Fathers and Sons, Outside, The Girls

Better Late Than Never ….

Really, we shoulda gotten there a lot earlier.

“What time should we leave?” Emma, the organized one, asked me the night before, whereupon I did the math in my head, which family history has proven time and time again really means, “a slight majority of the math.” Looked up the drive on Google, which placed it around 30 minutes. Should be good if we leave by 10, I guesstimated. “I’ll set my alarm for 9:50,” my son informed me, which prompted me to suggest, unsuccessfully, we leave by 9:45.  Which means we left at 10:10, which got us there at 10:45, which left us just enough time to park, pick up our bibs, and evacuate any remaining bodily fluids before taking our place at the back of the pack of already stretched and warmed-up humans massed at the starting line.

Our tight window robbed me of sharing the signature element of my pre-plannning. For motivation I was going to play Kurt Russell’s Herb Brooks’ “Miracle” speech before we got out of the car. Remind them that they were, you know, born to be hockey players. Alas.

To be fair … it’d been four years since the last time I’d participated in an organized race, so was a bit out of practice. And to be honest, I never really was what one would call ‘in practice.’  In the handful of 5 and 10Ks I’d begrudgingly participated in the couple years before the pandemic, I was never in charge of any of the planning. All of that fell to my ‘running buddy,’ Jason, whose default is to subjugate every detail to his monarchical rule. He’d prompt our registration, then spec our departure time and the ensuing directions. My race day responsibilities were limited to a light stretch followed by (a.) watching the back of Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, and then (b.) concentrating all of my energies on not puking down the front of me while maintaining operating control of my bowels until the whole unpleasantness was over.

It was the memory of one such episode that prompted me this New Year’s Eve to casually mention to Peter that I’d seen that there was a “Resolution 5K” run in Oakdale on New Year’s Day. Five New Year’s Eve’s ago, as I was a couple Moscow Mules into my evening, Jason texted me a link to that year’s race, accompanied by, “You in?” I remember convincing myself that my third Moscow Mule was spiritually akin to the training montage in Rocky IV where Stallone is carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. From what I recall, my next day’s performance was, in fact, a fair simulacrum of an overmatched, middle-aged man carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. 

I hadn’t really asked Peter if he was interested in this year’s version, so was surprised when he responded to my dissemination of the fact with, “I’ll do it.” Nor was I expecting Emma’s response after I informed her that I’d signed Peter and me up. “Sign me up, too.” Neither had ever done a 5K before.

Seconds after doing so, apparently in the throes of what science calls a “runner’s high,” I wandered into the dining room and informed Karry of our New Year’s Day plans and asked if she wanted to ride with us and, you know, cheer us along. Which prompted the following exchange. 

She: (silence) 

Me: Maybe you could make a sign or something. 

She: (emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage)

So it was ‘just’ the three of us standing in the light snow in 30-degree weather seconds before the start of the race, whereupon Peter asked if we’d be running together or just doing our own thing. 

“Do your own thing,” I advised, since I wasn’t quite sure what any of our things were. 

Since we were waaaaaayyyyyy in the back of the pack, I spent the first couple minutes maneuvering around participants either walking or easing into things (whose better judgement qualified every single one of them to be my Life Coach). Managed to carve out some space and was settling into a rhythm when a guy runs up along side me and asks me what my pace is. I hadn’t thought to consider that data point prior to his asking. I looked at my phone and saw I was matriculating at a 7:43 clip. Had I been sipping a Moscow Mule at that moment I would’ve reacted with my first spit take of the New Year. From what I could remember that was about a minute faster than my pre-pandemic pace. The voice in my head immediately channeled my Inner Karry — “[emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage].”

 “That’s my pace, too!” he said enthusiastically. “My name’s Jason,” he said cheerfully. (Apparently I’m a magnet for Racin’ Jasons.) “Do you have a target today?” he asked. Since we’d just met I couldn’t give him my honest answer — “Not pooping my pants” —  instead opting for a simple “No.”  Undaunted, he asked me if I intended to maintain my pace the rest of the way.

I took a deep breath and replied: “Look, before we get too far into this relationship, I’m not who you think I am. I’m living a lie right now. If I keep up this charade one of us is going to end up on the side of the trail bleating like a heifer giving birth to triplets before we hit the turnaround. You look like a nice enough fellow, but this … this is never going to work. The best thing for you to do right now is to leave me. Forget we ever met. Go, just go. Go live a life. And whatever you do … promise me you will never, ever look back.”

All of which came out of my mouth as, “Nope,” as I knew I would need all my breaths for the foreseeable future. 

As I found an odd reassurance in watching New Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, I began to recall my previous race experiences. Turns out that running is just like riding a bike, except way harder … and with lots more awful running involved. I was reminded that the first mile is always further than it seems. “Surely I’ve run a mile by now,” I think to myself about a quarter of a mile in. 

And the second mile is always The Worst. I refer to it as the “Seriously, what were you thinking?” mile. It’s just mean. Apparently it had a difficult upbringing. Probably overbearing parents. Most likely a bed wetter. Even when I’m running longer distances, the second mile just mercilessly taunts me.

Nevertheless, I managed to make it to the turnaround, and shortly thereafter, my phone let me know I’d made it two miles … upon which I convinced myself that this would all be over soon. Found someone just slightly ahead of me that was ambling at a reasonable pace and settled in behind them.

Stole a glance at my phone when I was about 23 minutes in. Figured I only had about three-ish minutes left to go. At which point my endorphins began to ask me my thoughts on a potential finishing kick. 

“Good one,” I responded before realizing that my endorphins, much like my wife, are not kidders. 

