Witnessing History: The American Spirit

Tonight we witnessed history. The tweets and Internet updates all day seemed so surreal. The images on the television screen seemed like a movie. Perhaps more than any other moment in my lifetime, I felt like I was watching history unfold.

As we all posted messages on social media and read messages others posted, as we all watched the same live coverage, as we all prayed that this horrifying week would have a triumphant end, we shared a common bond. A bond as Americans, united in our belief that good will always triumph over evil.

In an era where it’s very easy to become cynical about our government and our leaders, tonight I felt so proud to be an American. The spontaneous gathering of residents in Watertown, Mass. to cheer the law enforcement officials who had risked their lives truly embodied the spirit of America. It is a spirit that cannot be crushed by the kind of cowardly hatred that touched down in Boston earlier this week.

That same spirit of teamwork and unity must remain so that the five casualties did not die in vain. The law enforcement and the people of Boston truly honored the victims, both dead and wounded, with their rallying spirit. May we all continue to spread that spirit.

God Bless Boston! God bless our law enforcement! Prayers to all those killed and injured! God Bless America!

Nothing can Stop us from Running

Running has provided some of the most memorable moments of my life, some shared with the revelry of loved ones and thousands of fellow runners, others spent in the quiet solitude of early morning roads.

There is nothing quite like the excitement of a race day. The streets filled with tens of thousands of runners, all with different stories, but all the same in one way. In many ways, race day represents the best of humanity: sacrifice, dedication, courage.

Running for me is the memory of the 2001 Baltimore Marathon. After etching JVM on my sneakers in memory of my best friend’s dad who had been killed six weeks earlier in the attack on the World Trade Center, I set out on the streets with thousands of other runners. My favorite memory from that day is of my dad scurrying around the city to meet me at various mile markers.

The Hands-On House Half Marathon represented my best performance, finishing in an hour and 43 minutes. The competitor in me reveled in the fact that I beat all my training partners.

Then there were the two Broad Street Runs with a group of close friends. The pride I felt in 2010 after shaving five minutes off my previous year’s time is still tangible.

But the true meaning of running to me is not those moments alongside countless other runners with a numbered bib plastered to my chest. The true meaning of running is the thousands of miles I’ve logged alone along various roads, left to my own thoughts and reflections. Endless Lancaster County roads painted with perfect lush green farmland. Chilly 5 a.m. air filling my lungs. Pushing my tired legs up yet another hill even though no one was watching but me.

Yes, I get the magic of running. It has at various times in my life entertained me, bettered me, and even saved me.

And that’s why the tragedy at Monday’s Boston Marathon really hits home for me. These thousands of runners know this same gift that running provides, and they were all there to share it together, with other runners, and with their loved ones.  They were indeed all there to represent the best of humanity.

And once again, as has seemed to happen all too often lately, the best of humanity was crushed by the worst of humanity: evil, hatred, cowardice.

Yet, just as the terrorist attacks of 9/11 could not stop us from building our cities, and the various school shootings could not stop us from educating our children, this heinous act will not stop us from exhibiting the sacrifice, dedication, and courage that defines America.

Personally, I will lace up my sneakers this Saturday, I will push my two sons in a stroller as we run a 5K to honor and support a young mother suffering from cancer. With each step I take, I will remember those injured and killed this past Monday. And, in my own extremely small way, I will remind the face of evil that you can never stop us from running!

“Straight” to the Point: Missing the real Marriage Debate

“Straight” to the Point: Missing the real Marriage Debate.

“Straight” to the Point: Missing the real Marriage Debate

Recently, our country’s Supreme Court heard arguments about the hot-button topic of gay marriage, an issue that seems to divide Americans into two hostile camps.  One of the major arguments of the “Christian” anti-gay marriage viewpoint is that the purpose of  marriage is to produce and raise children.

