Messages from the World Vision debacle

And the Pharisees asked him, "Teacher, what is the greatest commandment?".
Jesus replied, "Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it. Love your neighbor as yourself.  All the law and the prophets hang on these two commandments."
Then the Pharisees said, "What about the third greatest?"
Jesus said, "Oppose anything gay."

Okay, so the last two lines of that are somewhat apocryphal (and completely tongue in cheek), but if the Bible actually said that, even this would not support the actions and attitudes from some of our brothers and sisters regarding the recent decision and reversal of World Vision's employment stance on homosexuality.  If you aren't familiar with it, you can Google it.

tl;dr version: On Monday, World Vision says, "Okay, we won't discriminate against employees in same-sex marriages."  Tuesday, the Christian Right (not all, but some) is in an uproar and threatens to drop the children they're sponsoring.  Thursday, World Vision reverses its stance.

I hope to keep this pointed and following a logical progression, but no promises.  I do promise no insults though.  ...and commence rant now.

 <rant>

First of all, World Vision is not a church.  They are an ecumenical non-profit organization providing aid to people in need.  Their employees are just that, employees for an ecumenical non-profit organization.  A shift is taking place in the church today, and more and more churches are changing their stance on the sinfulness of homosexuality.  As an ecumenical organization (clearly this is the record for most times saying "ecumenical" in one paragraph) World Vision decided they would leave this highly divisive issue out of their employment practices and leave it up to individual churches.  They are not in the business of indoctrinating stances on types of baptism, what happens to the Eucharist elements, and so forth.

 I believe this was the right move.  Why?  Well, I work in HR; specifically recruiting.  When we look for someone to fill a job, we try to place the person who is most qualified to perform the job duties.  We look for a couple other things as well, namely safety, hence criminal background checks, and we would prefer people who buy into the mission of our organization.  If someone meets those criteria and has another issue that is not relevant to performing the job, it's none of our business.  Nor should it be.

Shouldn't we as a church (in the holy catholic {universal} sense) want this to be the case with people trying to feed the poor?  Should it matter that someone who disagrees with us on a highly contested doctrinal issue is trying to do good work in the name of Christ with a Christian organization?  (especially if they're the most qualified person!) Here's what Jesus says about people who are not "with us" doing work in His name:

 “Master,” said John, “we saw someone driving out demons in your name and we tried to stop him, because he is not one of us.”  “Do not stop him,” Jesus said, “for whoever is not against you is for you.”  Luke 9:49-50
Or in Mark 9:39-40 “Do not stop him,” Jesus said. “For no one who does a miracle in my name can in the next moment say anything bad about me, for whoever is not against us is for us. " (emphasis mine)

Based on the rest of World Vision's hiring stances, these employees in same-sex marriages are doing this work in Jesus' name.  We're not talking about people from different religions doing this; we're talking about people who follow Jesus. How can we, as ambassadors of the Kingdom of God here on earth, not want to encourage this?  Even if homosexuality is a sin, should we not encourage these acts of love?  Do we discourage people living lives of gluttony or pride or lust from doing charitable work for a Christian organization?  Of course not, but we single out the LGBT community.

Tangent:  I would claim, based on the parable of the sheep and the goats (Matthew 25:31-46), that we should even encourage secular (Half the Sky) and other religious (Islamic Relief) organizations doing the work of the Kingdom.  As they serve "the least of these" they're serving Jesus whether they realize it or not.

Now, just for a moment, let's forget what I said.  For the sake of argument, let's say World Vision changing their stance to allow employees in same-sex marriages was wrong.  Let's say I currently sponsor a child through World Vision, but I disagree with their decision.  So I'm going to end my commitment to that child by cancelling my World Vision sponsorship.  That'll show them, right?  Right?  Well, maybe a little.  But it really shows that child that I care more about some doctrinal issue than I do about them.  You can flip that around for those considering pulling their sponsorship after the reversal. 

Think about all the messages we're sending here.  

To LGBT Christians-"I'm sorry.  Your desire to do the work of Christ is not welcome here."  

To our fellow Christians-"You need to believe everything I do the way that I do, which is the right way." 

To the non-Christian community-"We Christians cannot agree on anything.  An action meant to unite us divided us even further."  

To the people receiving aid from World Vision-"Sorry. Meeting your material needs is not as important as meeting our need to be right."  

To World Vision-"Your mission should only proceed if you believe everything the same as I do."

I'm tired of these messages being sent again and again, recycled and reworded in different ways.  I'm tired of our LGBT brothers and sisters being singled out and pushed out.  I'm tired of the religious right claiming "THE Biblical view" or "THE Christian view" as if theirs is the only one, with no possibility for error, and no room for discussion or respectful disagreement.  I'm tired of the religious left calling the right "bigots" instead of building bridges toward empathy.  More than all of this though, I'm tired of Christ and his church being defined by what we're against and not what we're for.  I want to be defined by love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control; empathy, engagement, and empowerment; justice and mercy; shalom.

