#15 - The Decision (Guest Post)

by Jenny Martin

It’s late; scary late. The only people awake at this hour are criminals and new mothers.

I happen to be the latter.

My newborn drives a pretty hard bargain; if I don’t feed her she screams, so there is really no getting around my current state of wakefulness no matter how wrong it feels to function at this hour.

I’m not sure what it is about this particular time of day, but apparently the people who run television believe that 2:30 in the morning is the perfect time to sell fitness equipment and cooking utensils. I hate bad TV and infomercials are the worst, but I have to watch something to keep from falling asleep. So, I suppose ordering a new set of steak knives for just three easy payments of $19.95 is inevitable.

This isn’t the first infomercial of the night. Some supermodel/actress/dancer tried to sell me a new fitness program half an hour ago. I’m still thinking about it. Not the program; I seriously doubt her body was achieved through a unique combination of belly dancing and Chai spiced tea. No, I’m still thinking about the word fitness.

 What is fitness?

Is it being able to fit into stretchy yoga pants? Is it being able to climb my staircase without getting winded? Is it running marathons in those embarrassing little runner’s shorts? What is fitness? And why do I have to be fit? There are a lot of people who have to be fit. Peyton Manning comes to mind. I’m sure being able to throw a football without jiggling triceps is probably written into his contract somewhere. Kelly Ripa looks pretty buff. Heck, even Superman needs to rock a nice pair tights, but me? Why does it matter if I’m fit? Does God really care?

I mean He’s got a lot going on; God- not Superman (well maybe Superman, but that's not the point). Off the top of my head, I’m pretty sure world peace occupies most of God’s time and I’d like to think he’s working on America’s national debt in some way, so what does it matter if a married mother of two can’t get physically fit?

Oh, right. He’s God-he cares.

He cares about it because deep down I care about it. I care about more than I want to admit. I care about it even when I tell people I don’t care about it. I care about it every time my diet fails. I care about it when I don’t have the energy to play with my toddler. I care about it every morning I get dressed and nothing fits. I care about it when my doctor tells me I have high cholesterol and am headed toward type II diabetes.

I care, but I wish I didn’t.

Because if I didn’t care then I could go on being fat without thinking about how my weight affects the people around me. But it does affect them and that changes things.

 Change.

I have to change. I have to fix what is wrong about my health and that means work. Hard work, if I remember correctly. I used to be fit. Once upon a time I was an athlete. It was in high school, but still, it counts even if there isn’t a trace of that girl left. I remember what that girl had to do every day to stay fit. I remember what she had to eat. I remember what she had to drink. I remember sweat; lots of sweat, and muscle pain, and green leafy vegetables. And when I think about all of that I get scared. I get scared because I know it is impossible for me to get back to that girl. At least it is impossible if I try doing it by myself.

However impossible it seems I must find that girl again and perhaps take her out for coffee. She and I have to get reacquainted and then we have to have a conversation with this God that cares too much about me to let me fail.

He’s been there all along prompting me about my health, waiting for me to involve him in the process, and I’ve been running. Not literally, of course, that’s part of my problem. No, I’ve been avoiding God and this conversation for a long time, and it would appear that I’m out of excuses. He’s here. Asking. Knocking.  Waiting. And I have to open the door.

#14 - 127 Hours

by James Baker

It’s not for the squeamish, but if you want to feel better about your own circumstances, go watch 127 Hours.  For those not familiar with Aron Ralston, the protagonist of the film (played by James Franco), he is the true life wild-eyed and nervy adventurer who had his arm pinned to a rock face by a dislodged boulder while climbing through Blue John Canyon, Utah in 2003.  I’ll spare you the gory details (the broad description is bad enough), but Aron frees himself by breaking the bones in his forearm and severing it with a dull multi-tool penknife.  As the closing credits rolled, the thought occurred to me that my overdue oil change sticker didn’t seem quite so pressing.

