Confessions of an 8 Year Old Bandit

I got my start in business at a very early age; actual business and funny business. In the summer of 1966, I was the assistant-cashier-shelf stocker-sawdust spreader-feather duster-inventory control manager-and general side kick to my grandpa Oliver, at his corner grocery store in Ottumwa, Iowa. We were inseparable that summer. We enjoyed drinking “pops,” and eating liver cheese sandwiches on dark bread (unfortunately I discovered what liver cheese was made of a few years later… ugh!)

I ruled the roost of that little store from my Bob Cratchit-like perch behind the front counter.  I sat regally along side the wood cased cash register; behind me was a wall of candy, gum, pills, tonics, pipe tobaccos, and cigarettes…I developed a pretty bad “cigarette gum” habit that summer. After a few weeks on the job I had noticed a shiny pearl handled silver six shooter with a brown leather-like holster temptingly hanging on the toy rack right next to the bright red Coca Cola ice-box.  All day long the drink box hummed away, full of swirling icy water, and “pops.” Since I was the beverage inventory control manager as well, each time I replenished the stock, the pistol called out my name.

After just a few days of fantasizing about joining up with the Lone Ranger or Marshall Matt Dillon, I made the bold decision to simply take the gun and holster for my own. I didn’t want to go to the trouble of asking my grandfather for it. I was too proud to ask. So I simply walked over one afternoon while no one was looking, and I ripped it off the toy rack.  I then made tracks to the only place I could think of to enjoy it -my grandparent’s basement in their house right next door to the store.

There in the dark, cool, quiet confines of my grandparent’s cellar, I tore open the plastic packaging and I savored the cold steel of the prized pearl handled six shooter in my greedy little hands. I strapped on the vinyl brown holster belt and began gunning down bad guys and bringing justice to the Old West.
However, after a while of blissful pretend playing, I realized I had a problem. I couldn’t take the gun out into the world and show it to anyone, after all, it was stolen property. I was pretty much confined to the basement, to clean up the Old West. And then it hit me: regret. I regretted taking the gun and holster, because I couldn’t really do anything with it, except play in the basement, and what was so fun about that? But even more than that, a worse feeling settled in. I regretted stealing from my grandfather.

He probably knew the minute I did it. Surely he noticed the guilt in my quiet, standoffish demeanor for the next few days, but he never said a word about it. I think we must have established an uncomfortable, but mutual understanding for those few days.  I took something I shouldn’t have, and he knew it. But, he was going to patiently let me sort it out. So, on the third day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I finally broke down.

“Grandpa, I took a toy gun from the store, …and I’m sorry” I told him with my eyes firmly focused on the ground. My quavering voice squeaked out the …and I’m sorry.  And then I just cried, and cried and cried. He leaned down and reached out and brought me to him; he hugged me and maybe laughed just a bit as my tears trickled into the white apron he always wore in the store. He held me long enough to let the warm embrace and the tears soak in.

“Timmy,” he said, “all you had to do was ask me and I’d have given it to you. Anything in this store you could have -all you have to do is ask.” That made me cry all the more. But as I felt his large hands embracing me around my trembling shoulders, pulling me in tighter, I knew at that moment we were back to being partners. I knew our bond was put back together.

For me, so many years later, this is my experience with the sacrament of reconciliation. When I sin, I realize the sin isn’t as shiny, or attractive as I thought it would be, but instead it has put me in a cold dark lonely place.  It does no good to pile a guilt trip on myself and simply acknowledge personally it was wrong. When I sin, and when I acknowledge that is an offense against God, I have to go to God, and I have to say the words: this what I’ve done, and I’m sorry. For me, in that exchange there’s heavenly grace; it’s nothing less than a miracle that comes from this sacrament.

Today, I see myself as my grandpa Oliver. I think of the bonds and the relationships with my children, and now my own grandchild.   I believe this is a glimpse into the way God sees us as his children. And I think of that re-bonding I did with my grandfather so many years ago. What a miracle it is that I get to re-bond in a similar way with God in the sacrament of reconciliation.  When that happens, my inner spiritual tears of joy flow just as freely as they did, down my freckled little cheeks on that Iowa summer day so many years ago.

Stay Here and Watch With Me

In your relationships, have you ever been in attendance, but not really present; or have you ever wondered why a close friend suddenly becomes distant and out of reach? Have you ever been frustrated by the thought -hey, I’m doing all the heavy lifting here…how about some help?