</rant>

Patrick Stewart, Yul Brynner, and Me

I am balding.

There, I said it.  I've been in denial for the past six years, when the recession apparently hit not only the economy, but my hairline as well.  It has been thinning out in the front, and I have been unable to accept this inevitability of male aging.

My Grandpa Sutter (the bearded one) and two of his brothers; the greatest man I've ever known, but damn this gene passed down to me!

Every minute away from work, I cover my head with a Cubs hat or one of two "newsy" caps, which I love to wear, but the time has come to face reality.  I am going to be bald.  I have three options I can take with this; I can hold on to the past as long as I can, growing it, and trying to style it to where it looks the least amount of bald, I can accept it and realize that I will more resemble George Costanza than I ever wanted to, or I can embrace it, meaning shave it all off.

I have been going with the first option for far too long, and I can't stand the second option, so it looks as though option three would be my best bet...except for one thing.  On the left side of my head, I have a protruding mole the size of Texas.  Now, I don't want to be vain (which this post thus far would not lead you to believe), but this mole would become my caricature.  People would not describe me as "that bald guy" (which I could grow to be ok with; it sounds scary right now) but "that bald guy with the giant mole".  I am fairly confident with most of my body image, at least content, but this mole is taunting me.  It is a bald man's nemesis.

Enter apple cider vinegar.  My wife saw, on Facebook or Pinterest or one of those dumb sites, a post about using apple cider vinegar to remove moles.  Apparently it contains an acid that will dissolve the mole over a couple months, and it will look as though it was never there to begin with.  Skeptically, I researched the internet, and there seems to be quite a bit of anecdotal evidence in support.

So at night time, I'm wearing a headband, holding an apple cider vinegar soaked cotton ball in place.  Should this work, should it dissolve away the excess, I will be able to accept my baldness, and be happy with it, because it's who I am.

Jesus works the same was as apple cider vinegar on a mole.  When people see our sin, our insecurity, our imperfections, like the mole, they can become our caricature.  They become what people see.  They become what we see.  Jesus dissolves these away.  They are not part of who we truly are, and the more we let Jesus work in our lives, the closer we become to the image of God we were created to be.  Only then can we fully embrace our true identity.

Musings from a parent of a young child

It's 2:15am, and the alarm goes off.  Time to force myself out of bed to feed the baby.  I contemplate the snooze, but he's starting to fidget, and the sooner I get it done, the sooner I can go back to bed.

Since mama's up pumping all night every few hours, I'm on feeding duty.  Lucky me.

I turn off the alarm, the Muppets' "Mahna Mahna", I reluctantly sit up, and I force my eyes open.  Looking around the room, I stand up, grab the bottle from the 11:30 feeding, and head to the steps.

My objective is simple, add the formula to the bottle I've already measured out, place it in a cup of hot water, all without waking the dog. I am successful...I think.  As I ascend the stairs, I begin to doubt.  Did I mix the formula, or did I just do the water?  I look at the bottle, and I can tell, I did add the formula, as it's not completely mixed in yet.

My ascent is complete and I walk back into the bedroom, set the bottle on the vanity, and turn on my nightstand lamp.  Cy is awake and fully alert, fussing a bit, but not full-on crying; Jamie is sound asleep.  I lift Cy out of his side of the pack and play-twin bassinet combo, place him on our bed, and remove his swaddle.  Grabbing his heart and breathing monitor, I carry him to his room to change his diaper before the feeding.

I unbutton his onesie, and the leads from the monitor come loose, creating a fire-alarm sound that surprisingly awakens only my desire to swear, and everyone else stays asleep.  After putting the leads back in place, I race to get his diaper changed before he pees on me.  Alas, he has pooped, so this will take some time. 

My exhaustion intensifies my frustration as he begins to pee and gets it all over his sleeping outfit.  I find an outfit that swims on him, but it works.  As I fasten the last snap, his leads come loose again, so I must undress him and fix the leads.

I carry him back to the bedroom, plug in the monitor, and sit down.  I'm almost done.  All I have to do is sit and wait while he downs this bottle.  I struggle to stay awake.  I question how I am going to do this when Dulcinea comes home and eats twice as slowly as he does.  I question my loyalty, my ability, and my sanity. 

Then, he opens his eyes.

Those wide dark eyes stare into mine.  I find the energy to stay awake. All my doubts vanish.  I stare back at him, and I am at peace.  He quickly downs his bottle, I burp him, put him in his bassinet, and I go back to bed.

Then the damn leads come off again.

