Marathon part Tres

It's been quite some time since my last blog, and I apologize for leaving both my readers in suspense.

In the last blog, I left you with this "After I got back to Colorado Springs, I was surprised that I actually wasn't doing so shabby up here as well. My first two runs back in Colorado, I averaged 9-9.5 minute miles. I was thoroughly proud of myself...and then it happened."

My third run while I was back in Colorado was a 7 mile run. It was going very well for the first two miles and then my legs started to tighten up. Since I have gotten quite good at allowing myself to stop if I need to, I decided to take a short break to stretch. After stretching, I continued the run, and completed the final 5 miles without needing to stop.

I was pretty excited that I was doing so well after having been back in Colorado for only a few days. When I got home, I stretched, and started to draw a cold bath (since that's a good thing to do after longer runs.) As I was walked down the stairs, all of a sudden, I felt a shooting pain in my left knee.

I was pretty shocked and confused at first. It came out of no where. There was no dull pain to indicate that more pain was coming. I hadn't tweaked it, twisted it, or otherwise hurt it on the run. I didn't know what the deal was, so I decided to take the cold bath and not worry about it. It was probably nothing.

The next day, still hurting. The day after that, not any better and not any worse. I iced it, I heated it, I did all the right things, but no change. It was not bad enough to see a doctor (yet), but bad enough to keep me from running. I started doing research.

I found a few possible explanations, but the most likely was Chondromalacia Patella, commonly known as "runner's knee". http://orthopedics.about.com/cs/patelladisorders/a/chondromalacia_2.htm

This is the passage that made it really hit home:

"Does this sound like your situation?
You're a self-proclaimed athlete--certainly in shape, but not quite a professional runner/cyclist/etc. You decide to train for the local 10-mile race, or perhaps even a marathon, maybe you're a cyclist who is riding more than usual. Your knee starts to give you trouble, so you see your doctor and are diagnosed with chondromalacia."

The answer was yes...well, all except the doctor part because I hadn't been. The problem was, the recommendation for treatment is several weeks of rest, and then slowly rehabilitating it with leg exercises. I didn't have that kind of time.

I decided if it got any worse, I'd go see a doctor. It never got worse, only stayed the same. I had finally resolved to go see a doctor (about 3 weeks later), when all of a sudden it started getting better. I was very excited, but that didn't change the fact that I had already missed 3 weeks and would undoubtedly miss 2-3 more. I became pretty sure that my dream of running this marathon had been shattered. I was positive that I wasn't going to be able to run the full marathon and pretty sure I wasn't going to be able to run the half either.

I called James to tell him the bad news, and he wasn't nearly as disappointed as I had thought he would be. He hoped that I would be able to run the half marathon and if not, no big deal. That was a relief.

A week or so later, I decided to get a knee brace and run a local 5k. I figured if I could run 3 miles I might be able to get back into the training and at least do the half-marathon. I was a little worried that I was biting off more than I could chew starting back with 3.1 miles, but I went for it anyway.

It went great! I didn't break any speed records or anything, but I ran the whole thing and my knee didn't hurt. Maybe the half was in my sights after all.

At a certain point, James decided he simply had too much on his plate to train for a marathon, so he decided to do the half as well. It looked like all three of us (me, James, and my sister) were going to be doing the half, if my knee was up for it.

I started running 3 miles a few times a week to ease back into it, all while wearing the brace. 3 or 4 runs later, guess what. The other knee started having the same problem. I couldn't believe it. I was devastated.

Throughout this whole marathon process, I've been seeking God. When the injuries happened, it was no different. I kept praying and asking God his purpose in all of it. I was frustrated, hurt, angry, etc. I prayed for healing and it didn't come. Clearly God had a lesson for me to learn in all of it, I just didn't know what it was.

I couldn't even bring myself to go to the gym and ride a bike (that actually hurt my knee too) or swim or anything. I knew that there were things I could do to keep my fitness level up, but I was done. I was out. I was defeated.

I couldn't stay down about it for long, I started swimming and doing other cross-training exercises, but it wasn't the same. I wanted to run.

Then I found something out. My sister, although she has been training diligently since November, was never really planning on running the entire half marathon. She set her goals to walk/run the 13.1. Maybe I would just walk/run it with her. If my knee hurt, I'd walk. Sounded like a good plan.

I talked to James the other day. He knew that my knee was still bothering me and said "so what are you planning on doing?" I told him the plan, and he said "look man...if we have to walk the thing, we'll walk it."

That's when it all became clear. This marathon was never about finishing. It was about pushing myself and encouraging others to do the same. It was about setting a goal, and going for it, no matter the outcome. It was about risking. It was about perseverance. It was about striving for excellence but being content with less.

By the time that I arrive in Atlanta for the race, it will be about spending time with one of my best friends and my sister. I can't wait.

God knows what we need...whether we do, or not.

Marathon part Deux

Even though I only recently published the Marathon Training blog about my first two weeks running, that actually happened back in October. A lot has happened since then, both good and bad.