I am reminded by my friendships that it takes two full participants to make a true relationship. It’s the same with my relationship with God. I need to remember that God is always knocking at my door. To be in proper relationship with him, I need to be present, not just in attendance, at the door; and I need to be watching with the eyes of faith. I need to be prepared to answer at whatever door or form he reveals himself to me.

Some years ago I recall I was regularly in attendance but not present with God. I remember over twenty years ago, our first Sunday at our new church; I quietly surveyed the large congregation, and I zeroed in on our “new” pew. I led the family to the vacant 3rd pew from the back of the church. I did this quickly to head off my wife’s preference for sitting at or near the front of the church. At this point of my spiritual life, I was an attend-at-the-back-of-the-church, preferably under-an-hour-Mass, kind of guy.
I wanted to worship at the altar of parish anonymity. From our new pew, staring at the backs of the heads of nearly 700 total strangers this fit the bill perfectly. Sitting up front, someone might notice us, and invite us for coffee and donuts, or ask us to join some committee or club. No sir, not me. I’m just here for my Sunday hour obligation.  It’s funny how God can have other ideas.

We settled into our new pew, about a mile and a half from the altar. My wife started to cool down from my insistence we sit so far away. I heard the choir start to tune up, the candles were lit, and I sat back for a nice hour (with luck…) of random thoughts about the upcoming week’s activities, a game on TV later on that day, where we’d eat lunch, etc. As I drifted off into my pre-Mass thoughts, I felt a firm tap on my shoulder.

“Would you and your family like to bring up the gifts today,” a friendly older usher asked? His kindly face smiled. However, his big farmer-sized hand remained solidly on my shoulder waiting on an answer.

I am hard headed. I admit that. And in that hard-headedness, I refused to respond to God’s call that Sunday morning. Oh, we did take up the gifts, I didn’t want to mess with that usher, but right after the recessional hymn I hurried our family out of the church; and then I barely did more than fulfill my minimum religious obligations …for the next six years!

In the Gospel Jesus tells me: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives; and the one who seeks, finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.” (Matthew 7:7-8)

So how does this work? It’s mysterious and all that, but on the one hand, I’m surfing along the outer margins of any kind of spiritual life, and God -through that usher, taps me on the shoulder, knocks on my door. But I don’t answer; I’m spiritually AWOL. And then there are times, when I’m knocking, knocking, knocking on God’s door, but no one seems to be at home? It can be very frustrating. God must have the same thought over the years about me.

This reminds me of an essential piece of good relationships: patience. God called me. I wasn’t ready and so he waited. He quietly, but persistently hung around, just like a good friend would do. And then, I need to be patient too. When I can’t find God in my life, maybe I should take a break from knocking down doors where I think he is, and just sit in his quiet for a while, and listen. Maybe then I can hear his tap at a door I wasn’t even watching before.

As you search for God, keep in mind, he is always reaching out to you too. But if your search is isn’t producing fruit, ask yourself: do I have my eyes focused on something else, or on one particular door -the one door I’ve chosen; am I being patient enough to allow God to speak to me?

Good friends always know how to find each other. With God, sometimes that means being present at all the doors of your spiritual home, fully present, with patience.

Born Again, Catholic

Here in the “buckle of the Bible-belt,” we hear a lot about born-again experiences. Well, in 1996 I had a born-again-Catholic experience.

I was born and raised Catholic by two amazing, faithful, Catholic parents who dearly loved the Faith. They practiced what they preached, in love and charity. All through my life, I lived as a Catholic, however with varying degrees of devotion and spiritual intimacy.  There were many times of my life I was just going through the motions, as if the Faith were a club to belong to with a checklist of rules and regulations to follow -like going to Mass as an hour obligation to check off the list of weekly things to do.

So, fast forward to my early 30’s; I am confronted with 3 major challenges. My wife had been dealing with multiple sclerosis for two especially difficult years. My father was diagnosed with cancer. I was trying to decide if I should leave my job and start a new business. In the midst of this turmoil, I felt a longing for something more. I’m sure at some level I was seeking peace, but I also felt like I needed something to fill a gap inside me -while all this crap was going on around me. About that same time, our parish welcomed three new priests.