Increasing our children by 200% unless we're talking about mass, in which case, about 5%

Part 1:  The Story

We expected our twins would be here before the scheduled C-section at 38 weeks gestation.  Jamie was thinking somewhere around 36 weeks, and I was guessing more like 34 weeks, but Cyrenius and Dulcinea had a different idea.

After a Sunday through Tuesday hospital stay two weeks ago and a mandated bed-rest for Jamie, I thought we were in the clear for a while.  Last Friday morning, though, I got a call at work saying we needed to go back to the hospital.  We were having contractions. (When I say "we" I actually mean "Jamie" because my non-uterus was not contracting, but I want to feel like I was part of it, so I'll say "we").

The doctors were determined to slow down the contractions and let the babies stay "cooking" for at least three more weeks.   As the afternoon progressed, labor did not progress.  Jamie thought she was having contractions, but the monitors were not showing them, and she was not dilated.  At this news, I got Afton, went home, and went to bed.  (Having an on-call sitter in case I had to go back over night)

I wrote Jamie some custom goals in the Antepartum unit.

After putting Afton to bed, I spent a few hours cataloguing some of my new massive record collection.  Thinking I would be waking up in the morning to take Afton out for breakfast and visit Jamie in the hospital, (where we thought she was going to be for a week or two) I crashed at 11:30.  At 1:00 or so, Jamie called to tell me she was dilated to a 3 and they were moving her to labor and delivery.  "You probably better come back," she said.

This was it, and I knew it.  I called my friend Steve, who graciously came to sleep on our couch for the rest of the night until Afton woke up in the morning, and I drove toward the hospital.  I was getting nervous.  I spent the whole drive scanning the radio to find something that would calm me down a bit.  As I drove past East Peoria, "You've Lost That Loving Feeling" by the Righteous Brothers came up, and it was the soundtrack for the rest of my drive (and is in my head still!).

I arrived at the labor and delivery room, and the resident doctor was telling Jamie the plan.  The doctor upped her medicine to the maximum amount she could give in a last-ditch effort to slow down the contractions.  She said she would check in an hour to see if there had been any change.

The hour was tense.  All my effort was spent restraining myself from making jokes, which is my strongest defense mechanism, and unfortunately acts contrary to Jamie's strongest defense mechanism, being completely somber.  I kept staring at the monitor as the contractions kept coming, hoping that they would slow down.  They continued, and they grew in intensity.  Each minute, I became more convinced the babies were coming tonight.

After the hour was up, the resident came back and rechecked Jamie's cervix.  She said, "Well, you're at a 6.  We're going to have these babies."  Jamie's doctor was called to come in for the C-section, and we prepared for the surgery.

I made several texts and phone calls to inform parents that the babies were indeed coming tonight.  The nurses gave me a disposable surgery outfit consisting of shirt, trousers, foot covers, mask, and medical hair net.  After getting dressed, I stood at Jamie's bedside while she signed consents for surgery and anaesthesia.

When giving birth to Afton four years ago, the C-section was an emergency, where doctors and nurses were running around shouting at each other to hurry, ripping and cutting cords out of the wall, and running Jamie away in about 5 minutes.  This time, we had to wait a bit longer.  Jamie was understandably emotional, and my words were inconsolable.  I knew that it wasn't my fault though, so I tried to shut up and wait patiently.

They wheeled Jamie away, and I had about half an hour to spend by myself as they prepped her for surgery.  Knowing I had no power to do anything productive, I pulled out my phone and started crushing candy.  This lasted about 3 or 4 minutes before I couldn't stand the solitude (which I usually treasure).  I went to stand in the doorway of the labor and delivery room, positioned right across from the nurses station and wait for them to come get me.

As I stood there, I observed the difference between medical staff and patients' families.  For me, this is something that happens twice in my life.  They do it every day.  So while I'm all tense standing there eagerly awaiting this major life change, they're sitting there talking about their upcoming weekends and eating their dinners.  I also saw the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) staff calmly walk the beds that our babies would be staying in to the operating room.

After this eternity, a nurse came out and got me, and I walked to the operating room.  They sat me down by Jamie, and I waited.  At Afton's birth, I couldn't see what was happening.  Here, I was able to peek around and see my wife cut open.  It was kind of gross, but kind of cool too.  I'm intrigued by what doctors are able to do with the human body.  It reminds me of a nerdy kid I went to gradeschool with that would disassemble and reassemble a Nintendo, only this is a living being.

The surgery seemed pretty standard, although I can't really make a comparison, because like Theodore Donald Karabatsos, I have no frame of reference.  Two NICU nurses stood by with beds for the twins, ready to take them down to their home for the next several weeks.

