust, mutual respect and growth. Our friends and close family give us what we need to be harmonious human beings. Watch an episode of Family Guy if you need a laugh. However, call a family member or friend if we need help with our lives.
Which leads me to the Book of Acts. (OK, my transition is a little abrupt today). In Chapter 3, Peter and John are on their way to pray in the temple. They run into a lame man who asks them for money. The apostles say they don't have money, but can give him something far better. Then, stretching out their hands, they take hold of the man, pull him up and all of a sudden, the man's ankles strenghten and he can walk. In fact Scripture said the man began "walking and leaping and praising God." Talk about lifting a man out of poverty. The apostles knew what the man really needed.
In ancient times the ability to do manual labor might be the only thing standing between life and starvation. Accordingly, physical disability was devastating. Especially as the person grew older and could not depend on the care of parents, life became precarious for the blind, the dumb, and the lame. While a few coins could ward off starvation for a day, what that man really needed was a miracle: strong legs and the ability to walk.
So, in response to the lame man's request, the apostles gave a far better gift.
I wonder, are we giving the right gifts to the people around us? When our children ask for XBox games, do we cave in, assuring ourselves that good parents take care of their children. Or, do we seek to give our children the tools they need to lead a happy and successful life--gifts such as faith, love and discipline--whether or not our children know to ask for them.
And, what are we asking of God? Do we ask for wealth, saying that freed of money worries we can pray more effectively or have additional resources to share with the needy. Do we ask for popularity, saying the more people who like us, the larger circle of influence we'll have to encourage godly behavior. Do we ask God for material goods so that we'll be better respected in the community? These thoughts were captured long ago by Janis Joplin who sang in a voice dripping with irony, "O Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz."
I think I understand this lesson. Jesus promised us, "Ask and it shall be given to you." What Jesus didn't do, however, is define "it". "It" may not be what we asked for--it might just be what we need. So go ahead and ask God for whatever you want. Ask for that flat screen TV. Ask for a better job. Just be sure you understand why you're asking for that particular gift. Perhaps there's a deeper need that God is looking to fill. And, be prepared. What God gives us in response to our asking might just blow our minds . . . and cause us to "walk, leap and praise."
Now God, about that new job . . . .
Monday, April 25, 2011
Jonah Changed His Mind
Talk about feeling regrets at just the right moment, consider the biblical character Jonah.
You know the story. God asked Jonah to do a task he did not want to do--which was to share a word of warning to the people of Nineveh, the hated enemies of Israel. Jonah refused the task and decided he could outrun God.
Bad idea. Instead of outrunning the Lord, Jonah found himself in the middle of a raging storm, which was about to engulf his ship and drown all his fellow passengers. Jonah, knowing the storm was God's way of saying, "You can't run from me" told the sailors to throw him overboard and their lives would be saved. At first they refused, but when Jonah explained he had defied Almighty God, they agreed and heaved him into the raging seas.
The storm stopped and Jonah was swallowed immediately by an enormous fish.
As the fish was descending into the depths of the ocean, Jonah said he felt his life ebbing. He said he also remembered how much he loved God and that how thankful he was that God gave him an opportunity for service.
Isn't that just like us? We have the opportunity to do right when it is convenient, when saying "yes" means simply doing what stands before us. But no, how often do we act like Jonah and go to great lengths to refuse service. How often to we spurn performing acts of kindness and compassion when the need before us is clear. Why? Simply because we would rather do wrong than obey. God tells us to give food to the hungry man and we choose to go a different route. God tells us to help our wife and we stay longer at work. God tells us to pick up the telephone and call our parents, but we keep watching the game.
Then later, when we're far away, we remember the hungry person, our family members, and our responsibility to show love not just receive love, and we change our minds. But, perhaps the moment is lost.
In Jonah's case, God spared his life and he was given a second opportunity to take the message to Ninevah.
How many second chances do we have to do right? Wouldn't it be simpler just to obey at the outset, than to think we can outrun God. What was Jonah thinking, really? What am I thinking, really?
You know the story. God asked Jonah to do a task he did not want to do--which was to share a word of warning to the people of Nineveh, the hated enemies of Israel. Jonah refused the task and decided he could outrun God.
Bad idea. Instead of outrunning the Lord, Jonah found himself in the middle of a raging storm, which was about to engulf his ship and drown all his fellow passengers. Jonah, knowing the storm was God's way of saying, "You can't run from me" told the sailors to throw him overboard and their lives would be saved. At first they refused, but when Jonah explained he had defied Almighty God, they agreed and heaved him into the raging seas.
The storm stopped and Jonah was swallowed immediately by an enormous fish.
As the fish was descending into the depths of the ocean, Jonah said he felt his life ebbing. He said he also remembered how much he loved God and that how thankful he was that God gave him an opportunity for service.
Isn't that just like us? We have the opportunity to do right when it is convenient, when saying "yes" means simply doing what stands before us. But no, how often do we act like Jonah and go to great lengths to refuse service. How often to we spurn performing acts of kindness and compassion when the need before us is clear. Why? Simply because we would rather do wrong than obey. God tells us to give food to the hungry man and we choose to go a different route. God tells us to help our wife and we stay longer at work. God tells us to pick up the telephone and call our parents, but we keep watching the game.
Then later, when we're far away, we remember the hungry person, our family members, and our responsibility to show love not just receive love, and we change our minds. But, perhaps the moment is lost.
In Jonah's case, God spared his life and he was given a second opportunity to take the message to Ninevah.
How many second chances do we have to do right? Wouldn't it be simpler just to obey at the outset, than to think we can outrun God. What was Jonah thinking, really? What am I thinking, really?