I hadn’t reached three miles yet, so was in no great hurry to make any rash decisions.

Then all of a sudden this very tall, bearded dude zooms past me. In full gallop. Like, really going for it, Kentucky-Derby-style. Sizing him up I figured he was likely in my age group. I was genuinely impressed. “Wow,” I thought. Clearly he had a plan that involved more than just maintaining a good grip on his bowels. “Good luck with … all that,” I mentally saluted as he sped past.

A couple minutes later, my phone tells me I’m at three miles. And when I look up, I see that I’m actually gaining on Tall Bearded Dude, who was now visibly scuffling down the home stretch. Looked like his bowels wanted a word with him. Kicked a little too early, evidently.

Hubris. 

Which my endorphins and I discovered is apparently contagious in men of my age group. 

“We’re taking this f*cker down!” my endorphins exclaimed. 

“Language!” I scolded in reply, before putting my metaphorical pedal to the metal, which reacted with all the responsiveness of my parents’ 1980 Mercury Monarch that I learned to drive on.  

“OK, give us a minute here,” my body replied … before marshaling all my remaining faculties into a barely perceptible acceleration, which catapulted me past Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy in a turn of events that surprised me almost but not quite as much Brigette Nielsen when Rocky drew blood from Ivan Drago.

As the finish line came into view up ahead, I somehow managed to keep TBPP Guy in my wake while retaining a majority of the bodily ingredients I’d started with, including a teensy measure of pride.

After catching my breath I sought out Peter and Emma and found them upright and in tact as well. We made our way to the community center for some water, and to steal a glance at the posted results just for funsies. Both Peter and I finished sixth in our respective age groups (even more impressive for him, as he was fighting a bit of a chest cold), while Emma finished third in her female age group, earning a tiny medal. Not bad for a coupla first timers. 

Driving home in a car redolent with the aroma of our respective Ks, I was reminded of what I used to appreciate about participating in races. They’re invariably mini exercises in aliveness. Of the conscious choice to sign up. Of the sacred act of pulling a shirt over your head and lacing your shoes. Of stretching to give your body its best chance. Of seeking out your place amongst kindred spirits at different places along their respective journeys. Of watching the backs of jerseys getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Of humbling second miles where your inner voice gains the upper hand. Of appreciating that there will always be folks faster than you, and folks content with taking their own good time, and many lessons to be learned from both. And that you are probably both of those things to those around you, too. Opportunities to push yourself a little harder than you otherwise might … and seeing what happens. Heck, if it were up to me I’d give a tiny medal to Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy — for not waiting until he was ready to give it all he had. Better late than never, you know? 

Summing the math on the above — or at least the slight majority of the math — aliveness is the blessing of the Racin’ Jasons and Peters and Emmas in my life … people who both ask and answer questions that I don’t always have the courage to ask myself, and who push me to see how fast and far I might be able to go. 

And who make me want to be a little bit better next time.

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The Girls

Encore, Encore ….

When it came time for her to pick her final tap solo for her final dance recital, she didn’t agonize over the decision. Didn’t spend weeks trading, reviewing and debating dozens of tracks with her Mom and her instructor, like she’d always done with her competitive solos. As I recall, we were casually informed after she came home one day that she’d chosen Nat King Cole’s version of L-O-V-E.

“L – is foooor the way you … look at me ….”

When I overheard her telling her Mom, my heart leapt a little bit.

At the time, she didn’t know my mom just L-O-V-E’d all things Nat King Cole. 

She didn’t know that L-O-V-E was probably my favorite tune when I played drums in Sammy Bill’s band … when I was an 18-year-old old soul like she is now. 

She didn’t know that, whenever Sam used to call that tune – I still remember it was #252 in his book —  I used to audibly enthuse, which the rest of the band always got a kick out of. 

She didn’t know that Dad loved playing that tune, too. 

She didn’t know that, even though the arrangement we played was pretty vanilla, Dad, if he was havin’ a good night, would improvise some of those ornery trumpet riffs behind our vocalist on the second verse, just like Nat’s version. 

She didn’t know that, when it came time for me to walk away from playing after 14 years, that I somehow managed to talk Karry into us taking dance lessons so I could surprise my Dad by showing up at one of his gigs to dance to the music I had loved so much. He was over the moon when he saw us walk in, and I’m not sure who had the better time that night. All I remember is that we used every step in our meager repertoire, dancing our hearts out while he blew his horn from his shoetops. 

She didn’t know that I made one request that night — #252 in the books. 

She didn’t know that, years later, in the wake of my Dad’s passing, when I somehow talked her into taking the same ballroom dance class with me — with the same instructors Karry and I had, no less — that I had secretly hoped that we might put our meager steps to good use one day … maybe at her wedding.

At the time I didn’t know that, years later, she would be saying goodbye to something she loved so much. 

I didn’t know that, after her 14 years of being on stage, she would know exactly how to put a bow on her closing chapter. 

I didn’t know that she would make one request … #252 in the books. 

So, after all those years of watching her with a lump in my throat and a pit in my stomach from my seat in the very last row, I got to stand in the wings for the very first time … and see her walk on stage for one of her very last. 

Got to watch and listen to her dance her heart out as she sounded the stage from her shoetops one more time. 

I didn’t know she was going to turn to me and smile the way she did. 

“L – is foooor the way you … look at me ….”

And she didn’t know as I was tearing up and beaming back at her that I was thinking of Mom while Nate King Cole crooned. And hearing my Dad as that ornery trumpet riffed behind the vocal. And thinking of Karry as I walked on stage and took a beautiful young lady in my arms again.  

When the moment came, though, we jitterbugged.  

That part … that part she knew. 