After a few minutes of the doctor "doing his thing" in my wife's open abdomen (okay, maybe that's not the best wording), I heard him say, "It's the boy.  4:14."   I saw a nurse carry the tiny boy over to his bed and transition him from fetus to baby.  The NICU staff suctioned his mouth, and within about 30 seconds or so, he started crying.  Eventually his cries will be something I try to stop, but this first one was angelic.  A wide smile grew under my surgical mask and tears started to fill my eyes.

Cy shortly after birth

Jamie said, "What does he look like?"  I responded with an obvious, unhelpful, "He's a baby."

We must have been living in slow motion, because it seemed like 5 or 10 minutes when the doctor said, "Here's the girl.  4:15."  After that, the NICU nurses said I could come over to where the babies were.  I walked to Cy first, as there were still nurses gathered around Dulci, trying to get her to give her first tears.

This started the split feeling that I have not yet been able to shake.  Part of me wanted to stay by Jamie to comfort her, tell her I loved her, and that she did a great job of carrying these children; part of me was excited to see Cy for the first time; part of me was anxious that Dulci had not yet cried.

Dulci right after birth

Eventually Dulcinea cried, and I moved to stand between the two babies while they completed the first phase of their Apgar tests.  The nurses carried Cy over to Jamie so she could see him for the first time, then they started the trek over to the NICU.  I stayed with Dulci.  After they stabilized her, she was shown to Jamie, then I joined her and a couple nurses for a walk to the NICU.

As we passed the Labor and Delivery lobby, we stopped to greet my dad.  He said, "I couldn't go back to sleep."  I asked if he saw Cy when he came by, and he had.  While my dad's not an emotional guy, I could tell he was deeply touched by being there to meet his two new grandchildren. 

The nurses and I started back to walking.  I had a million questions to ask the NICU staff, but on the walk, I failed to recall a single one.  Instead, they fed me scores of information that I instantly forgot.  I was with Dulci as they hooked her up to several monitors, including a c-pap that covered half her face.  Then I was shown Cy's room, and he was already being monitored.  I was asked to leave as they hooked up IV's through the babies' umbilical cords.  They told me that Jamie should be coming out of surgery any time, and I can meet her in recovery.

Dulci in her C-Pap

So I went back up to Labor and Delivery, waited about 3 or 4 minutes for Jamie to move to the recovery room, and I sat with her for a while.  Thus started my rounds between Jamie's room, Cy's room, and Dulci's room.

Part 2: How does it feel?

While Jamie was still in the hospital, I spent my time going back and forth between her room and the babies' rooms.  It's a bizarre feeling thinking that you're needed equally by multiple people in different locations, yet you're unable to provide sufficient time to any of them.  Even though Jamie and the babies needed me, I needed to care for myself as well.  That first day, I was running on an hour and half of sleep, so in the morning, I made a cot in Jamie's room and slept for another hour.  After picking up Afton in the afternoon, I went home and took a nap for another few hours.  Afton needed me as well.

Cy working on his tan

The entirety of Jamie's hospital stay, I was torn between her and all three kids separately.  When Jamie was discharged, it became easier to give the twins equal attention, but it remains difficult to give Afton the attention she deserves.  Also, I returned to work yesterday.  Thankfully, I am able to work remotely, but now I feel as though I'm being pulled between my family at home, my family at the hospital, and work.

At the same time, it's very strange going back and forth to the NICU.  The staff is incredible, and I love spending time with the twins, but the disconnect between home and hospital is unnerving to me.  People keep asking me how I'm doing, and my response is always, "Good...but it's weird."

It's weird to have children I'm devoting this much attention and love toward, whom I'm lucky to see for 2 or 3 hours a day.  I feel uncomfortable that I'm sleeping at home, watching football games, and writing blog posts, while my children are in the hospital.  I feel awkward that I have one child who has little to no connection to the others, because they do not yet live together, and she's only spent about 2 hours with them.  I feel like an inadequate parent because it's difficult to engage with a child whom I can only hold for a limited amount of time in a tiny room.  I feel like a lousy husband sleeping, while Jamie is awake every two to three hours to pump.  I feel guilty regardless of whom I'm devoting my time to, as though I'm neglecting someone else.

NICU room

I know that it's going better than I feel.  I know that I'm spending quality time with Jamie, Afton, and the twins.  I know that my reading to the babies, even though they have no clue what I'm talking about, is stimulating their minds.  I know that the rest I'm getting is helping me make rational, good decisions, and giving me patience with Afton, while Jamie is incapacitated by exhaustion.  I know that this will come to pass, the twins will come home, and I will probably miss this time.

For now, I will keep going back and forth, doing the best I can.  Jamie is recovering well from the c-section, Afton and I have had the opportunity to go for a couple meals together and a nice hike on Sunday afternoon, and the twins are doing great in the NICU; the doctor yesterday said, "Just watch them grow."  So it's only a matter of time until we are one complete family at home together.