Thursday, April 21, 2011
St. Paul Sings!
Biblical scholars agree that the letters of St. Paul include some very early Christian hymns. It's the best way to explain why his writings sometimes include bursts of poetry, right at the end of some complicated point of doctrine. It's as if that hard boiled saint, at the end of writing something really profound, just felt the need to belt out a song.
I know how the man felt because I too am often moved to sing at random times of the day. I have no idea how others react to this--and I'm not sure how many folks outside my family circle have actually witnessed my song and dance act. But, it's a frequent event. My life is a musical comedy--songs just appear for sometimes no apparent reason.
In today's lectionary reading from Paul's letter the Romans, our saint explained in passionate detail that despite their rejection of Jesus, God has not rejected his people Israel. After all, says Paul, "the gifts and calling of God are irrevocable." Being the beneficiary of God's gifts is like buying items at a going out of business sale--you can never take them back. Once bought, the sale is final.
Paul is so moved by God's remarkable goodness--giving gifts to people who don't deserve them, and then never wanting them back--he finds himself bursting into song. Read Romans 11:33-36. "Oh the depths of the riches, the wisdom and knowledge of God. How unsearchable are his judgments and inscrutable his ways." I actually have a tune for that hymn burned into my memory from days long ago at the Mulford Evangelical Free Church in Muscatine, Iowa. This passage was set to music and sung by our church choir on numerous occassions. The tune sounded like a football fight song and the choir sang it with zest.
God loves humanity completely and without regard to our behavior. Our failures, rejections, infatuations with other gods notwithstanding, God loves us, accepts us, and calls in into fellowship. This love is far different than the love we share. While our love is fickle and often depends on the object of our love acting a certain way, God's love is without condition. While our love is narrow in focus, rarely extending beyond those closest to us, God's love crosses all boundaries. Finally, while our love sometimes fades with time, God's love grows stronger by the day.
When faced with such boundless, perfect love, it's enough to make a person burst into song . . . just like St. Paul.
I know how the man felt because I too am often moved to sing at random times of the day. I have no idea how others react to this--and I'm not sure how many folks outside my family circle have actually witnessed my song and dance act. But, it's a frequent event. My life is a musical comedy--songs just appear for sometimes no apparent reason.
In today's lectionary reading from Paul's letter the Romans, our saint explained in passionate detail that despite their rejection of Jesus, God has not rejected his people Israel. After all, says Paul, "the gifts and calling of God are irrevocable." Being the beneficiary of God's gifts is like buying items at a going out of business sale--you can never take them back. Once bought, the sale is final.
Paul is so moved by God's remarkable goodness--giving gifts to people who don't deserve them, and then never wanting them back--he finds himself bursting into song. Read Romans 11:33-36. "Oh the depths of the riches, the wisdom and knowledge of God. How unsearchable are his judgments and inscrutable his ways." I actually have a tune for that hymn burned into my memory from days long ago at the Mulford Evangelical Free Church in Muscatine, Iowa. This passage was set to music and sung by our church choir on numerous occassions. The tune sounded like a football fight song and the choir sang it with zest.
God loves humanity completely and without regard to our behavior. Our failures, rejections, infatuations with other gods notwithstanding, God loves us, accepts us, and calls in into fellowship. This love is far different than the love we share. While our love is fickle and often depends on the object of our love acting a certain way, God's love is without condition. While our love is narrow in focus, rarely extending beyond those closest to us, God's love crosses all boundaries. Finally, while our love sometimes fades with time, God's love grows stronger by the day.
When faced with such boundless, perfect love, it's enough to make a person burst into song . . . just like St. Paul.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
On My Own and All Alone
Here we go again. Two weeks in a row! It's Friday in Lent and time to reflect on today's Scripture readings that appear in the daily lectionary.
The Psalm selected for today appears often during the Lenten season: Psalm 22. Unlike the words of comfort from the 23rd Psalm, the 22nd Psalm is all about pain and anguish. Perhaps its most famous words are, "I am a worm, not a man." Hmm, as much as I feel that way sometimes (most recently the day after my hernia surgery), I was not feeling that pain today.
Instead I felt most attracted to Paul's words contained in the eighth chapter of Romans. Here Paul writes exuberantly about the Christian's connection to Jesus--saying that nothing, I mean NOTHING, could ever separate us from God's love given through Jesus.
His words are wonderfully optimistic and absolultely reassure us that despite any difficult circumstances we may face, Jesus walks with us. Thank God we're not alone.
Yet I sometimes wonder, simply the fact that Jesus is with us does not mean we are experiencing his presence. I can think of many comforts and safety nets available to us that we often overlook or ignore. When the pilot light on my furnace went out last week--the gas company was available to help me, but I went ahead and tried to restart the machine, without luck. When the repairman came, he told me the pilot line was broken and that I was lucky I didn't "burn my face off." Lucky? Hmm, blessed more like it. Why didn't I call the expert first?
I also wonder why my son, who knows his father is a great writer (in my own mind, maybe?), never asks me to read his school papers and essays. I bet I could help him improve his grades, yet he chooses to forego my help. It's not a bad thing to want to do things on your own, it's just sometimes you miss a blessing.
One of the reasons I avoid getting help is that I prefer to do things my way. If you ask for help, then you're kind of obligated to accept assistance. It seems a little rude to solicit advice then immediately reject it. Why ask if you do not intend on listening.
Which is why I think my son doesn't ask me to read his papers--kind of hard to say, "No Dad, I like it better my way."
