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.

For the wrong reasons

I've always turned in vacation day requests via email or calendar invites to my boss.  He's approved all three that I've taken this year, but it seemed to be a fairly informal process. Well, my boss is "no longer with the organization", and I've now found out that we have an office absence database used to submit vacation and personal day requests.

As it turns out, I didn't even have a profile in the database, and all three of the vacation days I've taken this year have been undocumented.  Today, I called the administrator of the database and asked to have a profile created, as I have a new boss and just found out about this system.  To my surprise (well, not really), none of the vacation days I've taken were listed in the system.  So, I looked through my calendar, found the days I had taken, and entered them in the past.

I know what you're thinking, "Wow, how honest; what integrity he has!"  And I wish I could say that you're right, but the truth is you're not.

Internally, I thought, "I could probably have these three extra vacation days, and nobody would know the difference."  Instead of thinking, "I need to do the right thing here," I thought, "Is there any way that people could find out?"  The more I thought about it, I realized that the dates were on my calendar, my peers' calendars, and my former boss's calendar.  And I knew that it was possible for someone to find out, and I could get in trouble if I went through with it.

So I emailed my new boss, told her I would be submitting the past dates, and I entered them into the system.  I did the right thing, but I did it for the wrong reasons; in fact, I probably tooted my own righteousness horn to my new boss, even though I considered the alternative option.  My desire is to be a person of integrity, but instead of doing the right thing because it's the right thing, I did it out of fear of punishment.   As it stands, my integrity goes as far as the potential risk outweighs the potential benefit.

It is my prayer to leave my selfishness beside and always do the right thing regardless of the circumstances.  This time:  Major fail.

Reflections on Honduras (From the Sublime to the Ridiculous)

The Sublime
As I sat in the dining room of "The Farm", Mercy International's mission base in Yamaranguila, Honduras, on the first morning after setting foot in the country, I was told by Corbett, one of Mercy's leaders, something along the lines of "These people view you as representatives of God."  Though I didn't say it aloud, my response to this was, "I'm hoping to see these people as representatives of God."

To start off with a bit of history, in 1998, Hurricane Mitch flooded large portions of Honduras, forcing several families out of their homes.  One group resettled in an area on the outskirts of La Esperanza and have been living in temporary shacks there ever since.  Honduras is a very poor nation with over 50% of the population living below the poverty line. (Source) This specific area is an example of "the poorest of the poor" in the country.  

Our mission was to go into this neighborhood and build a house for a mother and her daughters who were living in one of these "temporary" shacks.  Additionally, and really more importantly, we were to build relationships with the people in this area.

Now, I'm pretty skeptical of the impact one can have with short-term missions, but there are several staff members with this group that are there year-round, and we, being short-term missionaries, were supporting their long-term mission.

I tried to go into the trip with as few expectations as I could, but in retrospect, I had several expectations that remained unrealized until broken.  While I, generally speaking, disagree with feeling sympathy (or pity), in the back of my mind, I thought I would be fighting those feelings as a result of meeting these people.

To my surprise, I didn't really react with sympathy.  Perhaps I have eradicated that response from my emotional pallet; maybe I didn't get a full grasp of their personal impact from poverty; or it could be my American perspective got in the way.  While the poorest in Honduras are much poorer than the poorest in the US, the gap between our richest and poorest appears much larger than the gap between the richest (at least that I observed) and poorest Hondurans.  I believe this helped keep my feeling of pity in check.

All the same, I did see poverty.  I saw houses made of whatever scraps could be found, that were so dark during the day one could not see inside, emaciated feral dogs running in and out, wood burning stoves running all day with no ventilation, while a mother and her daughters breathe in the smoke and wonder why they have breathing problems.  I saw hungry children, wearing the same clothes each day, their bare feet covered in gunk from the roadside sewage trench, waiting for extras as I finish a second peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  I saw a group of adults who have completely given up on their own future; they have no desires, no dreams, only that their children end up in a better situation than them.

 Which brings me to the real reason for my lack of pity.  I saw God at work in Honduras and He is preparing a better future for these children.  Had I been there before Mercy started the work they've been doing, maybe I would have seen the despair more clearly, but as is, I see children who are getting reasonable homes, being given educations (some), getting more opportunity, and most importantly being surrounded by the love of God and the love of others.  I see hope for restoration to this generation of young people, their children, their grandchildren and so forth.  The focus is not solely on providing adequate houses for these people, it's helping them to get in right relationship with God, themselves, their neighbors, and creation.