Bonus Part 3:  The Kingdom of Heaven

Recently at my church, the worship bands have done a series called, "The Kingdom of Heaven is Like", where we spoke about the different things Jesus compared the Kingdom of Heaven to.  This has inspired a few new analogies that others have come up with. (see Jeff's post and Charlie's post)  This whole birthing experience has reminded me of the Kingdom of Heaven and its "now but not yet" state.  This is not a perfect analogy as you'll see (we do not parent Heaven), but bear with me.

The Kingdom of Heaven is like a fetus awaiting birth, and the Earth is the expectant mother.  The Kingdom started at conception.  A sperm (the spiritual realm) fused with an egg (the earthly realm), and the Kingdom began as an embryo.  It has been growing since.  The mother begins to see signs that her baby is coming.  She gets morning sickness, becomes bloated, eventually sees the doctor, who gives a sonogram and shows through a vague picture, that the fetus is there.

The fetus grows, and the mother's uterus begins stretching.  She knows that the baby is inside her, growing, and she longs for the day she gets to meet it, but it is not yet time.  She has a connection to the fetus; she feels it kick and move.  

As the fetus continues growing, she begins to have contractions.  These contractions are false labor, her uterus getting ready to deliver, but she can tell the baby is closer at hand, and its arrival is imminent.  Contractions become more regular and increase in intensity, the cervix dilates, and the baby is born.  All the pain was worth it, as the mother holds that new-born baby in her arms.

Jesus said, "the Kingdom is at hand."  It is here on Earth, now, just as a fetus is present in the mother's womb.  We are anticipating the Kingdom of Heaven.  We can feel it kicking, we know it is imminent.  In time, the Earth will go into labor, the Kingdom will be born, and we will experience it in fullness.

Justice vs. Mercy

I’ve always thought of justice and mercy as being pitted against each other, as if they are opposite ends of a spectrum. And we need to try to find some happy compromise in the middle, erring on the side of mercy.  As I work my way through Martin Luther King Jr.'s "autobiography", my thoughts on this are changing.  (I left autobiography in quotes because it's actually a re-writing of his speeches, sermons, interviews, and letters in autobiographical form.)

I always defined justice as bad guys getting what they deserve and mercy as bad guys not getting what they deserve and being given a second chance.  Under these definitions I thought, “Jesus is pulling us away from justice and toward mercy.”  Dr. King seemed to have different definitions in mind than I have always had; he saw mercy as a step toward justice.

As Dr. King spoke to the African American population of Montgomery, AL, during the bus boycott, he used the word justice frequently. However, he was clear that the justice he spoke of had nothing to do with punishment but with wrongs being righted. After his house was bombed, it would have been understandable for him to ask that the bombers get their deserved punishment. Instead he said, “We want to love our enemies. I want you to love our enemies. Be good to them. Love them and let them know you love them.”  Justice is not against the wrongdoers, but justice is for the wronged.

When I consider this definition of justice, I think Jesus would’ve thought the same way.  This puts a whole different spin on Luke 18:1-8, the parable of the unjust judge. Jesus says, “And will not God bring about justice for his chosen ones, who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off?  I tell you, he will see that they get justice, and quickly.” (emphasis mine) The justice Jesus brings isn’t punishment against those deserving; it’s making things right for those who have been wronged.

Jesus used (and is still using) mercy (or grace) as the chief vehicle for his justice. Jesus’ sacrifice rights the wrongs that man has done to God, to each other, to ourselves, and to creation.  His justice is restorative, not punitive; redemptive, not retributive, and in the upside-down way that Jesus does things, he makes it possible through grace, mercy, and love.

Slow and steady wins the race...unless there's Kenyans

I'm chafed between my butt cheeks and still feel good.  It's a runner thing; you wouldn't get it.

Actually, the chafing is mostly gone now, but my legs are still incredibly sore.  So I sit here on my couch writing this post on my experience at the Bank of America Chicago Marathon before the memories (and pain) fade away.

The weekend started with a nice drive to Chicago, accompanied by Arcade Fire's Neon Bible, Elliott Smith's XO, and a conversation with my beautiful wife about where we see ourselves in five or ten years (we still have no idea). We stopped for lunch in Hyde Park right by the University of Chicago at an excellent restaurant called Medici. (try the pesto/goat cheese calzone if you get a chance)  Jamie was convinced it was an Artesian restaurant, because she's bad at spelling and misread "artisan" on Yelp.  (I guess an Artesian restaurant would serve French food?)