Which takes me back to nothing separating us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. I can think of several blocks to my relationship with God that did not appear on Paul's list: pride, stubbornness and willfullness. If God has gifted me, then why do I need help from the almighty to land a deal--shouldn't my talents be obvious without some divine intervention? Why should I ask Jesus to be with me in that business meeting?
Or, after committing myself to fruitless efforts, should I change course simply because God's gentle prodding urged me to try a different approach. I mean seriously God, shouldn't I keep at it my way a little while longer? Do you really expect me to accept the humiliation that I was on the wrong road?
Or, why ask for God's help when you know God's will is contrary to my own. If I want something--isn't it enough that I want it? Why would God allow me to want something that isn't good for me? Sure God's laws are clearly written in scripture, but doesn't he give his children a little leeway? If you know the answer is going to be "no" and you really want something, why ask permission?
As hard as it is to accept, our God can simply demand things from us because he is God. And Jesus will advise us to do right even when we want to do wrong. Loving God requires respect for his will--and accepting that his will is perfect, despite what our will tells us. But, submission is hard, and getting one's way is addicting. It also separates us from the one who loves us most.
Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus? Really? Perhaps nothing from God's end. . . . I'm just saying.
The Psalm selected for today appears often during the Lenten season: Psalm 22. Unlike the words of comfort from the 23rd Psalm, the 22nd Psalm is all about pain and anguish. Perhaps its most famous words are, "I am a worm, not a man." Hmm, as much as I feel that way sometimes (most recently the day after my hernia surgery), I was not feeling that pain today.
Instead I felt most attracted to Paul's words contained in the eighth chapter of Romans. Here Paul writes exuberantly about the Christian's connection to Jesus--saying that nothing, I mean NOTHING, could ever separate us from God's love given through Jesus.
His words are wonderfully optimistic and absolultely reassure us that despite any difficult circumstances we may face, Jesus walks with us. Thank God we're not alone.
Yet I sometimes wonder, simply the fact that Jesus is with us does not mean we are experiencing his presence. I can think of many comforts and safety nets available to us that we often overlook or ignore. When the pilot light on my furnace went out last week--the gas company was available to help me, but I went ahead and tried to restart the machine, without luck. When the repairman came, he told me the pilot line was broken and that I was lucky I didn't "burn my face off." Lucky? Hmm, blessed more like it. Why didn't I call the expert first?
I also wonder why my son, who knows his father is a great writer (in my own mind, maybe?), never asks me to read his school papers and essays. I bet I could help him improve his grades, yet he chooses to forego my help. It's not a bad thing to want to do things on your own, it's just sometimes you miss a blessing.
One of the reasons I avoid getting help is that I prefer to do things my way. If you ask for help, then you're kind of obligated to accept assistance. It seems a little rude to solicit advice then immediately reject it. Why ask if you do not intend on listening.
Which is why I think my son doesn't ask me to read his papers--kind of hard to say, "No Dad, I like it better my way."
Which takes me back to nothing separating us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. I can think of several blocks to my relationship with God that did not appear on Paul's list: pride, stubbornness and willfullness. If God has gifted me, then why do I need help from the almighty to land a deal--shouldn't my talents be obvious without some divine intervention? Why should I ask Jesus to be with me in that business meeting?
Or, after committing myself to fruitless efforts, should I change course simply because God's gentle prodding urged me to try a different approach. I mean seriously God, shouldn't I keep at it my way a little while longer? Do you really expect me to accept the humiliation that I was on the wrong road?
Or, why ask for God's help when you know God's will is contrary to my own. If I want something--isn't it enough that I want it? Why would God allow me to want something that isn't good for me? Sure God's laws are clearly written in scripture, but doesn't he give his children a little leeway? If you know the answer is going to be "no" and you really want something, why ask permission?
As hard as it is to accept, our God can simply demand things from us because he is God. And Jesus will advise us to do right even when we want to do wrong. Loving God requires respect for his will--and accepting that his will is perfect, despite what our will tells us. But, submission is hard, and getting one's way is addicting. It also separates us from the one who loves us most.
Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus? Really? Perhaps nothing from God's end. . . . I'm just saying.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Where Am I Going? And How Do I Get There?
Yes life is a journey--and wouldn't we all like to own the map that tells us exactly where that journey ends--and all the interesting twists and turns along the way.
I seriously dislike a series of television commercials running right now produced by Fidelity--you know them, the financial management company. The commercials feature energetic looking mature couples walking down a green path that the Fidelity Company is laying out step-by-step. "Don't worry seniors," the message suggests. "If you invest with Fidelity, we'll take you to the promised land." I wish finding the promised land was that easy.
Sad truth is that many persons who once felt secure about their futures aren't so sure now. Sure the stock market looks better today--but for millions of Americans who invested a significant portion of their wealth in their homes our "nest eggs" seem rather puny. Worse, millions of workers in their 40s, 50s and 60s, who expected to work a certain number of years and earn a certain level of income before retirement, find themselves unemployed and quickly burning through resources. As unemployment benefits run out, COBRA premiums become unaffordable, and houses in nice neighborhoods with upside down mortgages are abandoned, many Americans worry that God has somehow forsaken them.
Especially in Michigan and other economically ravaged regions people understand David perfectly when he mourns in Psalm 102, "He has broken my strength in midcourse." And, "Do not take me away at the midpoint of my life." How terrifying it is to be on a journey and find yourself stuck in the desert, out of gas, without reception on your cell phone, and far from your final destination. What do you do?
People of faith rely on hope. While we may be in the dark at the moment, the God we worship knows the total picture. The God who created the world, who has showered us with blessings of life and companionship, will not leave us in the lurch, no matter how difficult our present circumstances.