The new pastor was a youthful, energetic, great-hugging Italian, with a wonderful singing voice. One of the associate pastors was newly ordained and extremely personable. The other associate pastor looked frightened as he introduced himself from the altar that first Sunday. Father Bruce and Father David had made eloquent and humorous self-introductions, but this one … “My name is Father Ed, and I’m glad to be here,” was all he said. He then quietly stepped back to his chair. In my not-so-holy attitude at the time, I thought to myself, “Wow, this one’s going to be a gem at homilies; a real spellbinder. I need to find out when he’s scheduled so we can skip that mass and hit another.” And then I checked my watch to see how my hour obligation was coming along.

I came to learn there was however, something to Father Ed’s homilies. At first I approached them with misgivings and apathy, but something was coming through. In his simple manner; in his quiet demeanor; in his dour look, there was humor; there was warmth; there was …love. And it was penetrating the clutter of my crusted outer shell, not like a knife, but like a needle. He was needling me with the kindest, gentlest, most remarkable conveyance of the message I had ever heard. There was a lot of crust to break through, but it was working its way to my core. And Lent was approaching.
I remember going to Ash Wednesday Mass that year. It was a school mass with all the children of the parish school. As I sat in my back pew, I felt I wanted to belong. I wanted to have some of the innocence I saw in the faces of the uniformed kids that filled the church that morning. I wanted something more than I had.

The Holy Spirit whispered into my ear during that Mass to do something. I didn’t want to listen to this. I didn’t want to do this. …But, I decided to go to confession at the next opportunity.
The following Saturday afternoon, February 24th 1996, I approached the church with a sense of dread and anxiety, and yet feeling an irresistible power drawing me in. I had been reading about perfect contrition, and in order to achieve this I had to tell all. It had been more than a few years since my last confession, so I had a few things to share. Poor Father David; he got the full double barrel story. (He still speaks to me to this day, so maybe he’s heard worse…)

I walked out of that confessional, a new man. There was a peace within me like I had never felt before. I felt like I was floating into the church to say my penance. And afterwards, I floated out of the church into a completely new sunshine. I continued to float for months, years afterwards. To this day, reconciliation is still a favorite sacramental experience. I feel the special grace in the sacrament. I feel the renewal. I feel the spiritual intimacy like no other experience. That’s not a knock on beautiful sunsets, or holding my grandson, or seeing my wife laugh and smile, or even the Eucharist; it’s just very special for me.

So, it’s been 18 years. They haven’t been all floating on clouds. I’ve had my dry times, desperate times; I’ve strayed from the path. In the Gospel the father with a sick son says to Jesus, “I do believe, help my unbelief.” (Mark 9:24) That’s me, many, many days. I hope I’ve matured in my faith, and yet kept a sense of the humble, and the simple that Father Ed continues to preach today. I’m still figuring it out, and still searching. When I get frustrated I think of what Peter said to Jesus after many followers abandoned him, “Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” (John 6:68)

As we journey through Lent, if you are Catholic and haven’t been to reconciliation in a while, I encourage you to give it another try. If you aren’t Catholic and you have something that keeps you from being close to God, try giving up whatever it is for you. If you’ve hurt someone, tell them you are sorry. If you’ve been avoiding God, tell him you’re sorry, and then open up to the possibility of getting your relationship going again. If you’re searching for something, if there’s a space in you, a place that needs filling, St. Augustine said: “Thou hast made us for thyself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it finds its rest in thee."

Peace!

Friday, with Cooper

What a great afternoon, spending some time with Cooper.  See new pictures here.

It's Been a Fast Summer

With Summer unofficially winding down, I thought I'd share a few photos from 

The Summer of 2013

The "Outdoors" Pictures were taken with my 
Panasonic Lumix TS4 Camera

We began our Summer deep in the swamps

The backyard of our campground

St. Francis, watching over our own backyard

The Biggest Event of Summer 2013!

Like riding a bike, you never forget

Running over the Wolf River at Shelby Farms

Temptation on a long summer run

Yeah, we're getting along pretty good. Hope to see many summers with this guy.

Stay tuned, More to Come!