I thought about Aron’s agony, his impossible decision.  “Do I live?  Or do I stay intact?” Amputation certainly wasn’t his first choice, and became viable only after five days of rigging various ropes, slings, and pulleys.  Five days of pushing, tugging against, chipping on, and screaming at the rock.  You see the resignation in his eyes when he realizes the price of survival.  I wondered if I would do the same.  Perhaps a better question is, will I do the same?  As Christ followers, we might not be called to sacrifice a limb – but make no mistake, there is a cost to the life we’ve chosen.

And if your hand – even your stronger hand – causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away.  It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. – Matthew 5:30

My dilemma is, I want to be rid of sin, but I don’t want the pain of extraction.  I have reached a point in my life that, by and large, I have become repulsed by my own wretchedness.  I hate that I get jealous.  I hate that I tend to wallow in self-pity.  I hate that I’ve screened my wife’s phone calls because I’m not ready to reconcile last night’s argument.  I hate that I hate.  Unfortunately, I don’t hate the familiar comforts of a boat that would rather not be rocked.

The putting off of our old life is messy.  It’s ragged.  It’s removing splinters with hedge trimmers, using a chain to stitch the wound.  But here’s the obvious truth that constantly eludes me:  Of course it will be difficult.  If it were easy – if it were clean and tidy – I don’t believe God would have used such violent imagery.  He’s not asking us to shed excess pounds, or get a haircut.  He’s asking us to give up something we consider essential.  For me, the questions become very simple.  What do I love most?  Myself?  My routine?  My seemingly innocuous sin that surely doesn’t affect me like it does the other 6.8 billion people on earth?  Or am I willing to sacrifice the soft life, in order to find real life?

These days, Aron Ralston does not pass the time with Sudoku puzzles and Judge Judy, lamenting a life that could have been.  Post accident, he has scaled Denali.  Mt. Kilimanjaro, too.  In 2005, he became the first man to have ascended all 54 of Colorado’s 14,000 ft. peaks….by himself….all in the winter.  Would he like to have his arm back?  Sure.  Would he want it back if it meant withering away in a desolate canyon?  I assume not.

After his ordeal, Ralston was quoted as saying that there are times to take action, “…even if it means making a hard choice, or cutting out something and leaving it in the past.”  There are things I want to leave in my past.  I wonder, though, if I’m a little too squeamish.

#13 - I'm a Good Dad

by James Baker

The title is not intended to be sarcastic.  I love being a father, and – seeing it as clearly as I can – I believe I’ve done my job well to this point.  I don’t mind getting on the floor with my daughter to play a little ‘Green Eggs and Ham’, or do a puzzle, or just sip some invisible tea alongside an overpriced American Girl doll.  I can talk to my 14-year-old son about anything ranging from the best way to blow up blocks of ice with mini-dynamite to the somewhat more sensitive subject of pubescent lust.  I can readily appreciate and encourage the imagination and artistry of my daydreaming middle son.  I try to show them what is pure and noble and right and just, without beating them over the head with too many teachable moments.  So I say with both humility and confidence, I am a good father.

As I sit by the fire, gently stroking my child’s thatch of curls and reflecting on my own benevolence, however, I am reminded of other times.  Different times.

Maim ‘em

Like the time I was plastic-sword fighting with Patton (my eldest) when he was maybe three.  He got a little too swashbuckling, and swiped his sword across my lip, which had roughly the same pain level as amputating my big toe with no anesthetic.  Without so much as a second’s worth of good judgment, I raised my sword far behind my head and swung it at his leg as if he were Al Qaeda.  I hit him so hard, my sword broke in half across his calf (it was actually a somewhat flimsy retractable light saber…not trying to minimize the offense, I’m just sayin’.).  I truly believe he was more frightened than injured, but he screamed until his lungs bled.  Good day for me, that was.