Do these words comfort you? Maybe not if you face immediate needs and painful choices. However, know that beyond the present discomfort, God has promised to deliver us to a place of rest--both in this world and in the world to come.
So, if you feel your life is stalled in a wasteland, and the darkness of night deepens around you, fear not. Your deliverer draws near. Maybe not in an Escalade, or a Jag, but God is bringing you relief . . . soon! After all, if your goal is to get to the promised land, does it really matter whether you get there in a Maybach or riding on the Megabus? I just want to get there, and have a spot prepared for me. God never promised that the road to the promised land would be easy or comfortable, just that he would take us there.
The folks at Fidelity proclaim that they can deliver you to a promised land of financial ease, and maybe they can bring some comfort to their clients. However, for my money, I'm still banking with the God of Abraham. See you at the pool!
I seriously dislike a series of television commercials running right now produced by Fidelity--you know them, the financial management company. The commercials feature energetic looking mature couples walking down a green path that the Fidelity Company is laying out step-by-step. "Don't worry seniors," the message suggests. "If you invest with Fidelity, we'll take you to the promised land." I wish finding the promised land was that easy.
Sad truth is that many persons who once felt secure about their futures aren't so sure now. Sure the stock market looks better today--but for millions of Americans who invested a significant portion of their wealth in their homes our "nest eggs" seem rather puny. Worse, millions of workers in their 40s, 50s and 60s, who expected to work a certain number of years and earn a certain level of income before retirement, find themselves unemployed and quickly burning through resources. As unemployment benefits run out, COBRA premiums become unaffordable, and houses in nice neighborhoods with upside down mortgages are abandoned, many Americans worry that God has somehow forsaken them.
Especially in Michigan and other economically ravaged regions people understand David perfectly when he mourns in Psalm 102, "He has broken my strength in midcourse." And, "Do not take me away at the midpoint of my life." How terrifying it is to be on a journey and find yourself stuck in the desert, out of gas, without reception on your cell phone, and far from your final destination. What do you do?
People of faith rely on hope. While we may be in the dark at the moment, the God we worship knows the total picture. The God who created the world, who has showered us with blessings of life and companionship, will not leave us in the lurch, no matter how difficult our present circumstances.
Do these words comfort you? Maybe not if you face immediate needs and painful choices. However, know that beyond the present discomfort, God has promised to deliver us to a place of rest--both in this world and in the world to come.
So, if you feel your life is stalled in a wasteland, and the darkness of night deepens around you, fear not. Your deliverer draws near. Maybe not in an Escalade, or a Jag, but God is bringing you relief . . . soon! After all, if your goal is to get to the promised land, does it really matter whether you get there in a Maybach or riding on the Megabus? I just want to get there, and have a spot prepared for me. God never promised that the road to the promised land would be easy or comfortable, just that he would take us there.
The folks at Fidelity proclaim that they can deliver you to a promised land of financial ease, and maybe they can bring some comfort to their clients. However, for my money, I'm still banking with the God of Abraham. See you at the pool!
Monday, February 28, 2011
What Kind of Place is Panama?
Panama is the kind of place where you can back up on the freeway. I should know, because I did it. And I wasn’t the only one. Here, if you miss your exit, shift into reverse and hope for the best!
Panama is the kind of place where you can show your bare midriff, no matter your age. No matter your size! And no matter your taste in revealing clothes. Sequins are very big here. Who needs a holiday or party? Every day is a good day to show some sparkle . . . and a generous gut, too!
Panama is the kind of place where a waitress might answer her cell phone . . . while she’s serving your table. Gossip is like restaurant food—you got to get it while it’s hot!
Panama is the kind of place where a driver can hold his infant child in one arm, and the steering wheel of his Toyota in the other. Where bikers seem to believe their caps afford the same protection as a helmet. And where the rare jogger might be wearing a knit stocking cap and full sweats . . . in 85 degree weather.
Panama is the kind of place where bright yellow jungle flowers practically explode from the limbs of jade green trees, while piles of garbage fester nearby. The jarring contrast between natural beauty and manmade ugliness makes your head spin. My environmentalist daughter sees education opportunities in Panama. I see . . . well even though I’m an optimist, this is Panama, so I don’t know.
I’ve heard that Panama is one of the top five places in the world to retire. That’s true if you’re measuring weather and cost of living. Panama is a wonderful place, with exuberant, friendly people. At the same time Panamanians see the world differently from most Americans. Certain basic values now embraced in the U.S. (like safety precautions and picking up your own garbage) sometime seem in short supply here.
But in February, when life is gray back home, I can accept the difference much more easily.
Panama is the kind of place where you can show your bare midriff, no matter your age. No matter your size! And no matter your taste in revealing clothes. Sequins are very big here. Who needs a holiday or party? Every day is a good day to show some sparkle . . . and a generous gut, too!
Panama is the kind of place where a waitress might answer her cell phone . . . while she’s serving your table. Gossip is like restaurant food—you got to get it while it’s hot!
Panama is the kind of place where a driver can hold his infant child in one arm, and the steering wheel of his Toyota in the other. Where bikers seem to believe their caps afford the same protection as a helmet. And where the rare jogger might be wearing a knit stocking cap and full sweats . . . in 85 degree weather.
Panama is the kind of place where bright yellow jungle flowers practically explode from the limbs of jade green trees, while piles of garbage fester nearby. The jarring contrast between natural beauty and manmade ugliness makes your head spin. My environmentalist daughter sees education opportunities in Panama. I see . . . well even though I’m an optimist, this is Panama, so I don’t know.