Summer Sunflowers

Each summer for the past several years, there’s been an acre or two of brilliant sunflowers on the south side of busy Walnut Grove Road, at Shelby Farms Park. This thick patch of golden faces surrounded with dazzling bright yellow sunbeams, follow the warm sunlight as it passes overhead, from east to west.  The flowers seem to greet those commuters headed west in the morning on their way to work; and then they turn about and again face the traffic headed eastward towards home. For those who are paying attention, it’s a wonderful greeting to the new day, and a have a safe trip home nod from Mother Nature.   

Last summer I thought, I’ve got to get out there and take some pictures of those flowers.  But, by the time I got around to doing it, sometime in September they were done for the year. They were colorless, and drooping to the ground, engulfed by weeds, and ignoring the passersby and the sun altogether.  I made a mental note: get out there earlier next year. 

So, this is next year. However, each time I drove by the sunflowers, admiring their brilliance, I realized I had forgotten my camera, so I would think -be sure to bring your camera next time!  Well, last week, was next time. But, alas, it was again too late.  The flowers were mostly faded, wearily bent over and wilting; and the weeds were having the better of them, again.

So here it is: I’ll admit it, I’m a procrastinator.  And missing the sunflowers for two consecutive years only throws more light on my issue.  Now at my age, it seems to sting more than it used to: when one has fewer years ahead, than behind, procrastination takes on a whole new meaning. After all, at 55 I don’t think I’ll be around at 110…at least in any shape to hike around Shelby Farms taking pictures.

With that in mind, I’d like to be the voice to encourage younger people to get with it, to not waste time, to get it done.  But the truth is, getting things done, is wired within the nature of each individual person.  A procrastinator, like me, may speed things up based upon a lesson learned, or by the admonition or encouragement of someone else, but they’ll likely continue to plod along at a slower pace than the super motivated people.  And, I guess that’s okay.  I may speed up on some things I need to do, with the clock ticking as it is, but I’m just as likely to put some things on the back-burner that just don’t seem quite as important. 

At my age, I’m hoping that distinction in priorities is based on a gained wisdom. I mean, I hope I’m getting something out of living all these years, more than just thinning graying hair, wrinkles, and dark spots. I hope I’m learning what’s important, and what can wait a few days. Did I miss another chance to take pictures of the sunflowers? Yes. Will they, or I be there next year? I don’t know; but I do know, I got to hold my grandson Cooper yesterday, and we laughed and played together. I know I’m blessed with a wonderful family, from a loving wife who has been my biggest supporter and friend for over 30 years. I have amazing parents who have shown incredible faith, love, and charity to this day.  I have children, including an awesome daughter-in-law, who I couldn’t be more proud of.  And, have I mentioned Cooper…? And even on what would seem like a rather mundane level, I had a delicious breakfast this morning. On a sublime level first thing this morning, I engaged the Almighty in psalms, scripture and reflection.  My prayer time was just as fulfilling and nourishing to my spirit as the fruit, yogurt and cereal was to my stomach.  So, as far as missing those summer sunflowers, …well, beautiful autumn colors are just ahead; I’ll try to get to work, staying focused on my blessings, and I’ll also work on keeping my camera handy.

Giving from the Heart, Lessons from my Mother

My mother shared a nice story with me while we were having a visit this past week. Maybe you’ve experienced something like this: In a big-box store parking lot she was approached by a man with a hard luck story. He was asking for cash for gas, to take his wife to a doctor. The doctor’s office was 40 miles up the road, and their car was sitting on empty.   I’ve certainly had this experience myself, and at least for me, I think there’s a natural instinct is to be suspicious. I wonder why this is so.  Are we naturally wary of strangers?  Maybe it’s an ancient mechanism implanted in our DNA, from back when a stranger approaching from the horizon usually was an ominous thing.  Our instinct hears echoes of: He’s not with us. What tribe does he come from? Are there others with him? What does this mean?   But even in our contemporary times, once we’ve discounted any real bodily threat, my mind goes to: Am I being suckered here by some con artist? 

So then, it becomes a matter of judging this person by their outward appearance, and putting them in a group based on some assumptions and preconceived notions.  We can’t possibly know the story of how anyone gets put out on the streets, unless we get to know them.  If we do have a defense mechanism written in our DNA, we also have a brain to overcome the initial instinct, and stop to listen to that person’s story.  And hopefully, we have a heart also, to deal with this person with compassion.