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Postcards

Standing in the Shadow …

I wanted to be outside this morning, before things got too hot.

Chose the cemetery for a couple reasons.

Shade, for one. Lots of trees.

I like the ups and downs, too. Lets you choose your own adventure, depending on whatever ambitions you bring with you.

I’ve also found that it’s just a good space for reflection … remembering … reminding oneself.

I park in a small pull over that can fit three or four cars, depending. Was still stretching out when someone pulled in next to me. I saw it was an older fella. I was going to wish him a Happy Fourth, but he was taking his time getting out of his car, so I just set off.

The route I usually choose starts with a downhill (I like to be kind to myself), and then a short climb under a canopy of pines, from where it drops a little before flattening out to a roundabout, where I will just do some loops for some easy distance, before hitting a straightaway that takes me past where I parked.

Midway through my first loop, I saw the gentleman who had parked next to me. I’m bad at guessing ages, but based on his silver hair, I’d put him a bit north of 70. He’s shorter in stature, but solid.

He walks with two walking poles.

Not fast, but persistent.

I waved as we passed.

“It’s good to be outside on the Fourth of July isn’t it?” I said.

“Yes it is,” he said.

And then I did this thing that I do sometimes, when I’m out for a run and encounter elders doing their outdoor things.

It might be a by-product of the endocannabinoids that get released in my brain when I’m moving. I’ve noticed that they like to take over my broadcast system sometimes.

I turned back around and said, “I just have to say … you inspire me.”

He looked up at me and smiled, surprised.

“I just have walking sticks,” he said, somewhat sheepishly.

And I said the true thing that I say sometimes.

In so many words, that there is no such thing as ‘just.’

“Well, I hope to live as long and be as wise as you someday, and get to enjoy being outside on the Fourth of July.”

“Well, I am enjoying it,” he confessed.

Then, for good measure, my endocannabinoids bid him adieu with a, “God bless ya’ sir.”

And we went on our respective ways.

Continuing past where I parked, there’s a straightaway that passes in front of the cemetery’s crematorium — or what my daughter affectionately termed the “Easy-Bake” during our Covid walks — and up a hill where I like to take a right and descend to another small roundabout that overlooks the veterans’ cemetery.

In the lead-up to Memorial Day, they put flags on all the markers and gravestones, and leave them up through the summer. The flags catch the natural breezes of the hill, and are always fluttering, which I always find moving as I am moving.

Among the things I appreciate about the fluttering flags is how they invite your attention.

“Looky here,” they say.

Which reminds me that the flags’ stars and stripes aren’t meant to be the stars.

What’s sacred is the ground beneath them.

This past Memorial Day I remember pausing at the roundabout. For some reason I felt compelled to slowly scan from right to left across the field to try and register each one of the flags on each one of the headstones.

Felt like a respectful thing to do.

I’m not sure how many veterans are buried there … a couple hundred at least.

As I scanned, it occurred to me how the graves spanned across many generations, commemorating service personnel from different places, backgrounds and homes. Who all answered and honored the same call, each for their own reasons, if they had a choice. Whose lives were probably all changed in different and complicated and meaningful ways — some ended — by their experiences in uniform.

The flags always catch me the way the breeze catches them.

Passing by them this morning, I felt compelled to capture the scene … for posterity.

Felt like a respectful thing to do.

I was barely a couple seconds into filming when the sun peeked from behind a cloud and cast the large flag behind me that anchors the overlook.

And all of a sudden I was standing in the big flag’s shadow …

… overlooking a Veterans’ cemetery …

… in a small town named for the man who once referred to the country’s then-new government as “the last great experiment, for promoting human happiness,” …

… on the Fourth of July of that experiment’s 250th birthday.

Standing still in the shadow of all of that, I found myself deeply moved.

And so I did my best to reflect … to remember … to remind myself.

My hunch — and this might have been the endocannabinoids talking — was that not many of the souls buried in front of me spent a great deal of time patting themselves on the back. That, when their service was done, they likely appreciated that what they came back to — country-wise and life-wise — was still very much a work-in-progress. With just as much work to do as had been done.

I’m hoping that each one of ‘em at least took a measure of pride in having done their small part in keeping it going and giving the whole experiment a chance.

After taking a moment to pay my respects … I picked up my stride again … just grateful to all those who came before me for the gift of being outside on the Fourth of July before it gets too hot.

And I said the true thing that I say sometimes.

In so many words, that there is no such thing as ‘just.’

May this experiment live long enough to get to be as wise as our small town’s namesake and country’s first president.

May we re-commit to the goal of promoting human happiness for all and co-create a world that promises no more and no less than what a good cemetery does — all the ups and downs you want, but letting you choose your own adventure, depending on whatever ambitions you bring with you.

May we close the gap between the truths and unalienable rights that Jefferson knew were self-evident to our creator, but still very much work-in-progress to those of us standing in our creator’s shadow.

And even if we don’t live long enough to see its fullest manifestation, may we at least persist long and far enough to inspire younger striders with our walking sticks.

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Fathers and Sons

Soft distances …

While in Richmond for some family medical appointments, I talked my son into getting up and going for a run along a trail close to where we were staying.  

We negotiated an 8 a.m. departure. It was still drizzling when we parked the car and walked over to the trailhead. 

“You want to run together or do our own thing?” he asked. 

I appreciate that he always asks, even though we both know the answer. 

Much faster than me, he typically targets a pace when he runs. 

Anymore I pray in soft distances.

“Do our own thing,” I replied as always, never wanting to hold him back. 

Over the next couple minutes, I watched the back of his shirt get smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the trail’s twisting curves. 