Shame ‘em

Same son during a little league game.  His grandparents had come out to see him play, and I was pretty excited to showcase his prowess on the diamond.  Early in the game, he hurt his wrist while attempting to corral a sharply hit ground ball.  I knew it wasn’t serious, but I saw him wincing as his team came in to bat.  He was due to hit in the inning, but really wasn’t interested in playing the rest of the game – hard to swing with a tender wrist, as you can imagine.  I, however, could not.  I went over to him in the dugout as he was pleading his case to sit out the rest of the game.  Our conversation:

Patton:  (with watery eyes) I don’t think I can play anymore.

Me:  Where does it hurt?

Patton:  (holding his wrist)  Right here.

Me:  Is it broken, or maybe just a little sprained?

Patton:  I think it’s just sprained.

Me:  Well you know, Nana and Huddy are here.  They drove across town to come see you play.  It’d really stink if you couldn’t finish the game.

Patton:  Yeah.

Me:  Maybe you should just give it a go, and see how it feels after your at-bat.

Patton:  But it really hurts.

Me:  Well I saw you fall, and it didn’t look that bad to me.

Patton:  I guess I could I try to go up to the plate.

Me:  You sure?  I don’t want you to do it just because they came all the way out here to see you play.

Patton:  Yeah, I guess I could try it.

Me:  Good job, chief.  Way to hang in there.

Rest assured, any time I refer to you as ‘chief’, it probably comes with a load.

Just forget ‘em

And then there was my coup de grace.  After leaving a going-away party in my honor preceding a month-long trip to Africa (because I’m just that compassionate), I was rushing home with a jeep full of neighborhood kids that had gone swimming at the party.  I was in a rush because I was hosting a nine-player farewell poker tournament in my living room (because I’m just that contemptible).  Once in the driveway, all the kids piled out and I ran in to count out chips before the rest of the crew arrived.  An hour into the game, I heard my 3-year-old daughter crying in bed.  I, of course, was in the middle of a hand and in no way could go check on her, so I gave my wife that ‘do-you-mind-looking-in-on-your-daughter’ look that I’ve mastered over the years.  She goes upstairs, and I hear her yell, “She’s not up here!”  She runs back downstairs panicked.  In fact, we’re all panicked.  Everyone takes off in a different direction trying to locate the source of the crying, but she is nowhere.  My wife darts outside, thinking she might be on the back porch.  I remember thinking how stupid it was for her to waste time checking outside, because it would be impossible for my daughter to have gone outside.  Which, of course, I was right.  She had not gone outside.  She had stayed outside. 

Still in the jeep.  Strapped in her car seat.  For an hour. 

I still thank God that it happened it at night, when the jeep top was down, and she had slept most of that time.  Otherwise, I would have been one of those self-absorbed buffoons you see interviewed on the ten o’ clock news, when you scream at the TV, ‘How could you have possibly let that happen?’  Still self-absorbed, mind you, just without the film crew.

As I clutched her tight in my arms, pacing back-and-forth in front of my house, I kept telling her over and over how sorry I was that I had done that.  After the tears dried up (hers and mine), I wasn’t sure she knew exactly what happened. Still needing to assuage my guilt, I asked her, “Mia, do you know what daddy did?”  Expecting a light-hearted, let’s move on-type of chuckle, she straight face replied, “Yeah, you left me in my car seat all night”. 

All night?  A little dramatic, don’t you think Mia?  But nothing that an extra dose of Benadryl won’t help you forget.

So which is more accurate?  The doting father willing to play tea party and shape his children into the likeness of Christ, or the rage-induced, scheming, narcissistic guy that makes you want to call CPS.  Ward Cleaver or Homer Simpson?  Both.  And neither.  You see, I can be either of those dads on any given day, but I suppose the truest thing that can be said of me is that I’m just a guy trying to work it out.  Loving but failing.  Sacrificing, but unable to break free from my own selfishness.  I am neither hero nor goat, no matter how much I long to be one and convinced I am the other. 

I am not deluded enough to believe that my failures won’t be some part of defining who my children become.  There are always consequences.  But my prayer is that they remember more sweet than sour; more tea parties than car seats.