This photo, taken on our first day, represents the whole trip to me.  There is hope for the future in this area.  Ironically the name of the city is La Esperanza, which is Spanish for "hope".

The Ridiculous
Since we were strongly encouraged to wear legit shoes during this trip, I was unable to get by in my bare feet or my Birkenstocks, so I wore my Vibram Five Fingers.  Apparently nobody in the entire nation of Honduras has seen shoes with slots built in for the toes. When people pointed at my shoes and laughed or looked confused, I said, "zapatos locos," which is Spanish for "crazy shoes".  Almost suddenly, my name became Zapatos Locos.  I would walk down the street and hear, "Hola, Zapatos Locos!"  "Zapatos Locos! Como estas?"  It became my Honduran identity.

My time was split pretty evenly between playing with the kids and physical labor.  I learned from hanging out with the kids that my Spanish is a lot better than I think; I learned from the adults that my Spanish is not nearly as good as I think.  While waiting in line to get dinner at the mission base, Brad, one of my team members pointed to a big bag of dog food in the kitchen.  I wanted to practice my Spanish, so I said, "Comida de los perros," meaning "dog food".  As I was saying this, I saw the smiles on the cooks' faces slowly drop and change to grimaces.  They thought I was talking about the food they worked all afternoon cooking. I quickly used my best broken Spanish to point their attention to the real dog food; this led to a lot of laughter.

While "handy" is one of the last words I would use to define myself, "hard worker" is one of the first I would use.  Even though I tried to be a hard worker, the Hondurans put me to shame.  As the local masons worked to mix concrete, I tried my best to help but I really ended up being more in the way, and I definitely heard the words not directly spoken to me, "Zapatos Locos," "gringo," and "estúpido."

I did get a chance to display my strength, as I broke two tools throughout the course of the week, one, a shovel where the handle snapped in two, and the other, a sledge hammer, where the head flew off, nearly missed a kid, and landed in the sewage ditch.  I was using the sledge hammer to crush rocks for the foundation of a family's house.  It would take several swings before breaking off even a little piece.  Asisclo, a frail 60+ year old man asked to use the hammer, and he crushed them in one hit, completely putting me to shame.

I took this photo on my 4th or 5th break of Asisclo taking his first break.

 To Sum Up
Though I, Zapatos Locos, am somewhat of a Gringo Estúpido, I was able to observe God's kingdom spreading in Honduras.  A displaced, broken people are starting to get glimpses of hope  right outside La Esepranza.  Their hope is in not only their homes and the opportunities that are coming their way, but in the one who is working to set things the way they were created to be.

Nine homes remain to be built for the families in this area, and then Mercy will be able to begin working with them to continue their restoration in other ways, be it training in job skills, setting up reasonable sewage, or any other development; the possibilities are endless.  Thank you to those who supported me and my team financially, those who prayed for us, and those who sacrificed our time away from home.  Please see the links below if you would like to get involved.

Links
Flickr More photos from the trip

Mercy International This is the group that works in Honduras year-round.  In addition to working in the area they call "The Invasion", they work in the mountains with a tribe called the Lencas (the woman in the picture near the top is a Lenca woman.) and they have a school to prepare Honduran children to go on to college called "Hope and a Future".

Imago Dei Church Imago is the church that I attend, whom our team was sent from. If you would like to support people from this body of believers, you can do so through the "Give Online" link; select "Hope & A Future" or call the church to designate the funds for a future trip.  You may also be able to go on future trips with Imago if space permits.

Vibram Five Fingers Get your own pair of crazy shoes or zapatos locos.  (Disclaimer: Bare feet are better than wearing Vibrams.)

Requiem for the Living Dead

The below piece was written for my church's (Imago Dei in Peoria, IL, as referenced in the words) weekly article.  In the Dies Irae section of a requiem mass, some of the lyrics are Pie Jesu domine; dona eis requiem, which translates roughly to King Lord Jesus, grant them peace.  Generally this "peace" is assumed to mean "rest", as a requiem mass is written for the dead.  I took some liberties and considered the translation of "peace" as "Shalom", which is a more encompassing peace than rest.  Shalom is reconciliation, where everything wrong is set to right again.

"Requiem for the Living Dead"

For the Cambodian girl, 12-years-old;

Snatched from her parents, stolen from home

Sold into slavery, beaten and mugged.

Forced prostitution, raped and drugged.

They've taken her innocence, taken her pride.

Taken her dignity, taken her life.

Given her nothing but fear and disease.

King Lord Jesus, grant her peace.