This story brought to my mind the story of Abraham’s debate with God over the fate of the city of Sodom and Gomorrah.  God shared with Abraham his intent on destroying the city because of its great sin.  But, Abraham sees a great unfairness in destroying an entire city, if there are innocent people there as well, so he begins to discuss this with God:

Then Abraham drew near and said: “Will you really sweep away the righteous with the wicked? Suppose there were fifty righteous people in the city: would you really sweep away and not spare the place for the sake of fifty righteous people within it?”

                                                                                       Genesis 18: 23-24

 And so begins Abraham’s debate with the angels of God.  It’s incredibly presumptuous of Abraham to barter with God in this exchange.  He speaks up for the innocent of Sodom and Gomorrah no less than six times, getting God to agree not to destroy the city if but 10 righteous people can be found.  Unfortunately for Sodom and Gomorrah, even this tiny fragment of their city could not be identified, and so the city and all her residents were destroyed.  But the point here is, God was willing to spare the city of thousands of people, if but 10 good folks could be found. 

What a generous and loving God we have. He was willing to overlook a massive group of the guilty, so as not to inflict death and destruction on the tiny fraction of innocent people.   Maybe that’s a mindset that can help us when we think of the poor and the homeless. 

I loved my mom’s response to the man who approached her for help in the parking lot.  She gave him some cash, with this thought: if you are truly needy, I do hope this helps. If you are just scamming me, well…that’s something you’ll have to live with –that’s on you.  In other words, either way, I’m not judging you, or your situation.  I offer my assistance with no strings attached, and I wish you well.  Her gift became a gift from her heart.  With her final words, she cut loose the strings, and left the matter between the man and God. There was no need to judge at that point; she placed the matter, the cash, and her good will, in God’s hands.  Thanks mom, for continuing to teach us lessons, as the loving mother you are.

Lessons from Cooper...Already

Lessons from Cooper...Already

Our first grandchild, Cooper was born 3 months ago, and I find it interesting the lessons I’m learning from him, already.  We kept him overnight for the first time this past weekend.  It was wonderful to watch his energy and to see him squirm and wiggle, his body constantly moving as if trying to break free and escape his current state of helplessness.  When he’s with us, his bright blue eyes constantly scan around the room, searching and exploring, it seems.  He appears to be in total wonderment.  Sometimes he settles his gaze into my face, or more likely my wife Bonnie who lovingly holds him for hours and hours on end.  As she rocks him in her arms, she constantly sings him silly songs, or gently calls his name, “Coooooper…I lovvvvvve you;” then he’ll focus on her for just a moment and then he smiles, nearly laughing, all the while continuing to flay his hands in the air, and kicking his feet out every which way. For that brief moment, he seems to acknowledge this love being offered to him.  He seems grateful, and maybe even a little amused, but then it’s off to other things like the ceiling fan, the television, or a spot in the corner…a friend of ours claims that corner is where his Guardian Angel is hovering about, keeping another pair of eyes on him.

This got me wondering: what is he thinking?  So, I did a Google search: “What do 3 month old babies think?”  And of course, no one knows for sure, but some of the sites that made the most sense to me indicated that the ever-developing babies’ brains are basically checking out this incredible new world, with limited capacity and experience, to process it all.  It’s obviously a dramatically different world from the one they came from in their mother’s womb, just a few short months back.

So, it seems to me, it would be kind of like taking a very young child, maybe 3 to 4 years old, from an ancient time, say thousands of years B.C. and plopping them into a modern suburban home.  What would such a child think of something so basic as 4 walls and a ceiling; bright lights from lamps; running water, electricity, TV’s, …this list is exhausting as you can imagine,  just as exhausted as would be the time traveling child’s mind trying to process all of these strange images and devices.  So, I think of Cooper’s journey, from the comfort of mom’s belly, into a strange new world in which we all find so familiar.

Jesus tells us that Heaven is beyond our imagination.  But, he also told folks, they were close to it as well.  One of my favorite images of Heaven is comparing it to a baby in the womb. Just like Cooper in his mother’s womb, there was a whole world outside of that place, with totally different sights, and sounds.  And yet, that world was close enough to almost touch it.  Sounds traveled from that outside world into the womb -Cooper heard sounds and voices of mom and dad, coming from somewhere.   