So I was surprised when, about 10 minutes later, I came upon him again — stopped and holding his phone in front of him. 

“What’s up?” I asked, pausing the podcast in my ears. 

“It’s my favorite bird,” he said. 

I didn’t know he had a favorite bird, let alone …

“Wood thrush,” he answered, before I could ask. 

I realized he was recording, not taking photos. 

“Listen ….” 

His one-word invitation disappeared the static of the world … and let the pure signal reach my parched ears. 

And for a good half minute, we stood rapt and enraptured. 

Alive in our tracks.

By a small invisible thrush in a vast forest. 

Singing its natural anthem … over a whispering drizzle as cool and coaxing as brushes on a snare drum.

“He’s going through all his tunes,” Peter said, just as I caught the crispest “Ee-oh-lay” — the trilling, thrilling middle and most recognizable of the three-part hymn ‘common’ (in name only) to the male of the species.

The whole time I was mindful that we were simultaneously inconsequential to the proceedings and possibly the most grateful audience he’ll ever perform for. 

After his last note, I held my breath a couple extra seconds — the same greedy and hopeful feeling I always feel after the last firework — just in case he felt like taking another chorus. 

Exhaling broke the spell.  

And we gathered ourselves … as if after a benediction. 

Peter put his phone away. 

I put my podcast back in my ears. 

He took off in front of me. 

And I watched the back of his shirt get smaller in the distance before disappearing once again in the twists of the trail.

As I followed him at a soft distance, I was still warm from having received something significant … the gift of standing next to my son while listening to his favorite bird singing arias in the rain. 

And I prayed the futile and selfish prayer I sometimes pray after a good sermon  — that I will remember this … and cling to it … when the noisy world comes hard for my heart.

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People / Places, Postcards

Moving Mountains …

Been making a humble Thursday morning practice of popping in the coffee shop down the road before work.

Just to stand in line for a cortado and sit for a few minutes.

In between the standing and sitting, I always seem to find something to fill my cup. 

This past Thursday there wasn’t much of a line, so I stepped to the front, ordered, and skooched to the left to wait. 

The waiting area’s directly in front of where the barista prepares the orders. 

I’m careful not to stare.

But I do try to catch a glimpse when they’re doing the pouring. 

I find all artful pourers mesmerizing. 

The person working Thursday is new-ish. 

Been there maybe a couple months. 

Didn’t know her name. 

Just her smile.  

She began with the requisite two shots of espresso. 

Then moved to the milk.

I’m always curious to see if a barista trusts in gravity and surface tension to do their jobs … and fills the cup beyond its edge.

It’s always magic to me to bear witness to how the molecules grab on to one another, and keep each other from flowing away and spilling.

I find a hope in that.

Like nature’s just waiting for us to learn from its example.   

I’ve noticed that some baristas favor the control of holding the cup in one hand to bring the spout closer … while others place the cup on the counter to keep a steady target. 

The delicacy of the draw gets me every time.

The mere idea of painting with a brush that only ever gets so close to its canvas. 

Seems prayerful to me. 

Any distance between source and vessel requires a measure of faith.

I’ve learned that the precise amount required has little to do with how great or small the distance.   

Hers was one fluid motion into the countered cup. 

But then, she did this thing. 

Post-pour, she reached for a spoon. 

I watched as she used it to gently skooch some of the foam where she wanted it to go. 

My immediate thought was that maybe things initially didn’t turn out the way she wanted.

As she skimmed the surface, she cupped her empty left hand parallel to her right … as if protecting a flickering match from the wind.

Her left hand had no practical purpose, other than maybe just to let the right know it was rooting for it. 

By which I mean it may have had the most important job of all. 

Satisfied, she put the spoon down and ushered my cup forward to let me know it was ready.

“I’ve never seen anyone do that … with the spoon,” I confessed. 

“I do it all the time,” she said. “That’s my move.”

So, she had made no mistake. 

She just wasn’t done moving mountains. 

I asked her her name. 

“Jaye,” she said.

“We’ll call it the ‘Jaye,’” I said. 

“Aww, thank you,” she smiled, also a signature move.

It was only then that I looked down … to see that she had used the spoon to crack a tiny heart open. 

By which I mean she used the spoon to crack my tiny heart open.

 

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Postcards, Righteous riffs

The Sauce Boss ….

Whenever I am asked to meet with a new employee, I always start with the most important question. 

I mean THE most important question. 

I preface it by letting the person know that I’m about to ask them the most important question that they will be asked that day. 

Possibly, the most important question they will be asked all week. 

I let them know in advance that the question is cosmic in its scope.

Then I hit ’em with it.

“What is the greatest pizza of all time?” 

I then take a minute to make sure they fully understand the question’s magnitude. 

“In your expert opinion, across the hundreds of assemblages of crust, sauce and toppings you have experienced in the entirety of your illustrious, pizza-eating career … what is the GOAT?”

As they deliberate, I invite them to give thought to why. 

What is it about it that makes it the greatest of all time? 

The ingredients? 

Where or how the ingredients are sourced? Is it the style? The type of crust? The manner in which it’s prepared? Is it the individuals who make it? The ambience in which they experience it? Where it’s located? Is it the company they experience it with? Perhaps it’s the time in their life that they first encountered it?

Over the years, I’ve asked the question at least a hundred times.

Everyone answers differently, but they all have one thing in common. 

The way their face lights up when they tell me. 

You should see how such love lives on their faces. 

__

So, I’m waiting out a Sunday late-morning flight delay at the Kansas City airport yesterday. 

Young fella sitting next to me sees me holding a small print of a cat in a cowboy costume that some friends (who know me well) gave me that morning. 