I realized pretty early on that I knew absolutely nothing about running a marathon, so I started looking into it. The Internet is a powerful resource. As it turns out, a lot of experienced marathoners recommend that you have been already running steadily for about a year before attempting a marathon. You should be comfortable running between 3 and 6 miles, and averaging 10-15 miles a week. That bothered me a little bit. Not only did I despise running at my very core, I also wasn't good at it. I started to doubt the possibility of running this thing.

When I was first thinking about running this marathon, I couldn't help but look toward the end of the training schedule. I was seeing numbers like 16, 18, and 20 and was thinking "MILES!?"

I spoke with a friend about it, and she told that there's an old proverb that asks: How do you eat an elephant? The answer: one bite at a time…touché.

I realized that I don't need to worry about what will happen in week 15 of training. I only need to worry about today...and today was 3 miles...not 20.

So I began eating this elephant one bite at a time. I'd run 3 miles, and then look forward to another 3 mile run tomorrow. 5 miles on Saturday wasn't thrilling, but I knew I could do it...I had already done it accidentally the week before (see previous blog).

In the midst of this, I spoke with one of the teachers at Training Ground, because he is quite the marathon veteran. He has given me some really sound advice. One of the things he said was, instead of worry about exactly how many miles you run, just run for time. If you run about a 10 minute mile and you're supposed to run 3 miles, just run for 30 minutes. Sometimes you'll run a little bit more, sometimes a little bit less, but none of that matters, because running a marathon is all about running for an extended period of time. I thought that was amazing. Previously I had been tracking my exact miles and exact times to see exactly how fast I was running per mile. I needed to let that go and just run.

It got to the point where running eventually became, dare I say it, enjoyable. I remember running a particular 7 mile run, and coming back with a "runner's high". Before this day, I didn't know that this was a real thing. I was acting like I had it all together on the outside, but on the inside my body was having a party! I wondered if I should be driving home in this condition...seriously. I'll admit, it was pretty awesome.

So I continued. 3 miles, 6 miles, 3 miles, rest, 8 miles, cross train, rest, 3 miles, etc.

I was still a pretty slow runner. I would average 9.5-10.5 minute miles, but I could go longer distances. And then, I visited my parents in FL for Christmas.

This altitude thing is no joke. The air is pretty thin up here at 7300 feet. I didn't realize how much I was really affected by going back to sea level. I remember being shocked when I would go out for an "easy" 3.5 mile run and finish in less than 30 minutes. All of a sudden I was averaging 8.5 minute miles...even on 9 and 10 mile runs. The improvement was incredible.

After I got back to Colorado Springs, I was surprised that I actually wasn't doing so shabby up here as well. My first two runs back in Colorado, I averaged 9-9.5 minute miles. I was thoroughly proud of myself...and then it happened.

(to be continued)

Marathon Training

I started training for a marathon back in October. I would never have considered myself a runner before. I hated running, I was incredibly slow, I had no "technique". I was just plain terrible.

Recently, I've been thinking and praying a lot about my need for perfection. If something I do isn't perfect, I focus more on the failure than the success of whatever I've done. For instance, if I was to run a mile and it took me say 11 minutes at this altitude, I wouldn't have been proud of the fact that I ran a mile, but merely focused on the fact that it took me 11 minutes. "I should have been able to do it faster, so and so can run it in 8 minutes" etc.

This topic was on the forefront of my mind when my friend James called me one day in October. He asked if I would be interested in running a marathon with him in Atlanta in March (21 weeks away). I said no. No way. He said "we'd be running it for a cause...breast cancer". I said "James...there is no way I could run a marathon. period. I'm not a runner, I'm terrible at running" etc.

He asked me to think about it, and I agreed to.

When he e-mailed me the 18 week training schedule I saw that the first week was 3 miles on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, rest Friday, and 6 miles on Saturday. 6 miles was already more miles than I had ever run consecutively in my life. The marathon was looking less and less realistic.

I spoke with James the next day and came up with a compromise. Since the 18-week training schedule would start in 3 weeks, I'd give myself 3 weeks to think about it. I would come up with my own pre-training, training schedule, and see what happened.

My first week was 1 mile tuesday, 2 wednesday, 2 thursday, and 3 saturday. It went fairly smoothly, aside from my unrealistic expectations of what I should be capable of. I slowly began to become ok with "where I am". I realized that I'm not a runner, I never have been a runner, so for me to go out and run a mile in 7 minutes at 7300 ft (the altitude where I live) is just plain unrealistic. I needed to be ok with an 11 minute mile.

Week 2: 2 miles tuesday, 2 miles wednesday, 2 miles thursday, and 4 miles saturday.

The Saturday run was the turning point. I got on GoogleMaps, and mapped out a route that would take me 2 miles in one direction. Then I would turn around and come back. Seems simple enough right?

I started running at the end of my driveway, made a couple of simple turns, and began looking for "A street". 15 minutes passed, no A street. 20 minutes passed, still no A street. 25 minutes passed, still nothing. I began to get discouraged. I had been running for 25 minutes, and if I haven't passed A street (which is 2 miles from my house) then I've been running slower than a 13 minute mile! That's not so good...at all.