When Cooper was born, what a shock that must have been!  That warm, dark, intimate, quiet place was gone; out into a foreign world, with bright lights, cold hard surfaces, and strange-beings, poking and prodding! Put me back, he seemed to be screaming! But of course he couldn't be put back.  He had entered a whole new and wonderful world.  With loving parents, friends and family, he will come to know love and be loved. It’s a different world, unimaginable from inside the womb; unimaginable even as these three months have passed by.

I like to think of present-life like being in the womb of Heaven, or maybe even in God’s womb.  There are many things that my mind cannot completely comprehend. I hear whispers from God, and I see glimpses of God. I feel God’s presence in nature, in music, in love of family, friends, and even kind strangers.  This makes me feel Heaven is so close, I can almost touch it.  And if I consider the nearly infinite vastness of space surrounding our universe, the light years of distance between the known and the unknown, God must be in an adjacent world, right here in front of me, or Heaven must be really far away. But, it doesn't feel that distant.  God is too intimate for that.  

So, Cooper has reminded me, it’s up to me, to be as aware as I can, with my limited understanding of my place in God’s world, with my limited ability to understand God speaking to me, to trust, even though my mind wanders, my hands and feet are flaying, and I sometimes rebel with the feelings that I must know what's going on! I don't understand! I want more control! I need to remember much like my wife softly saying to Cooper, Cooooper....I lovvvvvve you... He's gently calling my name, and telling me how much he loves me. Cooper reminds me, I need to rest in the loving arms of God, who has been holding me all along.

"Why I Run"

“Why I Run”

Even as the words rolled off my tongue, they sounded ridiculous to me.  They were in response to a question posed by my younger brother, as we relaxed on his patio deck, sipping cool libations, on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in May some years ago.  I was on the verge of my 49^th birthday, somewhat of a milestone since after that late day in May I would technically be starting my 50^th year. 

“Do you do any kind of exercising,” he asked.

And then the absurd response: “nope, I just don’t have the time,” I quipped.  I then chronicled a lame catalogue of daily activities that precluded me from finding as little as 15 to 30 minutes during a 24 hour period for any kind of physical activity.  I think he was mildly relieved, because he wasn’t doing much in the way of exercising either: really nothing more strenuous than walking to and from a golf ball from a golf cart.  And so we sat together satisfied that we both were too busy to bother with the gym, pool, road, whatever.  We sipped our cocktails and savored the hickory smoke wafting by us from the grill, where his famous loin back ribs were slowly approaching blue ribbon perfection.  I rocked back in my chair, heavier than I had ever been in my life, in fact wearing a new pair of stretch-band shorts, and an X-large flowing t-shirt.  I eagerly awaited the feast to come, but continued to laugh internally at the thought of -exercise? I just don’t have the time…

After coming to terms with the hilarity of my too busy to exercise schedule, I actually started a walking program.  And then one day while out on a brisk walk, a thunderstorm popped up.  It was either pick up the pace by running, or get wet, or worse -electrocuted.  But, I had always hated running.  It was too jarring, too painful, too much work.  But, with no great alternatives, I stepped it up to a jog, kicked it back the mile or so to my house and to my surprise it didn’t suck.  This encouraged me to try it again, and again, and again and…  In July I entered a 5K.  And then I was hooked.  The crowds, the energy, the endorphins!  A couple months later, I decided to attempt a truly heretofore absurd challenge: run a ½ Marathon.  I chose the St. Jude Memphis ½ Marathon in December because, well it was local.

So, did hitting  the road mean shedding hundreds of pounds, running the Boston Marathon, becoming a perennial contender in my age-group in 10K’s, ½ Marathons, Marathons, Ultra’s, etc.?  No, not exactly.  I did lose about 20 lbs. and 5+ years later I’m still on the road; but if I were to compare my running to golf, -as a runner I can’t break 100.  It takes me 30 minutes to run a 5K and two and a half hours to run a ½ Marathon, but I love it. It reminds me of my father’s love affair with golf.   He was a very good athlete, a pro baseball prospect in fact, but one of the most challenged golfers I’ve ever played with; it didn’t seem to matter how much he worked at it, no matter how many lessons, books read, range balls hit.  Some of his shots would be Youtube sensations today, if only we could’ve filmed those errant shots some 40 years ago.  But, he absolutely loved it.  I get that now.