Asks me about it. 

I tell him. 

Then he asks me where I’m going. 

I answer and, out of politeness, ask him the same.  

He tells me he’s going to Paris for 82 days, to intern for a ‘church-planting’ organization … scattering seeds in France. 

Couple minutes later, he’s asking me if I know Jesus, and whether I’ve accepted him as the only way to salvation. 

In so many words. 

I mean, soooo many words.

Meanwhile, the voice in my head starts audibly exhaling in discomfort, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” while rubbing the bridge of its metaphorical nose.  

I’m just a guy admiring a print of a cat in a cowboy costume here.

Meanwhile my concerned neighbor is talking all about sin and eternity … with much conviction.

Which I respect both the act and substance of. 

He’s going to make a great intern. 

Says that our days are not guaranteed. Anything can happen. 

“This might be the last flight we ever take,” he says, gesturing to the door to the jetway. 

I don’t disagree. 

He mentions that Jesus is coming back.

Soon.

I suppress the urge to mention that history is littered with a lot of humans who over-estimated their gifts for guesstimating that particular arrival time.

He starts peppering me with a bunch of questions. 

And keeps pressing me for a verbal … like a flight attendant prompting an exit row passenger. 

Meanwhile, all I can hear is Paul whispering in my ear “… with gentleness and respect.”

I genuinely don’t want to be disrespectful. 

For all I know, God might be eavesdropping on his intern.  

I also don’t want to get deep … meaning the granularity of it. 

But I do want to get deep … meaning the heart of it. 

And I know that if I choose the latter, he’s just going to want to further litigate the former. 

But I couldn’t help myself.

So I answered him … by saying that I have a wise friend who knows more chapter and verse than I ever will. 

And that the wisest thing I have ever heard him utter isn’t a Bible verse.

When someone asked him a question he didn’t have an answer for, my wise friend said that he wasn’t sure.

And added, “I’m OK with God knowing more than I do.” 

Which pretty much sums up my faith right now.

It’s taken me a while to get to this cruising altitude. 

I can’t tell you exactly how close I am to any destination.

There are lots of clouds when I look up.

I’m not even sure how accurate my heading is … as I tend to overestimate the scale of things. 

I’m just trying to hold things steady enough to eventually give me a better vantage point.  

Which is no small accomplishment, given my fear of heights and poor sense of direction. 

But I do have some people in my life right now who are generous in sharing their coordinates with me. More experienced navigators who have logged a lot more miles, spent more time with the map, and seen a lot more of the world than I have. Best of all, they are generous in sharing the detours and emergency landings they’ve made … in hopes that I either avoid, or at the very least, take different ones. 

God bless bound-for-Paris Josoo (“rhymes with ‘tofu’” as he introduced himself), but I don’t think I gave him the exit row answer he and his pilot were hoping for. 

But his soon-to-be-summer employer should know that it wasn’t for a lack of intention on his part. 

After a few minutes, I needed to detangle, so I got up to stand where the boarding lines were about to form.

I confess to you that I hoped that neither God nor United Airlines sat us next to each other on the plane. 

But sitting and sifting here, though … I kinda’ regret praying for that. 

Because I just thought of something I wished I would’ve asked Josoo. 

I would have asked him to talk to me about love. 

About love that rejoices in truth. 

A love that always protects. 

Always trusts. 

A love that in spite of everything … still hopes and perseveres. 

I’d ask him to talk to me about love so Great.

Love that never fails … even when all other prophecies cease, all tongues still, and all other knowledge passes away. 

A love whose planes never run late. 

___

By which I mean … I would have liked to ask him The Most Important Question.

At least the most important one anyone would ask him that day, if not over the next 82. 

I would’ve asked him about the greatest pizza of all time. 

I’d take a good minute to make sure he fully understood the question. 

So I could learn what, in his expert, pizza-eating opinion makes it the greatest … out of all the hundreds of combinations that he’s experienced in his illustrious, pizza-eating career.  

Just so I could see how love lives on his face, and feel how it lives in his heart.

Trust me … I would rejoice in learning of his personal relationship with pizza.

Which would expand my humble understanding of how crust, sauce and toppings can go together. 

And all I know for certain is that he would answer the same question differently than anyone else I’ve ever asked.

And that, by the end, I would likely be hungry to experience pizza the way he experiences pizza.  

And if the Spirit was really moving within me, I might even ask him his perspective when it comes to anchovies.

Not to convince him, mind you.  

Just to see if we had any common ground there. 

All of which to say … I’m no theologian. 

I’m content knowing that if there is a God … she probably looks at me the same way I look at prints of cats in cowboy costumes.

But it’s hard for me to imagine that she cares all that much that I don’t like crust. 

My wife Karry doesn’t mind. 

I let her have mine.

Heck, maybe it makes God happier to see us sharing. 

And I would never deign to speak for her, but I imagine that if God made us in her image, then she probably autonomically smiles when she sees how our faces light up when talking about the greatest pizza of all-time. 

Heck, she’s probably just waiting for us to ask her The Important Question.

So she can reply, in so many words, “Have you ever tried it with the Jesus sauce?” 

So that we can see how a love that hopes all things … lives on her face.

So that we might truly know the GOAT.  

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Fathers and Sons, Postcards, Righteous riffs

Fast Forward …

After driving the six hours home from Philly last Sunday, I went over to the high school track … just to give my legs a stretch. 

My son got there a few minutes before me, fresh from running some errands. 

When we are at the track together, we run separately.

He’s much faster. Keeps track of his times and such. 

Me … I just go for the medicine of it. 