I’ve heard that Panama is one of the top five places in the world to retire. That’s true if you’re measuring weather and cost of living. Panama is a wonderful place, with exuberant, friendly people. At the same time Panamanians see the world differently from most Americans. Certain basic values now embraced in the U.S. (like safety precautions and picking up your own garbage) sometime seem in short supply here.
But in February, when life is gray back home, I can accept the difference much more easily.
I Touched A Dead Body Yesterday
It didn’t scare me, or even freak me out. I was surprised. I touched the body while my wife and two men preparing her aunt’s body (who we knew as Na) for a funeral that was taking place the next day. They were struggling with her dress. The slip was hard enough to put on, but now the dress, with its zippers and lace, it required three sets of hands to lift the body and keep Na’s head in place. I wasn’t going to just stand by—I had visions of the body slipping off the table, bursting open and embalming fluids splashing on my legs. Better I help and avert a potential disaster!
The place where the body was being prepared for the funeral was described to us as a “private morgue.” We had visited the public morgue earlier that day and had identified the body for the death certificate. The sight of Na’s body wrapped in a sheet, with cotton in her mouth and nose, was almost too much to bear. I was not looking forward to a second encounter with Na’s body.
To find the private morgue, we were told to look for the large Edwin Hardware sign off the side of the highway. “You can’t miss it,” I was told. Who hasn’t heard that before?
But I saw the Fereteria Edwin sign and the rutted, dirt driveway that led to what appeared to be an open garage where cars were being repaired. A forlorn dog, skinny with sagging tetes watched us walk warily up to the building. The garage doors were open and we walked right in. Inside we saw the coffin we had selected earlier that day, and Na’s body lying on a metal table. The room was clean enough, but lacked the sterile, medical atmosphere I expected. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t nervous. Na’s body was being readied for her last public appearance in a garage! Fortunately she looked much better than she did at the public morgue. The cotton had been pulled out, her face was less puffy, and some makeup had already been applied.
The body itself was soft to the touch, but room temperature. There was no life in that skin. The faint aroma of Na’s perfume was evident, but her spirit had departed. I wasn’t scared, repulsed or nervous. We had a limited amount of time to make sure she was presentable. So my wife fixed the makeup, changed the earrings, combed her hair, and arranged her clothing and rosary beads. This was the best we could do.
The next day, 30 minutes before Na’s funeral, a hearse arrived at the church. It was not exactly a hearse, but a white minivan that transported the coffin. We were asked to find men to carry the coffin up the stairs into the sanctuary. For this funeral, the pall bearers really bore a burden, not symbolically accompanied the casket. So huffing and puffing, six of us carefully carried the coffin with Na inside up two flights of stairs. Once in the sanctuary, mourners crowded around the coffin to see Na one more time. My wife was grateful she spent the time carefully arranging the body the day before—fixing the makeup, choosing the right clothes and jewelry—because at this funeral people wanted to see the deceased—a closed casket simply would not do.
My wife said she wished she had one last opportunity to hug her Na before she passed. While they talked on the telephone almost daily, she hadn’t felt her warm embrace, smelled her perfume or seen the vibrant sparkle in her eyes in almost a year. While the corpse looked like Na, it was not her. You can’t feel love from a corpse.
My wife and I both touched a dead body yesterday. Fortunately, a life of warm memories is what we’ll remember.
The place where the body was being prepared for the funeral was described to us as a “private morgue.” We had visited the public morgue earlier that day and had identified the body for the death certificate. The sight of Na’s body wrapped in a sheet, with cotton in her mouth and nose, was almost too much to bear. I was not looking forward to a second encounter with Na’s body.
To find the private morgue, we were told to look for the large Edwin Hardware sign off the side of the highway. “You can’t miss it,” I was told. Who hasn’t heard that before?
But I saw the Fereteria Edwin sign and the rutted, dirt driveway that led to what appeared to be an open garage where cars were being repaired. A forlorn dog, skinny with sagging tetes watched us walk warily up to the building. The garage doors were open and we walked right in. Inside we saw the coffin we had selected earlier that day, and Na’s body lying on a metal table. The room was clean enough, but lacked the sterile, medical atmosphere I expected. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t nervous. Na’s body was being readied for her last public appearance in a garage! Fortunately she looked much better than she did at the public morgue. The cotton had been pulled out, her face was less puffy, and some makeup had already been applied.
The body itself was soft to the touch, but room temperature. There was no life in that skin. The faint aroma of Na’s perfume was evident, but her spirit had departed. I wasn’t scared, repulsed or nervous. We had a limited amount of time to make sure she was presentable. So my wife fixed the makeup, changed the earrings, combed her hair, and arranged her clothing and rosary beads. This was the best we could do.
The next day, 30 minutes before Na’s funeral, a hearse arrived at the church. It was not exactly a hearse, but a white minivan that transported the coffin. We were asked to find men to carry the coffin up the stairs into the sanctuary. For this funeral, the pall bearers really bore a burden, not symbolically accompanied the casket. So huffing and puffing, six of us carefully carried the coffin with Na inside up two flights of stairs. Once in the sanctuary, mourners crowded around the coffin to see Na one more time. My wife was grateful she spent the time carefully arranging the body the day before—fixing the makeup, choosing the right clothes and jewelry—because at this funeral people wanted to see the deceased—a closed casket simply would not do.
My wife said she wished she had one last opportunity to hug her Na before she passed. While they talked on the telephone almost daily, she hadn’t felt her warm embrace, smelled her perfume or seen the vibrant sparkle in her eyes in almost a year. While the corpse looked like Na, it was not her. You can’t feel love from a corpse.