       

For the 10-year-old boy, manufacturing our phones

80-hour work week, for a couple of bones,

Sweat dripping down from his innocent face,

As he burns his fingers and struggles to pick up the pace,

All at the call of a violent master,

Who cracks the whip harder and beats the drum faster.

Just so his family has enough food to eat.

King Lord Jesus, grant him peace.

       

For the alcoholic workaholic suffocating in debt,

Trying to fill the holes in her soul with belongings and success

Rung by rung, as she ascends upon the corporate ladder

Only to discover isolation on her tower

Drinking down her sorrows to cover her afflictions,

She loses her identity to numbness and addiction

It’s the only way she knows to find some kind of release.

King Lord Jesus, grant her peace.

       

For the dehydrated and the drowning, the starving and the gluttons,

For the peace keepers, and for the people with their fingers on the button,

For the death row inmates, those falsely imprisoned and those guilty of their crimes,

For those with the hearts of poets but the voices of mimes,

For those who are thriving and those who are barely surviving, and everyone else in between;

King Lord Jesus, grant them peace.

 

For the Buddhist and the Muslim and the atheist and Jew;

For those awaiting your return and those who do not know you

For those who need your justice, your mercy, or your truth.

For those of us who can't escape the cycle of abuse,

For those who try to walk in light, but stumble in the dark

For your body at Imago, and for your bride at large,

For the helpless, and the hopeless, and for the least of these,

King Lord Jesus, grant us peace.

Drawn & Quartered by Horses Part 2

To read the first part of this blog post:  Click Here

So, what are these passions that are pulling me in differing directions?

As mentioned in this post, one of my newly ignited passions is writing a musical.  I've spent some time conceptualizing the idea for my four-person musical, and it has grown to a place now, where I am very excited about the potential.  I've created four characters and given them each a unique relationship with music as well as with the other characters.  In a way, each of these characters represents a part of me, and each of their relationships represent part of my relationship with Jamie.  These portions of myself and my marriage on many levels are universals, and as such I believe this show will be less plot-driven and more character-driven, with the goal being catharsis.

For Christmas this year, I received a wonderful gift, and prior to my involvement with Godspell, I was spending at least 30-60 minutes daily using this gift.  This gift is one of my other passions pulling me, it's a banjo, and I want to learn to play the banjo.  I've been playing guitar for 19 years now, (my goodness, that's a long time) and I never learned good technique.  As such, my playing is highly limited.  So as I learn the banjo, I am starting over from scratch and focusing on the technique immediately.  The banjo is an instrument that has been experiencing a renaissance in popular music as of late with Sufjan Stevens, The Avett Brothers, and Mumford & Sons.  I am interested in this style, but also interested in the old bluegrass style practically invented by Earl Scruggs.  I would like to spend several hours per week drilling the Scruggs' Three Finger Rolls and getting serious about this instrument.

In addition to wanting to play the banjo and write a musical, I am very interested in continuing writing music in general (outside of the theatrical context).  Though I struggle with lyrics, I can come up with melodies and interesting harmonies fairly well.  I have a lot to say, and hopefully through practice, I will become more skilled at fitting lyrics with my music.  Even so, I was recently tasked with carrying on the leadership of my church band (as our former leader took another job which relocated him out West), and some of the other leaders thought it would be interesting if our band took a focus more to instrumental music, superimposing scripture readings, responsive readings, and prayer.  This fits very well with my writing style, and I can hopefully (along with the rest of my incredibly talented band) create lots of original music for our church.

Speaking of my church, I will be joining them this summer to go on a mission trip to Honduras.  We will be partnering with a group called Mercy International to serve Hondurans who were displaced due to a hurricane (in 1998, and they are still living in "temporary" shacks).  We will be working to build houses and more importantly to build relationships.  This is obviously one of my passions, but the more immediate passion involves this, and that is learning to speak Spanish.  I took three years of Spanish in high school, after which I could only say, "Yo soy la vaca verde," meaning, "I am the green cow."  A couple years back, I started the approach of using listening programs like Pimsleur and Michel Thomas.  I now have some basic language skills.  While I will obviously not be fluent by this summer, I would like to at least be able to hold some basic conversation with people.  (If you would like to support me for this trip, please visit Razoo at this link.)

There's a few other passions that are pulling me, one of which I will be spending more time on and blogging about in the future, which is the fighting of human trafficking.  Also, I want to spend more time with photography (although I am certainly a hobbyist), reading and running, the latter of which I have been able to keep up on somewhat well, and will be dedicating time to this summer, as I train for the Chicago Marathon.  But for now, I am stuck, caring about all of these things and being spread too thin to actually focus on any of them.  I need to make some hard decisions.