The track was empty when we arrived, but after a bit I spied a couple walking down the hill. From a distance I recognized a retired teacher from the middle school. I see her walking at the cemetery sometimes too, always with a spring in her step, a smile and a kind word.

All of which she possessed when she taught. Both of our kids had her for reading. 

Whenever I see Mrs. Labella my memory goes back to our son’s first year of middle school … when Karry and I signed up for parent teacher conferences. 

That was … what? A dozen years ago now? Thirteen?

I say this lovingly, but Peter was a bit of a handful back then … at least from our side of the equation. 

Whatever internal motor was responsible for his initiative … revved very low. 

Most of his homework got done with Karry’s foot in close proximity to his keister. 

His default with most things was to expend the least amount of effort required. He had dual gifts for pushing buttons and refusing to admit any wrongdoings. We often said he would make a great lawyer someday. 

He also exercised great agency over his energy and attention, which was often at odds with where the world wished he would direct them.

He was never in any great hurry.

His internal clock just kept time differently.

When we met his middle school teachers for the first time, we expected to come back with homework on what we could do better at home to help him succeed in class. 

I’m not sure, but I think Mrs. Labella was first. 

Peter wasn’t much of a reader then … or now. 

Didn’t inherit my English major genes, though he does have a genuine love for language. He just has always preferred working with his hands. Loves making and fixing things.

Reading and writing? Not so much. 

I remember Karry and I bracing for impact when we first walked into Mrs. Labella’s meticulously curated classroom. 

We were indeed stunned by what we heard. 

She said how wonderful it was having Peter in class. 

How well-behaved he was. 

How much she appreciated his participation.

We were like, “Um, our son?”

He didn’t even like to read.

We were kind of speechless. 

I don’t remember Mrs. Labella’s specific words, just that she saw a light in him … that we were too close to see for ourselves … and reflected it back to us.

I now know that those were the days when we — or at least I — spent way too much time squeezing the parenting handlebars way too tightly. 

As Mrs. Labella chatted with us, I remember appreciating being in the presence of a person who’d spent years in the company of 12- and 13-year-olds, who deeply understood the assignment, and who loved the important and sometimes hard thing she got to do … with exactly who she got to do it with. 

Someone who commanded respect, took no b.s. … and was comfortable enough in her own skin to give Grace where and when needed. 

In other words, someone who was born to be a teacher.

By contrast, I realized that Karry and I were as new to being parents of a middle schooler as Peter was being a middle schooler.

Maybe we were all doing a little better than we gave ourselves credit for, even if we were a little fidgety in our respective chairs.  

The rest of his teachers pretty much said the same thing. 

Walking out of the school that night, Karry and I joked that maybe we had a budding actor on our hands. Had ‘em all fooled, he did.

We both knew that wasn’t at all true. 

The truer thing was that maybe we were in too much of a hurry with our expectations. 

That maybe our parenting motors were in need of revving a little slower.

___ 

So … fast forward … to last Sunday at the track. 

I waved to Mrs. Labella and her husband when I caught up to them. 

As I jogged by, she said she appreciated a piece I’d recently written. 

For the record, I’m not sure higher praise exists for a writer than to get a gold star from a middle school reading teacher. 

I told her it’s a blessing to have such good things to write about.

I ran on ahead a bit … then felt moved to double-back. 

“In the spirit of not assuming,” I said. “That’s my son over there,” pointing Peter out on the other side of the track. “If he didn’t say hello, make sure you say hi when he passes by.”

“I’ll trip him if he doesn’t,” she said … still not an ounce of b.s. in her voice. 

I was about three-quarters of the way through my next lap when, up ahead of me, I saw this.

My 25-year-old son and his middle school reading teacher. 

It filled my heart full to see that he broke from his pace to walk with them.

Turns out, his internal clock has always understood time just fine. 

They took a good full lap together.

I don’t know what they talked about. 

Only that they each had a smile and a kind word for the other. 

I imagine he told her what he’s doing now. 

I imagine that she told him she’s not surprised one bit. 

I found myself slowing my pace behind them … careful not to get in the way. 

Just grateful for the medicine of it … in no great hurry myself anymore.

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Outside, Righteous riffs

Fools in the rain ….

Anymore spring just hits me to my core. 

Every bit of it. 

Watching the deliberate greening of the woods behind our backyard feels like having a front-row seat as a miracle unfolds in slow motion.

How it starts from the bottom and patiently works its way all the way up to the tops of the trees.  

—-

Thursday after work my son and I rode over to the high school track together.

Checking the weather I mentioned to him the rains on the way. 

He asked how long we would go if it started raining. 

“I imagine the question will answer itself,” I said.

On Thursdays a youth fitness program meets at the track. A few adults break the kids into groups, from teenagers down to elementary schoolers, and run them through exercises and drills. 

Was barely a lap in when it started raining. 

The rain picked up speed quicker than me, and soon was coming down pretty good. No thunder or anything, just a hard, heavy shower. 

I checked to see what the coaches would do with the kids. Figured I’d follow their lead. I assume they know more than me. 

It was raining so hard, I fully expected them to call it … maybe take the kids inside the school if not cancel out of an abundance of caution.

But they didn’t.

They proceeded to line ‘em up and on-your-marks’d ‘em. 

Made me smile while my nose dripped.

The rain kept up the whole time we were there, but the heavy part only lasted a few minutes. 

For the remainder … it was just a quintessential Southwestern Pennsylvania spring shower. 

I was glad for the kids … that they got to experience the gift of running in the rain. 

The kid in me was grateful to be reminded, too. 

By which I mean … the question answered itself.

___

Yesterday after work I went back to the track for some easy loops at the end of a long week. 

My running shoes were still soaked from the night before. 