I still remember that chilly December Saturday morning, nervously filing into my corral, -about 10 miles from the starting line it seemed, and I noticing these folks around me wearing maroon Heroes singlets over their shirts and jackets, and I wondered, what’s up with that?  I discovered they were St. Jude Heroes, and they seemed to get more than their fair share of attention from the crowds as we made our way through the cheering streets of Memphis.  What exactly is a St. Jude Hero I wondered?  A few days after I finished the run (yes I did finish…Goal one of my first ½ Marathon –check!) I looked into the St. Jude Heroes program and decided, next year! I’m going to run the race as a St. Jude Hero. 

I did stick with running through the next year, and I did run the race as a St. Jude hero.  And I’ve run as a St. Jude Hero each year since and each time it enriches me.  Yes me.  I raise funds for the hospital, and that enriches me.  I, as Danny Thomas often referred to himself, am a proud beggar when it comes to this place.  I have never felt bad about asking for a donation, and I am always profoundly touched when someone takes the time to make a contribution.  In this endeavor I am continually amazed by the generosity of the human spirit when someone donates money, time, prayers, themselves to help complete strangers, to give these kids and families the one thing they have clearly run out of when they walk into that lobby of St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital: Hope.

Last year the highlight of my race weekend was the Heroes Pasta Party on the Friday night before the race.  There were 100’s of other Heroes, their friends and family members. The food was amazing; the feeling of the room was electric.  I especially enjoyed sharing a meal and table with our Danny’s Dreamers Heroes team –a first time as a team effort, and members of the Heroes Team support staff from St. Jude who were in contact with Heroes throughout the year. 

That evening a patient’s family from St. Jude told their story: a young girl had given bone marrow to her younger brother a few years earlier.  Triumphantly they both stood with mom and dad, healthy and beaming from the stage, telling their story to a teary eyed group who had just helped in raising $4 million for the hospital.  The young sister had personally raised over $40,000 as a St. Jude Hero.  What can you say to a 12 year old girl who gives her bone marrow to her kid brother and raises that kind of money?  Thank you? Can I have your autograph?  Hand me a tissue, please?

In today’s world we think of great visionary’s like Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Mark Zuckerburg, -you can fill in the blank with your own world changer.  I think of those men as engineers of enhancements for the individual.  The personal computer; the Iphone, Facebook…  But, how about a man over 50 years ago, while on his knees in prayer, nearly broke, was thinking of a world where children with catastrophic illnesses are treated without regard to race, creed, or financial status; where these children are not only treated and cared for with love and compassion, but the causes of the diseases are researched as well, and thus more effective treatments are developed to ensure future generations won’t have to suffer the same indignities.  And then, those groundbreaking treatments and discoveries are freely shared with doctors and hospitals all over the world.  No child or family pays for treatment at St. Jude.  Lodging and transportation are provided for those traveling from out of the area.  Protocols and discoveries are shared freely to help children all over the world.  How does that sound as a business model?  The thing is, it’s a human model, for all of humanity.  It’s a $1.8 million a day operation funded by the ground up by thousands of events, millions of people, $10, $20, $50, $100 at a time.  It’s a reflection of what’s best about the human race –the collective spirit of giving and sacrifice of self, for total strangers in need.

One of the things St. Jude is most famous for is that no child is ever turned away because of an inability to pay.  But, what does that mean?  I heard a story of a family from Minnesota who was told they needed to take their 11 year old son to St. Jude in Memphis, TN.  “Today,” if possible they were told.  So they rushed home in a blur, packed up suitcases then headed to the bank to make transfers, withdrawals, and such with their meager funds, thinking the worst about what something like this was going to cost, yet willing to spend it all and more to save their child’s life.  When they arrived at St. Jude they were astonished that no one asked them for any money.  Not one penny for co-pays, or deposits, or “extras.”  St. Jude figures cancer is enough to worry about, let’s take the financial burden off of these families.  And that is a life-time commitment. A family can literally arrive at St. Jude with a desperately sick child, receive millions of dollars worth of care and treatment, and never spend one single penny. That’s a healthcare plan I want to be part of.