From there we darted over to McCormick Place for the Health and Fitness Expo, so I could pick up my race packet. Free event, yes; with parking for $15.  I am a bit of an atypical marathoner.  Most runners walked around proudly sporting their running shoes, athletic shirts, and jackets, while checking out the latest trends in running merchandise.  I was wearing a flannel shirt, jeans, and my duct-taped Birkenstock Milanos, while I was only interested in checking out the booths with free samples and SWAG.  (and the Goose Island booth)

It was at this Expo that I think Jamie finally got a complete appreciation for my minimalist style of running.  When she contrasted my use of nothing but the human body, shorts to stay "decent", and a bandana to keep the sweat out of my eyes, to the materialistic gear acquisition that others feel they need to run successfully, she saw where some are missing the point.

Signing the Runners' Wall

We left the Expo and decided to go check into our hotel.  The drive was horrendous.  It took us over an hour to drive 18 miles due to traffic and construction.  About 30 minutes into the drive, we decided that we would eat dinner near the hotel and not go back into the city that night.  After checking in, we decided to deny conventional marathon wisdom and eat pizza instead of carbo-loading on pasta for dinner.  After all, we were in Chicago, home of the triumvirate of stuffed pizza: Giordano's, Gino's, and Lou Malnati's. 

Looking through Marathon packet

Since we knew we weren't going back into the city, we returned to our hotel following dinner, hoping to catch the Walking Dead marathon, in preparation for the fourth season starting Sunday night.  Alas, the Westin O'Hare does not have AMC.  So on our last hurrah before becoming parents of three, we were in bed at 8:30.

The alarm went off at 4:00, and we grudgingly got out of bed.  I walked down to the hotel cafe hoping to grab a bagel only to find it didn't open until 6:00.  We checked out at about 5:05am and made the trek over to the Blue Line Rosemont Station, where we got bagels from the attached Dunkin Donuts.

We were the second stop on the Blue Line, and when we boarded the train, it was already standing room only.  Marathoners, you should be ashamed of yourselves for not giving up your seat to a pregnant lady who looks like she's going to pop any day (even though she still has 2 months or so), although Jamie said she was fine and refused to ask for a seat.  It was about a 45 minute ride to the Jackson stop, where I walked to Grant Park, and Jamie transferred to the Red Line to watch with the Team World Vision group.

I walked 6 blocks or so to enter the impromptu gates to Grant Park, runners everywhere.  The security guard was a bit too thorough when searching my bag and had to get approval from his supervisor to allow me to bring in the pocket knife from my brother's wedding.  They relented, as it was in my jeans pocket in the very bag that I would be checking.  After that ordeal, I found my way toward the port-a-johns, before checking my bag and ditching my shoes.  (I did not want to use a port-a-potty barefoot.  Ew!)

When the guy at the bag check saw me walking toward him shoeless, he said, "Are you doing this barefoot!?!?  I'd be honored to check your bag!"  Thus started the first of many compliments received throughout the day for running barefoot.  Clad only in my shorts, bandana, and iPhone, I shivered through the next hour and a half with the mercury reading in the upper forties.

Item by item, the annoying radio announcer started introducing events, beginning with a 30-second moment of silence to remember the tragedy at the Boston Marathon, an awkward national anthem with the microphone cutting out, and the wheelchair marathon.  When the first wave of the marathon started (fast people), everyone in wave 2 started moving forward, and then we were more crowded as we had to wait another 30 minutes for our wave to start.  Finally, the announcer told us we had just a few minutes left, and people started tossing all their warm clothes, which afterward were donated to a homeless shelter in Chicago.

The clock struck 8:00 and we slowly jogged across the starting line.  This was it; a bucket list item I've been wanting to do for about 2 or 3 years, happening right now.  I meant to follow the pace group to finish at 4 hours 10 minutes, but when we bottle-necked on one of those underground streets (think lower Wacker), I lost the pacer and never saw him for the remainder of the race.

I didn't care about that though, I was thoroughly enjoying myself.  Chicago remains one of my favorite cities, and I enjoyed taking it in amongst this massive group of people.  The spectators were a large part of that as well.  People lined the sidewalks for the entire 26.2 mile course.  All along the way, I kept hearing "That guy's barefoot?" "He doesn't have any shoes" or "Go barefoot guy!"  I received several high fives and fist bumps from fellow runners who were impressed with my lack of shoes (especially the further along I got in the race).

Several spectators make motivational signs to cheer on the runners. Any time a sign was generic, or to another Danny or Daniel, I imagined they were written for me to cheer me on.  (There was one that said "Sutter" too!) Some of the signs were motivational, but my favorite signs were funny.  Here are my top 5 favorite signs I saw during the marathon:

5)You're running more than the government today.
4) Take your time, you're not gonna win this.
3) If a marathon were easy, it'd be called your mom
2) My arms sure are tired from holding this sign
1) Hurry up, the Kenyans are drinking all the beer!