It was pushing 7 p.m. on a Friday … and I was the only one there.

Only human, I mean.  

The track sits below the school, so you walk down a hill to get to it. 

On the grassy slope by the entrance, a robin was posted up … practicing her signature tune.

Robins are so common around here, sometimes I forget how beautifully they sing.

You catch one by herself, though, and God pulls up a chair. 

Her crisp song cut the still air so clearly.

Every time I circled back to where she was practicing, I slowed down and gushed compliments.

It was like being in the front row of an empty amphitheater while the evening’s soprano was dry-running her arias.

If I’da had flowers, I’da laid ‘em at her feet. 

All by herself singing a song she’s sung hundreds of times and singing it new for the first time again.

By which I mean … spring.

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Righteous riffs

Brimming ….

Took advantage of the temperate Sunday afternoon weather to head over to the high school track for a few laps.

Sun was peeking through the clouds, which had me debating whether or not to wear my, um, running hat.

I’m not supposed to be in the sun that much.

I inherited many things from my dad, among them an appreciation for jazz, a penchant for re-telling favorite stories, and bad skin.

The hat’s very … protective, by which I mean it’s large and … wide-brimmed.

Not saying it’s like an Easter bonnet … just that it’s more functional than, you know, a fashion choice.

Gets windy at the track, so I like that it has a string that goes under your chin that you can cinch.

You know, like a manly … bonnet.

Enough sun was peeking through … so I decided to throw caution to the fashion winds and cinch ‘er up.

Was a couple laps in when I saw an older couple walking down the hill that leads to the track.

They were dressed for a walk, not a workout.

The lady wore a long blue coat while her large beau sported a jacket and jeans.

Both wore big, floppy hats atop their silver heads.

I came up behind them a minute later, and as I passed I turned around and said, “I appreciate your hats!”

I chalk up my enthusiasm to a slow jogger’s high.

Gave ‘em a big smilin’ thumbs-up.

You should’ve seen their faces alight.

“Yours too!” the big fella said, gesturing towards my formidable headwear.

“These are my people,” I thought to myself as I turned back around.

Unironically, I might add.

Next lap around the big fella calls after me, “Hey, I like yours … where’d you get it? ”

I turned around and walked backwards so I could face them.

Me: My son got it for me. Not sure where.

He: The brim looks sturdy.

I cannot overstate how delighted I was to be having this conversation.

Me: Indeed it is!

He: Repels UV light, I assume?

Me: Not totally sure, but I assume so?

He: You know, skin cancer’s the most common form of cancer.

Me: I didn’t know that!

Told him of my inheritance from my father.

“These people get me,” I thought to myself as I turned back around.

Next lap I told ‘em that I was inspired by their example.

Meant it, too.

The lady said, “Oh, we’re just walking … while you’re zooming around.”

Zooming’s a relative concept, trust me.

I turned around and walked backwards again.

“The reason I do this is in hopes that someday I’ll live to be as wise as you … and still walking outside on a beautiful day like this.”

You should’ve seen their faces alight.

Yep, my people.

I would’ve tipped my hat to ’em, but it was cinched pretty tight … manly bonnet style.

Gets windy over there sometimes.

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Righteous riffs

The ‘Emma 2’ ….

Paused at the coffee shop before work for a to-go cortado to shim my Thursday. 

“Pete,” Morgan greeted me when I walked in. 

Her expression seemed sombre, but that could’ve just been a pre-cortado take. 

“I have to give you something,” she said. 

Hands me a hand-written note. 

“Dearest Pete …” it began. 

__

Couple years ago I got the best birthday card from my daughter. 

She would’ve made a good cave painter. 

Her accompanying talk track illuminated the epic tale of her seeking counsel from Liam the Wise (whose official title is ‘barrista,’ but in this saga let’s call him “the Oracle”) on what all is involved in getting one’s mug hung on the wall behind the coffee shop’s counter. 

Liam not only offered his wise counsel, but mapped directions to the precise mountain where the monks live who, for hundreds of years, have been humbly practicing their glass making craft of the perfect cortado vessel. 

By which I mean he pointed her to a website. 

Upon procurement of the mug, he told her that I need only bring it in and they would take it from there.

In Emma’s card I knew that I might just be holding the best birthday present I would ever receive.

By which I mean the card, and the heart that made it. 

Ever since, when I walk in and see my mug hanging on the wall where I go to write my weekend medicine, I feel a tinge of what I imagine honored athletes feel seeing their jersey hung in the rafters of where they have done their best work. 

__

“My Dearest Pete …,”

The note Morgan handed to me was from Emma. Not my Emma, but Emma who works at the coffee shop. She started while she was still in high school and still works weekends while going to the local college. 

“It breaks my heart to inform you that I accidentally dropped your mug and broke it ….” 

“I need a minute,” I told Morgan, and took a few steps back to read the rest, in which Emma profusely apologized, begged forgiveness and even offered to pay for a replacement. 

She signed her note, “You’re most loyal and sorrowful barista, Emma.”

Which had me smiling by the time I looked up … appreciating that my Thursday morning had just found its shim.

By which I mean the note, and the heart that made it. 

 “She’s so upset,” Morgan said.

I asked when Emma worked next. 

“Saturday,” Morgan said.

__

Saturday morning I made sure to arrive when the coffee shop opened at 8:30. 

Emma was at the register, Liam at the espresso machine. 

“I’m so sorry … I’ll buy you a new one,” Emma said as soon as she saw me. 

I just shook my head.

“At least let me buy you your cortado.” 

As Liam went to fire up the espresso machine, I stopped him. 

And handed Emma a note.