Just yesterday, I sat down with a student of mine who has run away twice in the past month, a young girl with scars up and down her forearms, and scratches under her eye, all from the glass she slices herself with to deal with the pain. She described to me, tears welling up in her eyes, of the abuse she takes at the hands of her mom, the neglect she faces on a daily basis. She sat at a computer, searching databases in hopes of tracking down her real father whom she had not seen since she was four years old.

I tried to give her reassurance, to show her that there are adults in her life who care.

As I typed up an e-mail reporting this discussion, I couldn’t help but think of the numerous students I’ve had through the years whose parents showed the same type of neglect. The alcoholics. The physically abusive. The lazy. The apathetic. The immature. I’ve seen them all.

And it forced me to reflect on the current Gay Marriage issue in our Supreme Court. I know my church tells me that gay marriage is wrong, and I’ll be the first to admit that, though I do my best to show tolerance to everyone, I am not totally comfortable with a homosexual lifestyle. Yet, I think our culture is fighting the wrong fight. The problem is not those homosexual couples that might live as a married couple and adopt children.

The real problem in our country is the trashy, derelict, heterosexual  parents who ruin the lives of our children every day. As a father of two boys, I can safely say that parenting is the most challenging and most important job I will ever have.

The real problem in our country is that so many people enter marriage and parenthood frivolously. It is so twisted that the most important job in the world is the one that requires no qualification. Sadly, I see students in my classroom suffering everyday due to the lack of love, responsibility, maturity, and discipline they are given by their parents.

And these are the people we refer to as “straight?”

Keeping Faith as Heroes Fall

“Where have you gone, Joe Dimaggio? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you?”

I always loved this line from the classic Simon and Garfunkel song, but the meaning of those words has truly resonated with me over the past few months, as one hero after another has toppled. These heroes I looked up to provided guidelines for how I wished to live my life, and their faults and failures tear at my very core.

The recent resignation of Pope Benedict has me reflecting on how my view of Catholicism has changed over the years. As a kid, I revered the my religion: the beautiful stain glass windows and towering cathedrals, the priests who dedicated their lives to God, even the universal structure that had endured for thousands of years. I remember feeling a part of something much bigger when I witnessed Pope John Paul celebrate Mass at Camden Yards in Baltimore. Though I was far from a perfect follower of God or Catholicism as a teen and young adult, my faith remained solid, cemented by the Universal Church.

Then news of a scandal broke. Unspeakable actions by priests came to light. Worse yet, cover-ups by those in power cast a dark shadow on my church. I started to question everything. All those precepts of Catholicism that I had been taught now seemed so hollow. I even struggled to truly believe in the Eucharist, the very foundation of the Catholic Church. How could these priests, some of whom had had violated those who trusted them, some of whom who had lied, truly have the power to change bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ.

When I heard of the Pope’s resignation, I couldn’t help but wonder whether more scandals would come to light in the near future. Or perhaps Benedict had just grown weary of the bureaucracy, grown frustrated  by his inability to really exact any change in the culture of the Church.

But all this disillusionment has taught me one thing. That we simply cannot put our faith in humans because humans will inevitably let us down. I had that faith when I glanced at my yellow Livestrong bracelet that inspired me on long runs, a bracelet that embodied the fighting, selfless spirit of Lance Armstrong. Now I see cheating, arrogance, and cruelty.  I had that faith when I taught my students about Oscar Pistorius, the South African Sprinter who ran in the Olympics despite having no legs. Now I see a murderer. I had that faith in the perfect country I glorified as a kid, a country that stood for freedom, liberty the American way. Now I see a country involved in immoral wars and partisan politics, often concerned more with money and power than upholding “American” values.

I realize now that our heroes will always fail us because, like us, they are human. The whole paradox of creation is that God created us  with free will, with the ability to fail. But is this same free will that gives us the ability to love, to laugh to cry. To experience majestic mountain peaks, roaring rivers, and awe-inspiring sunsets. To be moved by the rhythm of magical music, the gentle breathing of a baby, or a dark starry night.

