When Jesus rose from the dead on Easter, the Gospels agree that he appeared first to Mary Magdalene. But why Mary? Why not to one of his other friends? From the Bible we know precious little about Mary Magdalene. We know she was from Magdala, a small fishing village near the Sea of Galilee. We know that Jesus cast from her seven demons. And, following her release, we know that Mary was one of Jesus' most devoted disciples. Beyond that the Bible says precious little.
The Bible does not say whether Mary was rich or poor, whether she was married or had children. Further, the Bible never suggests she was a person of low moral character. She was not a prostitute. She had not been caught in adultery. And, she was not the weeping woman who bathed Jesus' feet with tears and annointed them with perfume. Modern stories that portrary Mary as Jesus' spouse or even the mother of his children are pure fiction.
But, of all the friends of Jesus, she saw him first following his resurrection. That seems meaningful to me.
Whenever something remarkable happens in my life, I want to share the news. When my children were born, the phone calls started ringing immediately--first parents and siblings, then other relatives and close friends. But, when my mother died last summer, I was overseas without a phone, surrounded by people I had only recently met. Fortunately I found solace with my wife, my son, and with people who happened to be with me.
The resurrection stands out as the most sigificant event in history, and Jesus shared the news first with Mary Magdalene. I wonder, did she "earn" that honor, or was she merely at the right place at the right time. I believe it was a little of both.
"Lucky" people are also often outgoing people. You can only be at the right place at the right time if you go places. If you sit at home waiting for the telephone to ring with good news, you might wait a long time. But, if you're out in the world--meeting people, working hard, trying to make a difference, things happen. I know the importance of times for reflection and contemplation. People who are busy often get overwhelmed with their lives. Quiet, alone time is necessary to help us keep perspective. However, in Mary's case, her actions put her in the position to see Jesus first.
While other disciples fled, fearing for their lives, Mary stayed near Jesus. She witnessed every gruesome step of his march to Calvary. She lingered at the foot of the cross as Jesus' life slipped away. She helped wrap the bloody corpse and prepared it for burial. Others were there, too, but Mary Magdalene, alone among the friends of Jesus, witnessed every agonizing moment. And, early Easter morning, who first went to the tomb? Not Peter, not John, not one of the other disciples, but Mary and her friends. She saw Jesus first, because she refused to leave him, even in death.
True love and loyalty are far more precious than power and popularity. Power is often based on position. Take away the position and the power is gone. Similarly, popularity is fleeting. We feel affection toward people who amuse us, flatter us, or possess something we want. But such feelings should never be mistaken for true love.
Throughout his life Jesus, won crowds of admirers through his teaching and his miracles. Yet, this affection dissipated after Jesus' ministry moved in unpopular directions. When Jesus overturned the merchants' tables and condemned the temple authorities, suddenly his popularity faded.
It's remarkable that despite the many lives he touched, Jesus suffered the cross nearly by himself. But Mary was there. Her loyalty to Jesus was nurtured by personal experiences that extended over many years. Her love for him was no passing fancy, but touched the core of her soul and easily survived even the most disasterous circumstances. She would not abandon Jesus. He freed her from seven demons. He transformed her life. And, for her devotion, every generation since has honored her memory.
Luke tells a story about Jesus healing ten lepers. They all were infected with leprosy and lived as outcasts. And, thanks to Jesus, they all were made clean. While all ten received the same cure, only one returned to Jesus and said thank you. How surprising.
Whether or not Mary Magdalen performed any more remarkable deeds in her life, we can only speculate. However, in the Easter story, her love and loyalty earned her a place in history. And, we should all follow her example.
Too often, I am like the disciples who run away from Jesus when I'm afraid. Or, I'm like one of the nine healed lepers who shares my blessings with everyone while failing to bless the one who blessed me first. Fortunately Easter comes back every year and we are reminded that some friends showed loyalty to Jesus, while others betrayed his love. Are we all that different? Fortunately, Jesus loves us unconditionally, and allows us to choose the example we will follow. This year, let it be Mary's.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
New Normal Needed
Hey Jamie Lee Curtis, get your smug mug over here and feed me some Activia. Seems like your yogurt has magical qualities. If you're distressed, out of sorts, dissatisfied with your life, a few spoonfuls of Activia and, voila! A "new normal."
Damn, I need a new normal.
Since I got back from Italy two weeks ago, everything in my life has seemed out of sorts. Can't focus, no appetite, haven't exercised much, and work? Do I even have a job? And my wife and kids. Yeah, they're here, too. But what are their names again?