And how are the families treated at St. Jude?  Of course the kids are given the best care and treatment available…but what about the families?  One family came to St. Jude but unfortunately, their child didn’t make it.  He earned his Angel’s Wings, as it is known when a child passes.  St. Jude is working towards 100% cure rates, but they’re not there just yet. The child had a form of cancer that the symptoms of last days are particularly difficult.  When the parents returned home and were visiting with the parents’ of another child, who had suffered the same type of cancer but was treated at another hospital, the other family lamented: “those last days were so terrible.  “We can’t get that image out of our minds… the blood oozing from her eyes, and ears.  Wasn’t that the worst,” they asked?  The St. Jude family was puzzled because they hadn’t witnessed anything like that at all.  They contacted St. Jude to inquire about it, and they were told that their child had been given a drug that alleviated those symptoms.   Their child was kept comfortable and pain free in his last hours, but these parents were spared the last memory of their child with this horrific scene.   That drug treatment alone costs thousands of dollars, and had no direct effect on the child’s care; but it did allow his parents’ to not have to go through excruciating suffering watching their child die in such a heartbreaking  condition.

When Danny Thomas was first putting together his idea of a hospital helping children, he was advised to include the work of research.  They reasoned it was not enough to just care and treat these diseases; they wanted to also help find out what caused them, and ultimately how to prevent them.  That’s why it’s named St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital.  In the 50 years that St. Jude has been around, some childhood cancer rates have improved from a 4% survival rate to over 90% survival.  Imagine in 1962 100 children with cancer standing in front of you and only 4 would survive.  And today, 90 of those children are surviving, and thriving.

In one of its largest and most ambitious undertakings,  millions of dollars are being utilized to try and unlock the mystery of why some genes have hooks and crooks gone awry that cause some childhood cancers.  In concert with Washington University in St. Louis, researchers are working on the Pediatric Cancer Genome Project.  

“Launched in early 2010, the Pediatric Cancer Genome Project is the world's largest effort and investment to date to understand the genetic origins of childhood cancers. The three-year project will cost an estimated $65 million. St.Jude is covering $55 million of the cost, including a $20 million commitment from Kay Jewelers, a long-standing partner of St. Jude. This is the first major privately funded human genome sequencing project to share its data as soon as it becomes available. To date, this type of open access has largely been restricted to government-funded efforts. Non-government efforts are typically treated as proprietary.”  

With most childhood cancers, the best chances of survival are based on early detection and treatment.  The Pediatric Genome Project offers a real possibility that someday a child still in the mother’s womb could be diagnosed and treated.  That child could be born without the ticking time bomb of cancer that may show up as a tumor or a blood disease some 10 or 11 years later and would require much more difficult treatments or even loss of life.  Now that’s a miracle!

So, why do I run?  I run for health, for the endorphins, for camaraderie, but most of all I run for the kids at St. Jude.  For me it’s a year round endeavor.  I sign up in May, and ask my family to donate to my Heroes fund in lieu of birthday gifts.  I train through the hot summer months, but during those runs I’m running for the kids too. I blather on and on about what’s happening at St. Jude to my mostly receptive running buddies, who also run for the kids…clearly, how could they not?  I run other races throughout the year, but they are all in preparation for that first weekend in December, when I look forward to running the streets of Memphis in my Heroes singlet, having made a difference in the lives of kids and parents and families I’ll never know. 

I think running is a sport perfectly suited for the most self centered of individuals –the lone wolf.  And yet, though it may be suited for self centeredness, I don’t find that to be the case.  In my experience, from that first 5K race in July ’07 until today, I have found the running community to be welcoming and encouraging.  The elites, or top finishers in most races jog back the race route, cooling down, cheering us bringing-up-the-rear-runners.  There’s always food and fun and conversation awaiting us at the finish lines, even if it takes a while for some of us to get there.  For all the lone runs, medals, awards, and Personal Records, running is really more about community.   And so, I encourage you to join in this community mission of hope; bring a child, a family along with you on your training runs, your races throughout the year, and of course on that first Saturday in December.  Bring them along with you in spirit.  Share in their joy, their pain, their hope, kind of like your running, as you -Run for a Reason. 

(For those who have registered for the St. Jude Marathon Weekend, but haven’t signed up as a St. Jude Hero, you can still sign up to be a Hero. Just go to www.stjudeheroes.org for information.  Or you can contact a Heroes Specialist at 800-608-2936 for more information.  You can also run as a St. Jude Hero in other races around the country.  For more information on this go the same website: www.stjudeheroes.org.  St. Jude provides a personal Heroes web page, and lots of great tools to make your fundraising easy and convenient.)