__

“My dearest Emma, 

You must know that there are few things in this world that I appreciate more than a hand-written note. 

Reading yours brought a spark of joy to my Thursday. 

If my beloved mug had to meet an untimely demise, I am grateful that it was at the hands of one who poured so many hearts into it.

You will not only appreciate that it was Liam who consulted with my daughter (whose name is also Emma) on the exact mug to buy me for my birthday two years ago (which will forever be my favorite birthday present ever), but that, when she did so, it came in a set of two.

So I commission the enclosed to your care … on one condition. 

That you pour the first heart into it.”

She looked up from my note smiling the way her note made me smile. 

“I always carry a spare,” I said, handing over the ‘Emma 2’ … for official christening. 

She asked Liam if they could switch places. 

“Only fitting,” he said. 

“I don’t know,” Emma said sheepishly. “My latte art has been a little shaky … I’m out of practice,” she said. 

“I know you have it inside you … and I mean that sincerely,” said Liam the Wise. 

Told ya’ he’s the Oracle. 

She took her time and filled it above the rim, trusting in the properties of surface tension and gravity to do their good jobs … so she could do hers. 

It’s always magic to me how the molecules grab on to one another, and keep each other from flowing away and spilling.

I like how they are forgiving that way.

How the universe allows our fragile cups to be filled beyond their measure.  

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Postcards

Small Things ….

Paused for a coffee on my way to a morning medical appointment. 

Got in line behind a guy in the middle of picking out a bunch of stuff. 

“Gimme a couple of those, and one of those,” he said, pointing at the pile of yesterday’s pepperoni rolls they keep on the counter, and the breakfast burritos warming in a case next to the register. 

Looked to me like he was being spontaneously thoughtful. Like it had just occurred to him to pick up some goodies to surprise whoever his peeps were.

I’m a sucker for spontaneous thoughtfulness. 

After confirming that he meant ‘two’ for ‘a couple,’ the young person behind the counter reached for the pepperoni rolls.

After she picked one up, I heard her say softly to herself, “Oh, that one’s small,” then watched as she put the pepperoni roll she had in her hand back … and pull another out from the bottom of the pile.

The guy didn’t see her do it. 

Had already skooched to the side to wait for his stuff.

Struck me as both the smallest thing and the biggest thing.  

When it was my turn in line, I told her I appreciated how she put the small one back. 

She smiled. 

“Yeah, I can’t help it,” she said. “I always think about what I’d want, you know?”

I wanted so much to say, “Me too!” 

Because that’s how I think about things … though I don’t sell yesterday’s pepperoni rolls for a living.  

“Even when I pick something out of the case, I try and look for the ‘good’ ones,” she added.

What I loved about how she put it is that I knew exactly what she meant, without having any idea exactly what she meant.

Just that it had nothing to do with whether anybody else noticed.

I don’t know why something so small that wasn’t meant to be seen moved me so much. 

I mean … if they keep sellin’ like yesterday’s hot cakes, somebody might eventually get the pepperoni runt, … so does it even matter? 

I dunno. 

Maybe because it’s been my experience that how you do the small things is how you do the big things. 

Or maybe I just need reminded sometimes that there are others out there trying to look for the good ones, too. 

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Postcards

Thinking of Timothy ….

Ran into a friend at the coffee shop a couple weeks ago. 

At the end of our brief chat, he invited me to a men’s Bible study he leads on Sunday mornings. 

Said they’d be starting Second Timothy first of the month.

Even though it’s been awhile since I stepped foot in church, I said yes. 

My friend is good light.

So, this morning I found myself gathered around a table with seven other guys. 

My friend began by giving some context around Paul’s second letter to his friend Timothy.

Asked if we had any questions before diving us deeper. 

I had one. 

I asked if it was known whether Paul had any specific expectation, when writing to his friend, that Timothy might share the letter? 

Or, did Paul intended his letter ‘only’ for Timothy? 

My friend said he didn’t really know. Asked the rest of the group. 

They weren’t sure, either. 

Wow, I said out loud. 

Suddenly found myself deeply moved. 

By the humble act of a person who knew they didn’t have much time left, writing a letter of encouragement — from prison, no less — to someone he loved dearly.

No expectations of shares or likes.

Pretty remarkable when you think about it, I said aloud. 

Which part, specifically? A voice at the table asked.  

I mean … the fact of us reading a letter from almost two thousand years ago … written halfway across the world from the church basement where we were gathering … that was aimed at encouraging a single person. 

Just, you know, the miracle of that. 

Prompted the person to my right to mention that recently he helped get a car started over at the local college for a student who had broken down. Said that afterwards, she sent him just the most wonderful letter. How it moved him so much that he took a photo of the card to share it with some folks he knew. 

He quoted a couple lines from it that were still on his heart, so that it could be on our hearts, too.

I told him that he made me grateful I asked the question … for the gift of him sharing the story of his letter.

Ten minutes into a Bible study about a book we hadn’t even cracked open yet … and already a sermon on the power of encouraging one another in trying times.

Anemochory. 

That’s what nature calls it. 

The dispersal of seeds by the wind.

“For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God.” 

That’s what Paul calls it. 

“We can’t change anything, but we can influence everything.”

That’s what the social scientist Robert Cialdini calls it. 

Paul could not change the circumstances of his imprisonment. Of his impending death. 

But he could send a letter encouraging his friend.

Regardless of our circumstances, we have agency over how we respond. 

Of the energy we put into the world. 

Paul’s letter to Timothy encourages us — to remember that encouragement is always an option.

Sitting around a table in a church basement grateful for asking questions, I am reminded that by encouraging one, others might be encouraged, too. 

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