My wife and I both touched a dead body yesterday. Fortunately, a life of warm memories is what we’ll remember.
Friday, February 4, 2011
I'll Spare You the Details
President Lyndon Johnson famously showed off his gall bladder surgery scars to reporters in the mid 1960s when I was a small child. The press had a field day. Such a vulgar man. How could the president, the most powerful man in the world, lift his dress shirt, and show reporters his ample mid section. Gross.
Gross, for sure, but I understand the impulse.
Maybe I too am vulgar and gross by nature. Or maybe there's something else going on when the president lifts his shirt and shows off his scars.
Johnson later said he wanted the country to know that he was fine. People worry about the health of the president--his well being impacts the stock market, the news, daily watercooler chat. The former president believed showing the world his healed scars was an act of reassurance--instead it became a big joke.
In the week since my own hernia repair surgery, I've had to repress the urge to ask everyone I see, "Do you want to see my scars?" What's going on in my head? I haven't popped a vicodin since Monday so I can't say it's the drugs talking.
For me, showing my scars justifies my current, albeit strange behavior. All week long I've done nothing but sit around, read, watch TV and eat. I even started playing video games, and am especially enjoying Bejeweled. No work, no exercise, no projects, nothing. How to explain this out-of-character behavior? I just had surgery for goodness sake! How long will that excuse work?
I am surprised that my body really seems to need this down time. I expected that two days after the surgery I would feel like doing my normal activities--all those restrictions were for softer people. Yet, turns out the man of steel has feet of clay after all. I'm kind of shocked. Makes me want to show off those scars even more!
It's amazing the physical changes I've endured this week. From swimming 4,000 yard workouts, running twice weekly 10ks, and doing reverse dips off a weight bench, now I strain to stand and I'm not allowed to lift more than 15 pounds. Earlier this week my walk resembled Mr. Tudball from the old Carol Burnett show. One week I'm physically fit, the next I'm a shuffling invalid. "Look at the scars, they explain it all," I think to myself.
I'm not used to physical limitations. Yet, in this my fiftieth year of life, physical limitations are becoming increasingly familiar. My eyesight is failing. And my hearing? Forget about that sense, too!. Is a walker all that far away?
Fortunately, some of the limitations I'm experiencing are temporary. I am on the road to recovery, which is reassuring. In fact, I should be better than ever because my surgery fixed a congential defect. However, I can't help but feel that these aches and pains, the trips to the hospital, conferring with doctors, will become ever more common, ever more familiar as the years roll forward.
Thank God I'm feeling mostly fine. My mind is as sharp as ever. I'm not too bad to look at even if the hair is more sparse--and increasingly gray. My wife still loves me and my children still talk to me. My mind still creates new ideas. And, if pulling all nighters seems impossible, there still seems sufficient strength in this body to get most jobs done.
This week I learned, however, not to take my abilities for granted. They sometimes need a rest--and may or may not come back once they're gone. My prayer is that as life becomes more challenging, that I have the wisdom to deal with these challenges, and the confidence to know that less is much more than nothing.
Gross, for sure, but I understand the impulse.
Maybe I too am vulgar and gross by nature. Or maybe there's something else going on when the president lifts his shirt and shows off his scars.
Johnson later said he wanted the country to know that he was fine. People worry about the health of the president--his well being impacts the stock market, the news, daily watercooler chat. The former president believed showing the world his healed scars was an act of reassurance--instead it became a big joke.
In the week since my own hernia repair surgery, I've had to repress the urge to ask everyone I see, "Do you want to see my scars?" What's going on in my head? I haven't popped a vicodin since Monday so I can't say it's the drugs talking.
For me, showing my scars justifies my current, albeit strange behavior. All week long I've done nothing but sit around, read, watch TV and eat. I even started playing video games, and am especially enjoying Bejeweled. No work, no exercise, no projects, nothing. How to explain this out-of-character behavior? I just had surgery for goodness sake! How long will that excuse work?
I am surprised that my body really seems to need this down time. I expected that two days after the surgery I would feel like doing my normal activities--all those restrictions were for softer people. Yet, turns out the man of steel has feet of clay after all. I'm kind of shocked. Makes me want to show off those scars even more!
It's amazing the physical changes I've endured this week. From swimming 4,000 yard workouts, running twice weekly 10ks, and doing reverse dips off a weight bench, now I strain to stand and I'm not allowed to lift more than 15 pounds. Earlier this week my walk resembled Mr. Tudball from the old Carol Burnett show. One week I'm physically fit, the next I'm a shuffling invalid. "Look at the scars, they explain it all," I think to myself.
I'm not used to physical limitations. Yet, in this my fiftieth year of life, physical limitations are becoming increasingly familiar. My eyesight is failing. And my hearing? Forget about that sense, too!. Is a walker all that far away?
Fortunately, some of the limitations I'm experiencing are temporary. I am on the road to recovery, which is reassuring. In fact, I should be better than ever because my surgery fixed a congential defect. However, I can't help but feel that these aches and pains, the trips to the hospital, conferring with doctors, will become ever more common, ever more familiar as the years roll forward.
Thank God I'm feeling mostly fine. My mind is as sharp as ever. I'm not too bad to look at even if the hair is more sparse--and increasingly gray. My wife still loves me and my children still talk to me. My mind still creates new ideas. And, if pulling all nighters seems impossible, there still seems sufficient strength in this body to get most jobs done.
