When Pigs Fly

I've decide to attempt the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati this spring. If you know me at all and have stopped laughing enough to read on, this is a big deal. I've always loved sports and remained active. I will work myself to exhaustion trying to put a ball in a hoop or landscaping the yard, but I don't enjoy driving 26.2 miles. Unless I'm being chased by something big or scary, I don't run. Well, here's the scoop...

• I'm actually going to walk the Pig. I didn't know you could do that until last year, which is when I started thinking about it. Due to past injuries, my joints can't withstand the pounding of long distance running. Walking works for me, even though it still sounds like a terrible way to spend 6+ hours.
• I turn 50 later this year. If I'm gonna do it, I'd better do it quick. Of all the desperate things guys do to cling to their youth, this seemed less pathetic. It's definitely a last minute write in for my bucket list, ...but why not?
  
• I'm bored with the grind of the gym. After 10+ years of lifting the same bars up and down or walking to nowhere, I need a new challenge. I've probably lost 1000 lbs over that span (& regained 1005 lbs).
• Discipline is contagious. I'm not going to put all this effort into training for the Pig then keep eating like one. I've also seen the boost from my new routine in other disciplines.
  
• The Flying Pig actually looks fun -- apart from the actual running, of course. Who wouldn't want to brag about completing a marathon? And you get a t-shirt!
• I need to attempt something I'm likely to fail. Still trying to sort this one out in my mind, but it's not good for me to always be in control. Don't get me wrong; I've had plenty of failures in my life. I'm just not in the habit of choosing those situations for myself. I suppose it has something to do with pride or insecurity. I'm a competitor who always wants (needs?) to win, ...yet I'm not sure that's how I want to shape my character.
  

So, off we go. I've got a training routine, a new pair of shoes, and a strong inclination that I'll never do this again. Having just completed my latest round of PT on my knee last fall, the likelihood of injury ending my quest seems high. But I won't quit. I'll use this blog to update you on my training miles and experiences. My only goal is to finish... hopefully before they shut everything down and are sweeping up.

I know, coming out with my silly dream increases the pressure. That's the point. If I fail, you might as well know it too. But if I make it, I expect you to be at the finish line cheering me on. You might need a flashlight.

Thank You, Haiti

I've been trying to sort through my reaction to the disturbing images from Haiti this week. I understand that earthquakes happen. Lives are lost daily to tragedies beyond anyone's control. Yet there's something different about what's happening in Haiti. I want to scream, "Enough!"

Our family has been connected with Haiti for years. Various mission trips. Sponsoring children. Building a water tower. Nightly prayers. Bike Day. Sending Christmas gifts in August. Packing meals this past Christmas. Something about Haiti captured our hearts from the very beginning.

I'll never forget doing construction work or wandering the streets of Port de Paix on our first visit with two ever-present, 10-year-old guides, Roman & Wesley. Both boys affectionately called me "Goliath" because they'd never seen someone so big. Neither could be trusted completely.

That same trip, we met Mudline, a shy little girl who we sponsored for years and loved like one of our own. Mudline and Mindy would sit for hours under a shade tree reading together while the boys and I played football in the street. It wasn't hard to fall in love with these children or to pray for a better future.

During our most recent mission trip (2007), we were able to find Mudline and Roman despite not having had contact with them for several years. Now a beautiful, 19-year-old woman, Mudline faces an uncertain future. She flunked out of school when it became too rigorous and her uneducated family couldn't help her keep up. Her flawless English is a marketable skill, but she can't find a way to use it.

Roman, a few years older than Mudline, has already been in prison for drug trafficking. Determined to learn from his mistakes, he was working construction at the mission and scavenging for materials to build his own fishing boat. He looked worn and beaten down. Wesley had died from a treatable disease years earlier.

Life in Haiti is hard. Despite our best efforts and constant prayers, my family was not able to chart a new course for these three. I know we've had an impact, but victory seems illusive. Why can't they catch a break? What have I done to deserve the privileged life I often take for granted? Is it fair that my girls have actually gained more through all of this than those we thought we were serving?

Mindy and I were scheduling a trip to Haiti this winter/spring when the earthquake hit. At this point, we have no idea whether that can happen. I have no illusion that anything I do -- or the combined attention of countries around the world -- will be able to solve anything. The images of truckloads of bodies being transported to mass graves haunts me. What can anyone do?

I still believe in a God who is bigger than all this, and I won't ever stop praying for hope amidst the hopelessness. Haiti's recovery from this will take decades, so there will be many opportunities to pitch in. But Haiti must be more than America's next "project." Maybe it will chart a new course for us. If this experience opens our eyes to our good fortune or prompts us to care about someone besides ourselves or just teaches us to be more generous, Haiti will once again be exporting much needed "aid" to a country whose "poverty" remains hidden.

This disaster is personal. It's so much more than just feeling sorry for the people of Haiti. I owe them something.

Listening

After a head cold over the weekend and then speaking twice on Sunday, my voice is gone. I feel fine, but when I open my mouth nothing much happens. I can croak out a phrase or two before it just becomes too painful for those listening. My family and the office staff are thrilled. It's my turn to listen.

Listening is hard work. For a guy that gets paid to talk it is something I don't practice nearly enough. It's more than just hearing what is being said. Listening is engaging with others. Entering someone's story. People have fascinating tales to tell. Really good listeners know how to ask leading questions or steer conversations onto topics that matter. And they're content to let it end with a hardy laugh or a warm smile. Why would I want to hear one of my stories again when I could get a glimpse of life from a completely different perspective or experience new adventures through others?

People enjoy being around a good story-teller for a season. Eventually, the stories run out or lose their appeal. But a listener is someone we're drawn to over and over again. They respect, comfort and affirm us. It shouldn't surprise anyone that Jesus had more impact through conversations. Few would even think to label him a preacher. He was a master teacher because he listened first.

So, I've got a chance to practice something I'm not very good at and be a little more like Jesus. I'm grateful... really. Seems a little strange to be blogging about it. I suppose a talker has to have some outlet. If you're listening, thank you.