Maybe I'm suffering from Renaissance envy, or perhaps pasta withdrawal. Or, maybe, I picked up something on that Air France flight--a bug in the cognac, perhaps? And I never drink cognac, either. Something about that trip. Can't stop thinking about some of the things I saw there.
Of course nothing prepares you for the experience of seeing your son sing Michael Jackson songs in front of the Leaning Tower of Pisa while Asian tourists took pics. Yeah, that happened. Or hearing them perform a Mozart mass selection in St. Peter's Basilica while the Pope listened from his private apartment. (Well, what else would he be doing while our kids sang?)
Other images are sticking in my mind, too. Like, in Rome, there are apartments built on top of Roman ruins. Right on top--the builders didn't tear down the old, they simply used it as a foundation. Can you imagine? Levels one and two are an unoccupied municipal building built in the third century. And level three was added one hundred years ago--and the units have electricity, running water, and satellite dishes. Rome is this bizarre juxtaposition of old and new--always colliding and kind of messy.
Predictably, in Florence I came face to face with David. Yes, THE David statue by Michelangelo. Of course I've seen pictures of it hundreds of times, but here's a few things I didn't know. First, he's enormous--like 16-feet tall. And, he has a back. Which I'd never seen. Running down the middle of his back is a leather strap--which is attached to the slingshot he's holding in his left hand. How come I never noticed the slingshot? Oh, and his hands are freakishly large, even for a 16-foot man.
The story is that Michelangelo was concerned about perspective--because the statue originally was meant for display high above the square in front of the Florence Cathedral. And, from that vantage point, the freakishly large hands looked postively normal. I guess.
Now Venice had its unforgettable sights, too. I was most taken by St. Mark's Cathedral--which is gilt in gold, and absolutely sparkled in the February sunlight. Yet, for all the beauty they amassed, the Venetians, I discovered, were a bunch of conniving thieves. For example, the golden lions in front of St. Mark's were stolen from Constantinople in the 12th century when, in one of the darkest moments of the Crucades, the Catholic armies forgot about liberating the Holy Land and decided it was a better idea to settle a few scores with the Byzantines. Why fight actual armies when there was so much plunder so close to home?
And the bones of St. Mark? Well the crafty Venetians sailed to Alexandria in Egypt, lifted the relices from the great evangelist's final resting place, and shipped them to Venice under a cargo of pork. Turns out the Muslim Arab authorities in Egypt would not touch swine and let the Venetians leave Alexandria unscathed, even when the local Coptic Christians pleaded with them to stop the plundering. One macabre detail in the story is that somehow St. Mark's skull was separated from his body--and, miraculously, the head "appeared" again in Alexandria after the grave robbing incident. Charming!
So for all its grace and beauty, Venice was built by a bunch of criminals, who after attaining wealth, decided they were artists and defenders of liberty. Talk about an image makeover!
Which brings me back to my "new normal." As much as I love my life in Grosse Pointe--with its sweeping lakefront views, stately homes, clean sidewalks and parks, it seems rather staid and mundane after the historic riches of Italy. Can't even get interested much in reading about our salacious local murder yarn, or planning my spring garden, or thinking about new clients and projects. My kids seem fine, my wife and I are getting along well, time marches on, but I'm feeling restless and out-of-place nonetheless.
Was there something in that lasagna I liked so much in Bologna? Or, perhaps I should just start eating Activia. God knows I need a "new normal."
Damn, I need a new normal.
Since I got back from Italy two weeks ago, everything in my life has seemed out of sorts. Can't focus, no appetite, haven't exercised much, and work? Do I even have a job? And my wife and kids. Yeah, they're here, too. But what are their names again?
Maybe I'm suffering from Renaissance envy, or perhaps pasta withdrawal. Or, maybe, I picked up something on that Air France flight--a bug in the cognac, perhaps? And I never drink cognac, either. Something about that trip. Can't stop thinking about some of the things I saw there.
Of course nothing prepares you for the experience of seeing your son sing Michael Jackson songs in front of the Leaning Tower of Pisa while Asian tourists took pics. Yeah, that happened. Or hearing them perform a Mozart mass selection in St. Peter's Basilica while the Pope listened from his private apartment. (Well, what else would he be doing while our kids sang?)