So, “Where have you gone Joe Dimaggio?” Like all other heroes, he has faded away, unable, like all of us, to live up to the unattainable ideals we set. Yet even as the images of these heroes crumble, we can keep faith in that one constant that does not change: that life has meaning, and that Our Creator, even amidst all the chaos and shaken faith, has a purposeful plan for each of us.

 

 

The Great Mouse Trap

It all started innocently enough. On a Wednesday morning, Michelle saw a furry little creature scurrying along the baseboards in our kitchen. Before heading out to work, I dutifully put some peanut butter in a couple mouse traps and placed them strategically in the laundry room and kitchen.

I returned home that evening figuring I would find a mouse that I would get rid of before Michelle could even get home. Boy was I wrong!

That evening before bed, we saw the mouse scurrying through our sons’ playroom. After putting the boys to bed, I set out the traps again confident that this mouse would soon be exterminated. But this mouse had other ideas.

Thursday morning came, and the real fun began. As we are all about to head out the door to our jobs and daycare, Michelle screams “it just ran into your workbag.” I’m tempted to pull a Clark Griswold and grab a hammer to crush this little vermin right then and there. The realization that a $1500 dollar laptop also sits in my bag ends this masterful plan. So I grab my bag, but there’s no sign of the little mouse, whom Michelle has now named Wily. Again, I put out the Mouse trap, but again, I return home to an empty trap. That night, Thursday, I see the mouse darting across the playroom right under our television stand. “I’ve got him,” I think to myself. I place a mouse trap right at the base of the TV stand, the Peanut Butter oozing out a pungent temptation. The next thing I know, that mouse pokes his head out, sniffs around the mouse trap, and…retreats back to his hiding place under the TV. He repeats this sniffing routine a few more times before scurrying away for the night.

Friday brought much of the same. As I get ready to leave for work, he scampers out into the open and quickly darts into the kitchen. Suddenly, he runs under the stove. I wait patiently for him to show his face again as I slide a mouse trap right under the stove. Seconds later, he appears, and glares at me. “This damn mouse is taunting me,” I mutter to myself. I want to stay and battle, but work is calling.

This white whale of a mouse continued to haunt me  throughout the day, flashing its little mouse eyes in my mind all day long.

I awoke Saturday morning determined to end this standoff once and for all. While feeding Andrew, our eight-month old, the beast appears, poking his head out from under the stove. Now, he’s mine! I approach slowly, and plant two traps around the base of the stove. I watch closely as the little vermin inches closer to the trap, and begins licking the peanut butter.

“Finally! I’ve got him.” Even little Andrew can sense the triumph I am about to achieve as he smiles and giggles repeatedly (although the cereal being stuffed into his mouth might have something to do with this).

Then, suddenly, the mouse leaps on top of the trap, but the trap does not snap. I can’t believe what I am watching. As I approach, the mouse leaps down and scurries under the dishwasher. I decide to try chicken bread crumbs in the trap next, as suggested by a friend of mine. But the mouse does not appear out from under the dishwasher for a few minutes.

Desperate, I grab a box and place it at the base of the dishwasher. When the mouse appears again, I quickly flip the box, hoping to capture the mouse inside. Alas, the slippery little devil eluded my trap.

He further rubs it in my face as he prances back over to trap, and leaps atop it once again. At this point, I look down at the box, and back at the mouse. I channel my inner-Clark Griswald, reflecting on his classic plan for capturing a squirrel.

I pick up the box, and creep around the island in the center of our kitchen.

I stand only a foot from the trap with my mortal enemy atop. I hoist the box atop my head and slam it down with all the force I can muster right onto the trap. When I kick the box aside, there lies my mouse, snapped inside the trap.

Victory has been achieved. I stand triumphant, but a tinge of sadness overcomes me. My worthy adversary is no more, but I appreciate the fight.

I now how Captain Ahab felt. My white whale had been defeated.

“Sleep in Heavenly Peace:” A Reflection on An Unspeakable Tragedy

“Sleep in Heavenly Peace:” A Reflection on An Unspeakable Tragedy.