This week I learned, however, not to take my abilities for granted. They sometimes need a rest--and may or may not come back once they're gone. My prayer is that as life becomes more challenging, that I have the wisdom to deal with these challenges, and the confidence to know that less is much more than nothing.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Age Ain't Nothin But a Number . . .
. . . but in my case it's still a really big one!
Actress Bette Davis first said, "Getting old is not for sissies," which has been repeated many times, by many commentators, in many circumstances. And, now you're gonna hear it from me. Getting old is definitely NOT for sissies. I should know. It's kicking my butt this week!
It's not that I wish I was young, because I don't want to relive those awkward, mistake-filled, crazy days of yore. Wisdom and experience are wonderful gifts. However, it is true that youth is wasted on the young (thank you George Bernard Shaw for that nugget!). If I knew then what I know now . . . Unfortunately my time machine is missing a few parts and I can't whiz back to 1983 and buy that Microsoft stock. And, it's wasted effort pining over what might have been. You can't change the past.
Experience is a wonderful teacher, and, unless we're insane, it keeps us from making the same mistakes over and over. However, it sure would be nice if some of my newfound limits related to aging weren't part of my personal equation.
Am I back in midlife crisis mode? Not really. What's got me down this week is my hernia. Yuck! That sounds like an old man's malady. Can you even say the word "truss" without seeing visions of hobbling old gentlemen? In my case, I didn't actually tear anything or experience pain. My hernia came on after I started swimming seriously this fall. After one particularly grueling workout, while in the shower, I looked down and said to myself, "that doesn't look right." My physician confirmed it wasn't right and scheduled me to go under the knife for a little repair work. Six weeks of no exercise, too. Other than having my wisdom teeth removed at age 17, I've never been under the knife before.
Is this the dreaded slippery slope? Have I now, on the cusp of 50 years old, become the old man who talks incessantly about his ailments, puts pills in a daily pill counter, wears sansabell shorts, and scans the paper for earlybird dinner specials? Say it ain't so!
Hear's another good quote--if it's true that youth is wasted on the young, perhaps medication is wasted on the old. That's funny. It made me laugh.
Truth is that time marches on. There is no fountain of youth. We must make the best of our days whether we are young or old or somewhere in between. We all have limits--it's just some of us are more aware of those limits than others.
Sure with hard work, a good attitude, God's grace and a little luck, we can accomplish great things at any age. It's just that on some days, it's more difficult to shine with sunny optimism . . . especially when you have a surgeon waiting to slice you open in a few days.
He said I'll be back, though, better than ever. That is, of course, assuming there are no complications. Now that's the spirit! Ha ha.
Actress Bette Davis first said, "Getting old is not for sissies," which has been repeated many times, by many commentators, in many circumstances. And, now you're gonna hear it from me. Getting old is definitely NOT for sissies. I should know. It's kicking my butt this week!
It's not that I wish I was young, because I don't want to relive those awkward, mistake-filled, crazy days of yore. Wisdom and experience are wonderful gifts. However, it is true that youth is wasted on the young (thank you George Bernard Shaw for that nugget!). If I knew then what I know now . . . Unfortunately my time machine is missing a few parts and I can't whiz back to 1983 and buy that Microsoft stock. And, it's wasted effort pining over what might have been. You can't change the past.
Experience is a wonderful teacher, and, unless we're insane, it keeps us from making the same mistakes over and over. However, it sure would be nice if some of my newfound limits related to aging weren't part of my personal equation.
Am I back in midlife crisis mode? Not really. What's got me down this week is my hernia. Yuck! That sounds like an old man's malady. Can you even say the word "truss" without seeing visions of hobbling old gentlemen? In my case, I didn't actually tear anything or experience pain. My hernia came on after I started swimming seriously this fall. After one particularly grueling workout, while in the shower, I looked down and said to myself, "that doesn't look right." My physician confirmed it wasn't right and scheduled me to go under the knife for a little repair work. Six weeks of no exercise, too. Other than having my wisdom teeth removed at age 17, I've never been under the knife before.
Is this the dreaded slippery slope? Have I now, on the cusp of 50 years old, become the old man who talks incessantly about his ailments, puts pills in a daily pill counter, wears sansabell shorts, and scans the paper for earlybird dinner specials? Say it ain't so!
Hear's another good quote--if it's true that youth is wasted on the young, perhaps medication is wasted on the old. That's funny. It made me laugh.
Truth is that time marches on. There is no fountain of youth. We must make the best of our days whether we are young or old or somewhere in between. We all have limits--it's just some of us are more aware of those limits than others.
Sure with hard work, a good attitude, God's grace and a little luck, we can accomplish great things at any age. It's just that on some days, it's more difficult to shine with sunny optimism . . . especially when you have a surgeon waiting to slice you open in a few days.
He said I'll be back, though, better than ever. That is, of course, assuming there are no complications. Now that's the spirit! Ha ha.
Monday, January 3, 2011
New Year/New Gear
It took me a while, but I'm rapidly upgrading my athletic gear. Some of these items I bought, other new, cool duds and gadgets came to me from friends and family. Don't worry, I have not gone overboard here--athletes can be suckers for every new fad and fashion. And, in the same way I resist being the middle aged guy in the sports car (such a sad cliche), I don't want to be the old guy trying to look young and flashy in my workout clothes.
Up until recently, "young" and "flashy" were two words no seeing person would ever use to describe my workout attire. My sweat pants were gray, cotton and oversized (like those favored by Marky Mark in The Fighter). My shorts were mostly rejects from the sale bin at Steve and Barry's (yeah they went out of business two years ago). And my T-Shirts were give aways from various promotions (e.g. a bunch of Dwayne Wade Nike T's), hand me downs from my kids (most either involving baseball tournaments or Greek functions), or artifacts from long ago family trips (did we actually ever visit Nantucket?). I even engaged in a little cross dressing when a pair of Jacklyn Smith shorts appeared in my drawer. And no, I did not give them back to their rightful owner!