Other images are sticking in my mind, too. Like, in Rome, there are apartments built on top of Roman ruins. Right on top--the builders didn't tear down the old, they simply used it as a foundation. Can you imagine? Levels one and two are an unoccupied municipal building built in the third century. And level three was added one hundred years ago--and the units have electricity, running water, and satellite dishes. Rome is this bizarre juxtaposition of old and new--always colliding and kind of messy.
Predictably, in Florence I came face to face with David. Yes, THE David statue by Michelangelo. Of course I've seen pictures of it hundreds of times, but here's a few things I didn't know. First, he's enormous--like 16-feet tall. And, he has a back. Which I'd never seen. Running down the middle of his back is a leather strap--which is attached to the slingshot he's holding in his left hand. How come I never noticed the slingshot? Oh, and his hands are freakishly large, even for a 16-foot man.
The story is that Michelangelo was concerned about perspective--because the statue originally was meant for display high above the square in front of the Florence Cathedral. And, from that vantage point, the freakishly large hands looked postively normal. I guess.
Now Venice had its unforgettable sights, too. I was most taken by St. Mark's Cathedral--which is gilt in gold, and absolutely sparkled in the February sunlight. Yet, for all the beauty they amassed, the Venetians, I discovered, were a bunch of conniving thieves. For example, the golden lions in front of St. Mark's were stolen from Constantinople in the 12th century when, in one of the darkest moments of the Crucades, the Catholic armies forgot about liberating the Holy Land and decided it was a better idea to settle a few scores with the Byzantines. Why fight actual armies when there was so much plunder so close to home?
And the bones of St. Mark? Well the crafty Venetians sailed to Alexandria in Egypt, lifted the relices from the great evangelist's final resting place, and shipped them to Venice under a cargo of pork. Turns out the Muslim Arab authorities in Egypt would not touch swine and let the Venetians leave Alexandria unscathed, even when the local Coptic Christians pleaded with them to stop the plundering. One macabre detail in the story is that somehow St. Mark's skull was separated from his body--and, miraculously, the head "appeared" again in Alexandria after the grave robbing incident. Charming!
So for all its grace and beauty, Venice was built by a bunch of criminals, who after attaining wealth, decided they were artists and defenders of liberty. Talk about an image makeover!
Which brings me back to my "new normal." As much as I love my life in Grosse Pointe--with its sweeping lakefront views, stately homes, clean sidewalks and parks, it seems rather staid and mundane after the historic riches of Italy. Can't even get interested much in reading about our salacious local murder yarn, or planning my spring garden, or thinking about new clients and projects. My kids seem fine, my wife and I are getting along well, time marches on, but I'm feeling restless and out-of-place nonetheless.
Was there something in that lasagna I liked so much in Bologna? Or, perhaps I should just start eating Activia. God knows I need a "new normal."
Saturday, January 7, 2012
New Years Resolutions
Here's my top 10 for 2012:
1. Compete in my first marathon. Ok, I said it. Now I gotta do it. Notice I didn't specify whether a half or full.
2. Attend fewer funerals. Entirely too many people in my life died in 2011--and, if you can believe it--I kinda ran out of things to say. Death is final--and while memories live on, you can't call up a memory on the telephone. I'm done with funerals.
3. Get rid of stuff. After Lonelli moved to Boston, my house felt noticeably lighter. Especially now that the basement is no longer a storage unit, I'm looking around and thinking, where did all this stuff come from?
4. Make a new friend (or two). Nothing wrong with my current crop of friends and family, but, I'm well aware that much of my life is wrapped up in my children. As they continue to make their own lives, and need me less and less, I need to nurture other relationships as well. Which, leads me to my next resolution.
5. Work on my marriage. Clarisa and I have been together 22 years and throughout that time our relationship has focused on our kids. While our love for each other is strong, this year we need to find more things we enjoy doing together BESIDES eating, traveling overseas, and watching NCIS.
6. Build a grotto. I've identified a spot in the backyard for quiet contemplation. It would be so cool to build--just gotta move some dirt, plant some shrubs, and install a bench.
7. Pray more.
8. Write more.
9. Preach more. Haven't delivered a sermon in two years--and I miss it.
10. Get out of purgatory (subject of a future blog post)--but only if that means finding some heavenly bliss here on earth. I appreciate all prayers to that end.
A goal without a plan is just a good idea. I know I'm planning to tackle this list with discipline and hard work. And, while I'm ticking items off the list, let me know if I can help you achieve any of your goals. Why? Because my 11th resolution for this year is: "Be more generous and less self absorbed." Come to think of it, that one might be the most difficult of all!