 Throughout my training this time around, I skipped several runs.  Mostly short runs, but a couple of the long runs as well.  As such, I think my body wasn't quite prepared to run the whole distance.  I started to notice I was getting tired around mile 17 or 18, and I was slowing down pretty significantly.  I was hungry too.  Lucky for me, we passed a group that was handing out protein drinks and Rice Krispie Treats, which was enough to keep me going, although making me slightly nauseous.

Around 11.5 miles in

We passed through 29 different Chicago neighborhoods throughout the run, and I seldom knew which was which.  But when we hit mile 19, I knew we were passing through Pilsen.  Pilsen has the reputation for being the most excited crowd on the course, and they live up to that reputation.  I got a bit of a lift and was able to run through most of mile 19.

Mile 20 hit, and I started taking several walking breaks.  Prior to the race, I didn't want to take walking breaks (other than the aid stations) this time around, but I don't regret doing so.  I'm not the type of runner to run at all costs.  I run because it feels good.  I walked quite a bit of my last 6 miles, but enjoyed it the entire time.

As I hit mile 25.2, I started running again.  Not because I was determined, but because some guy who had seen me throughout the race saw me walking and shouted, "Come on barefoot, you can do it!"  So I ran across the finish line, exhausted, at 5 hours and 2 minutes, beating my first marathon by 5 minutes.  (11:30 per mile;  Runkeeper showed that I ran 29.85 miles at an average pace of 10:09 per mile.)

As finishers, we were herded from the starting line like cattle, receiving cellophane capes, our medals, and a 312 Urban Wheat Ale from Goose Island.  I like 312 okay, but yesterday, it was the best beer I ever had.

I caught up with Jamie, and as happened at the end of my first marathon, I said, "I'll never do that again."  Well, as I sit here reminiscing on the day, I am looking forward to my next one (maybe New York?).  No regrets about the walking; I had a blast.

Bonus:  I ran a marathon barefoot without getting a single cut or blister.  Jamie walked about 3 miles in her boots and has 3 blisters.  Take that, naysayers!

'Cause Baby We Were Born to Run: A marathon of a blog post

I recall a day in the spring semester of what was likely my eighth grade year at Central Junior High School.  On a track outside the school, our PE student teacher for the semester tasked our class with what seemed like the most challenging feat that the human body could possibly be subjected to: running the mile.  My chubby, awkward, adolescent self had the audacity to think, "I'm going to do this."  Where this idea came from, considering my complete lack of athleticism, I have no idea, but I tried.

As the fast kids finished their miles in 7 minutes, or 8, or even 12, I had a long way to go.  My running speed was probably slower than my walking speed, and it wore me out more so and took all my effort to continue to breathe.  I walked across the finish line (actually, I walked quite a bit of it), several minutes after everyone else had gone into the locker rooms to begin showering, and our student teacher said to me, "You need to quit smoking."  I said, "I don't smoke," and he responded, "yeah, right."

While he was way off base to accuse me of being a junior high smoker (keep in mind, I was a graduate of the D.A.R.E. program), I should have been active enough as a kid to be able to run this reasonable distance. But I wasn't, and running seemed like torture.

A couple years earlier, I had joined the track team (actually I went out for all the sports teams in Junior High, making only the ones they don't cut anybody from) to do the discus or the shot put.  I thought, "I'm a strong guy; I can probably throw things." (I was wrong!) Even though these were the only events I was interested in, I quit the team when they made me run in practice any way. (After little league baseball, I quit all the sports teams I was part of)

I hated running more than I hated just about anything.  So, what changed?

Well, in September, of 2010, my wife ran the Chicago Half Marathon.  I thought she was crazy for wanting to spend over 2 hours running, when I had no desire to spend even 2 minutes running. As she was training, I thought I would join her for a bit, because I really wanted to get in shape.  I (half) committed to the Couch To 5k program, which takes you from being a couch potato to being someone who can run 3.1 miles without stopping.  I stood there in Jackson Park on the cloudless September morning of the Chicago Half Marathon, with "the Golden Lady" (pictured below) watching over the race, and I saw how excited everyone was; I caught the bug.

The Statue of the Republic stands at the starting/finish line of the Chicago Half Marathon.

When I got home, I carried on with the Couch to 5k.  I plodded away, shod in my Chuck Taylor All Stars and dressed in flannel pajama pants with a plain white t-shirt, and gradually increased the amount of time I was able to run. On week 5, when I hit 2 miles straight, I knew it was something I could accomplish.

I didn't want to run my first 5k alone in the woods, so Jamie and I signed up for a 5k together.  We did the inaugural Monster Dash 5k in Chicago, which is a costumed race.  Not only did we do the race together, but we brought our daughter (in the jogging stroller...with a flat tire) and our chocolate lab, Satchmo.