For most of 2010 I relished my shabby athletic attire, insisting it was my workout efforts that mattered, not the expense of my gear. One exception to my low budget style, however, has been my footwear. I've been wearing Asics sneakers for years, dutifully changing them every six months. No way I'm risking an injury by wearing cheap shoes!
In the summer, however, I made my first changes. For my first triathlon in July, I decided to purchase actual running shorts, some moisture wicking socks, and a well-ventilated running shirt. I'm wearing that getup in the picture attached to my blog homepage. It's one thing to work out privately in shabby clothes--but in public, I felt I needed to look better. I also discovered that better gear does have its advantages other than visual appeal.
For one thing, cotton is not the best fabric to wear during heavy duty workouts, especially if you sweat as heavily as I do! Since cotton absorbs liquids well, my gear gets very wet, very fast. While that's not so bad in the summer, when you aren't wearing much in the first place, in a race every little bit of extra weight is baggage you don't need. So "moisture wicking" is the key.
Fabrics with moisture wicking properties pull sweat away from the body and then sends it off into the atmosphere. Interestingly the favored "moisture wicking" fabric among athletic gear makers is that old, widely lampooned 70's fabric, polyester. Yep, polyester is back--now hip, expensive and hightech. With leisure suits and shiny shirts a distant memory, polyester has made a remarkable recovery with a whole new category of consumers. And I will admit I paid top dollar for polyester!
Late in the summer, I added some additional "moisture wicking" shirts to my athletic gear drawer. Hey, they were on sale at Dicks. I couldn't resist.
Finally, with late fall and early winter came my birthday and Christmas. And, thoughtful friends and family, who probably were sick of seeing me look so dreadful in the gym and jogging around town, conspired to purchase more new stuff. Very thoughtful gifts, actually. And, with the cold weather, I was grateful. I'm still exercising outside with a running group. And yes, I looked pitiful in an ancient windbreaker and those old school sweat pants. What's worse, wet clothes are a nightmare in cold weather. All those cold, wet garments were gonna make me sick! Without new stuff I certainly was on the road to a case of double pnemonia! I needed an intervention and my friends and family came to the rescue.
So now when you see me running around town, pedaling on my bike and huffing and puffing in the gym, I won't look like Rocky Balboa's poor relation. I will be styling big time. Baby it's a new year--and I have new gear!
Up until recently, "young" and "flashy" were two words no seeing person would ever use to describe my workout attire. My sweat pants were gray, cotton and oversized (like those favored by Marky Mark in The Fighter). My shorts were mostly rejects from the sale bin at Steve and Barry's (yeah they went out of business two years ago). And my T-Shirts were give aways from various promotions (e.g. a bunch of Dwayne Wade Nike T's), hand me downs from my kids (most either involving baseball tournaments or Greek functions), or artifacts from long ago family trips (did we actually ever visit Nantucket?). I even engaged in a little cross dressing when a pair of Jacklyn Smith shorts appeared in my drawer. And no, I did not give them back to their rightful owner!
For most of 2010 I relished my shabby athletic attire, insisting it was my workout efforts that mattered, not the expense of my gear. One exception to my low budget style, however, has been my footwear. I've been wearing Asics sneakers for years, dutifully changing them every six months. No way I'm risking an injury by wearing cheap shoes!
In the summer, however, I made my first changes. For my first triathlon in July, I decided to purchase actual running shorts, some moisture wicking socks, and a well-ventilated running shirt. I'm wearing that getup in the picture attached to my blog homepage. It's one thing to work out privately in shabby clothes--but in public, I felt I needed to look better. I also discovered that better gear does have its advantages other than visual appeal.
For one thing, cotton is not the best fabric to wear during heavy duty workouts, especially if you sweat as heavily as I do! Since cotton absorbs liquids well, my gear gets very wet, very fast. While that's not so bad in the summer, when you aren't wearing much in the first place, in a race every little bit of extra weight is baggage you don't need. So "moisture wicking" is the key.
Fabrics with moisture wicking properties pull sweat away from the body and then sends it off into the atmosphere. Interestingly the favored "moisture wicking" fabric among athletic gear makers is that old, widely lampooned 70's fabric, polyester. Yep, polyester is back--now hip, expensive and hightech. With leisure suits and shiny shirts a distant memory, polyester has made a remarkable recovery with a whole new category of consumers. And I will admit I paid top dollar for polyester!
Late in the summer, I added some additional "moisture wicking" shirts to my athletic gear drawer. Hey, they were on sale at Dicks. I couldn't resist.
Finally, with late fall and early winter came my birthday and Christmas. And, thoughtful friends and family, who probably were sick of seeing me look so dreadful in the gym and jogging around town, conspired to purchase more new stuff. Very thoughtful gifts, actually. And, with the cold weather, I was grateful. I'm still exercising outside with a running group. And yes, I looked pitiful in an ancient windbreaker and those old school sweat pants. What's worse, wet clothes are a nightmare in cold weather. All those cold, wet garments were gonna make me sick! Without new stuff I certainly was on the road to a case of double pnemonia! I needed an intervention and my friends and family came to the rescue.
So now when you see me running around town, pedaling on my bike and huffing and puffing in the gym, I won't look like Rocky Balboa's poor relation. I will be styling big time. Baby it's a new year--and I have new gear!
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