1. Compete in my first marathon. Ok, I said it. Now I gotta do it. Notice I didn't specify whether a half or full.
2. Attend fewer funerals. Entirely too many people in my life died in 2011--and, if you can believe it--I kinda ran out of things to say. Death is final--and while memories live on, you can't call up a memory on the telephone. I'm done with funerals.
3. Get rid of stuff. After Lonelli moved to Boston, my house felt noticeably lighter. Especially now that the basement is no longer a storage unit, I'm looking around and thinking, where did all this stuff come from?
4. Make a new friend (or two). Nothing wrong with my current crop of friends and family, but, I'm well aware that much of my life is wrapped up in my children. As they continue to make their own lives, and need me less and less, I need to nurture other relationships as well. Which, leads me to my next resolution.
5. Work on my marriage. Clarisa and I have been together 22 years and throughout that time our relationship has focused on our kids. While our love for each other is strong, this year we need to find more things we enjoy doing together BESIDES eating, traveling overseas, and watching NCIS.
6. Build a grotto. I've identified a spot in the backyard for quiet contemplation. It would be so cool to build--just gotta move some dirt, plant some shrubs, and install a bench.
7. Pray more.
8. Write more.
9. Preach more. Haven't delivered a sermon in two years--and I miss it.
10. Get out of purgatory (subject of a future blog post)--but only if that means finding some heavenly bliss here on earth. I appreciate all prayers to that end.
A goal without a plan is just a good idea. I know I'm planning to tackle this list with discipline and hard work. And, while I'm ticking items off the list, let me know if I can help you achieve any of your goals. Why? Because my 11th resolution for this year is: "Be more generous and less self absorbed." Come to think of it, that one might be the most difficult of all!
I Shot Your Dog?
"Did he just say what I thought he said?" I asked my daughter as I listened to the song. She said it was her favorite tune currently getting played in Chile's clubs and on popular radio stations.
My wife and I were in Chile to retrieve our daughter Amelia who had just completed a semester of studies overseas. She loved her stay and we could see why. Chile's mountains, lakes, cities, farms and beaches are beautiful--and the country itself, while still firmly rooted in it's Latin American culture, also felt different than other places we visited in the region. Chile is cleaner, more prosperous, more European than its neighbors. For North American guests it's easier to visit.
But back to the song my daughter was playing from her IPhone. The song was in Portuguese, with an infectious beat and happy, almost joyous vocals. So why did he say, over and over, "I shot your pero, I, I."
"Why is he so happy if he just shot my dog?" I asked.
To all you non-Spanish speakers "pero" is the Spanish word for "dog."
Alright, I have no idea what he really said, but "I shot your dog" just seems funny to me. Kinda like the "haunted bear" I'm sure was in that Green Day song. Or being asked, "Do you wanna make fudge? Or do you just wanna fool around?" from that old 70s song.
Now I sing those lyrics every time my daughter plays that song--much to her annoyance. My kids swear I'm the only one who thinks my jokes are funny. I don't really care. If I'm laughing--and not hurting anybody's feelings in the process, who cares if the jokes are lame!
My wife and I were in Chile to retrieve our daughter Amelia who had just completed a semester of studies overseas. She loved her stay and we could see why. Chile's mountains, lakes, cities, farms and beaches are beautiful--and the country itself, while still firmly rooted in it's Latin American culture, also felt different than other places we visited in the region. Chile is cleaner, more prosperous, more European than its neighbors. For North American guests it's easier to visit.
But back to the song my daughter was playing from her IPhone. The song was in Portuguese, with an infectious beat and happy, almost joyous vocals. So why did he say, over and over, "I shot your pero, I, I."
"Why is he so happy if he just shot my dog?" I asked.
To all you non-Spanish speakers "pero" is the Spanish word for "dog."
Alright, I have no idea what he really said, but "I shot your dog" just seems funny to me. Kinda like the "haunted bear" I'm sure was in that Green Day song. Or being asked, "Do you wanna make fudge? Or do you just wanna fool around?" from that old 70s song.
Now I sing those lyrics every time my daughter plays that song--much to her annoyance. My kids swear I'm the only one who thinks my jokes are funny. I don't really care. If I'm laughing--and not hurting anybody's feelings in the process, who cares if the jokes are lame!
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Greek Crisis? With That Yogurt?
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!
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!
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.
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