Downloaded from the Monster Dash Facebook page.

 The race itself felt like forever, as if the finish line was moving further and further away from our location on the route.  We pushed forward, flat tire and all, and we crossed the finish line after about 38 minutes.


It was such a thrilling experience that I figured I would keep running after the race.  I upped my mileage week by week, and in December of that year, I decided I would really commit to running, so I signed up for the Illinois Marathon at the end of April.  A person with good common sense would have picked a race in the summer or the fall to avoid training during the winter, but then again, a person with good common sense wouldn't voluntarily run 26.2 miles.

The day after Christmas, I started training in my brand new Brooks running shoes with This American Life playing through my ear buds.  It was cold as hell for 2 months (an expression I never fully understood, because most of the hellian imagery involves eternal flame). I continued to run, taking a break only for the February 1st blizzard dubbed the "snow-pocalypse".

When I started, my runs were out and back.  As the spring approached, I was able to circle the 7.6 miles of Lake Bloomington and run loops.  I was hitting new milestones every week, and I was feeling great.  I was still pretty slow however.  People always talk about how much of a time commitment running a marathon is, and if you're running a 13 minute mile, which was a pretty typical pace for me, it is even more of a time commitment.  I probably ran around that lake 50 times, and I listened to every single episode of This American Life.  And it felt like a chore.  It wasn't fun.

Even so, I carried on.  The big day came, and I was ready for it. I lined up with the slowest pacing group, which was probably 11 minutes per mile, and the race started.  Now, when you're running a race, something magical happens (actually, it's biological, but that doesn't sound as exciting) The thrill of the crowd triggers some sort of emotional response that sends adrenaline rushing through your body, and you are suddenly capable of reaching your complete physical potential.  The problem therein, is that it can only be sustained for so long until you are wiped.

By the time I got up to mile 6, I found myself running with the pacing group on track to a 4:40 marathon (like a 10:45 pace, which is way faster than I normally ran).  I was only able to sustain that until about mile 16, when I started to fall back.  Each mile after I started to slow down took so much effort to keep running, regardless of what pace it was.  But I kept it up until mile 22.  Every step was further than I had ever run, and I was drained of all energy. I couldn't carry on running, so I started taking several "walking breaks", where you walk instead of run.  When I hit mile 24, I took an entire mile of a walking break.  The slowest pace group passed me, and I knew that surely this could not be a good sign.

I started running and walking and running and walking for my last 1.2 miles.  Though I was slow, there was still a crowd cheering me on, and as I saw Memorial Stadium, the football field whose 50 yard line served as the finish line, I started sprinting.  After 5 hours and 4 minutes, I crossed the finish line, got my medal, and went to lie down on the ground. As I lay there I said to myself, "I'm glad I did that, but I will never do it again!"

Fast forward to New Year's Eve that same year.  It was cold, probably 29 degrees.  It had rained the night before, and much of that rain had iced over, leaving a rough ground.  I was out in Carpentersville, IL for a New Year's Eve party at a friend's house, and I was running 6 miles.  By the time I was 2 miles in, I could not feel my feet.  I was barefoot, and I had bad form, so my feet got some major blisters.

I spent the countdown to 2012 in a bathtub breaking open my huge blisters.

I started running barefoot shortly after the marathon.  There are many reasons for this, but the main reason I do so is because it feels good, and not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. In some Buddhist traditions, the monks engage in Barefoot Walking Meditation, and while I don't share the bulk of their beliefs, I think there is something to this practice. When my naked sole kisses the earth, God touches my naked soul through the engagement with his creation.  It functions as exercise and prayer, fun and meditation, a destressor and an act of worship.

Over the past two years of running barefoot, my form has improved significantly and my callouses have gotten as thick as Kanye West's ego.  I can now run great distances without blistering. Prior to barefooting, running was a chore; now it is pure joy.

I swore off marathons at the end of my first, but next weekend, I am running the Bank of America Chicago Marathon, and I couldn't be more excited.  I plan to do the whole thing barefoot and run with the 4:10 pacing group, which would knock almost an hour off my first time.  I'm excited to run in one of the larger marathons in the country, and I'm even more excited to take in the Windy City on foot.

Note:  A myriad of books on barefoot running have come out recently due to the success of Born to Run by Christopher McDougall, which is not actually about barefoot running but has a pretty significant chapter on the topic.  One such book is Barefoot Running Step By Step by Barefoot Ken Bob Saxton.  Born to Run is an essential read for runners and non-runners alike, with the chapter I mentioned talking about the physiology of barefooting.  Ken Bob's book is a fun read about getting into barefoot running and contains some funny stories from those who run shoeless.