At around 28 minutes of running, I decided I would turn around at the next road, and just re-map it from there. I thought maybe I had passed A street without seeing it and would see it on the way back. No such luck. I became pretty disappointed in my performance.

I ran back to my house, and stopped the clock at 55 minutes. I started thinking about what this could mean. Perhaps, I missed the road (both times) and had really run more than 4 miles? Maybe they re-named the road and Google hasn't updated it yet. Or, worst case scenario, I ran for 55 minutes and didn't even make it 4 miles. It sounded like an awful possibility. I realized in that moment that I HAD to be ok with that. I HAD to be ok with where I am. I needed to stop putting so much emphasis on my running performance, when I have clearly never been a runner before. Rather than going straight to a computer to figure out my actual distance, I "sat" with these feelings for a while. I took a shower, changed clothes, ate some food, etc.

Finally I went to the computer. I remembered that I turned around at Furrow Rd, so I Googled it. As it turned out, Furrow Rd was 2.5 miles from my house! I had run 5 miles when I only expected to run 4! Yes...I ran it at an 11 minute pace, but I was fine with that! It was cold outside, I was running at 7300 feet, I was ok with an 11 minute mile.

I knew in that moment that the marathon was possible. I called James, and committed to running with him.

Failure

Here's a poem I wrote:

Failure

Anger, frustration, embarrassment, pain.

I wonder why it hurts.

All-consuming thoughts,

anxious for redemption.

Why has this happened?

What are you telling me God?

Jealous of success,

unaccustomed to failure.

I have to come through...

but why?

This is a poem that I wrote last night for “Sunday Night Smoke.” In “Sunday Night Smoke” we all get together with a cigar or pipe (no cigarettes) and read poems. Sometimes guys will read poems that they’ve found or the lyrics to songs that they enjoy, but mostly we encourage originals.

I wrote my poem on failure because failure is what I experienced on Saturday. If you’ve read some of the other blogs, you probably know that we went skeet shooting.

Skeet shooting is something that I really enjoy, and I’m usually pretty good at. Saturday was different. After I had picked out a shot-gun, I stepped up to the plate. The gun was a little lighter and shorter than I was used to, but I thought that would be a good thing. It was not. I missed all 5 clay targets that were thrown in front of me. I have literally never missed 5 in a row before, not even my first time shooting.

After the 3^rd one that I missed, Mark said “I think it’s the gun.” Then I missed the 4^th one and he said “pretty sure it’s the gun.” When I missed the 5^th one he said “dude, it’s the gun. Get a new gun.” I felt a small sense of relief, but not much.

Last year, we did the same thing. We had 5 shots per person. I hit all 5 targets. Then we went out hunting for quail. I took two shots...killed 2 birds. I didn’t miss anything significant all day. Naturally, this year, I had every reason to believe that I would hit at least 4 out of 5. I expected it.

I’m not used to failing; I’ve always been pretty good at most things that I’ve tried. I’m not really spectacular at anything, but pretty good at most things.

For instance, I got up on a wakeboard the first time I tried. By the end of the day, I was jumping from one side of the wake to the other. On my 6^th time, I landed a flip.

It’s been this way as long as I can remember. I don’t fail much. I don’t allow myself to fail. I always feel like I have to come through, but why?

I’m starting to realize how truly afraid I am of failure. It’s shaped my life more than I’ve known. Looking back, I see how many times that I chose safety over risk. If I’m honest with myself, I can see that I majored in finance because it was safe. It’s a “go anywhere, do anything” major. Not much risk involved, you’re practically guaranteed a job after college.

When applying to colleges, I got accepted to Miami of Ohio. I actually went up there to audition as a vocal performance major. They accepted me into the program and offered me a scholarship. I didn’t take it. Why? Because I was afraid. What good is a vocal performance major anyway? What am I going to do with that? “Either I’ll be famous, or be a music teacher” I thought to myself. It’s very unlikely that I’ll be famous, and I DON’T want to be a music teacher. Music teacher was “failure” in my eyes, so I didn’t bother trying.

When I was a kid I was a pretty accomplished child actor. I was in a number of large production plays. I received praise from many people, whether it was other actors, theater goers, or even newspaper columnists. I wanted to be an actor when I grew up. Then I was in a professional play. All of a sudden I realized that these people were “professional actors.” They did this for their career. They couldn’t have been making a lot of money. Once I saw that there was a VERY slim chance that I would make it as a famous actor and the alternative was being THIS kind of professional actor, I didn’t want to be an actor anymore. I wasn’t willing to take that risk. I was afraid of failure.

I knew I was pretty good at singing and acting, but probably not the best. I was afraid of failing, and success was measured in money. Failure meant not being rich. I wasn’t willing to take that chance, so I decided to devote my life to something where I was likely to make a lot of money: Finance.

I’m still unpacking a lot of this, but I know 2 things: I’m afraid of failure, and I’m afraid of not having money. I’m seeking The Lord in both of these things and gradually finding healing. Evidence of that can be found in the fact that I took this job at Training Ground. I have to “raise support” while I’m here. Talk about stepping out of my comfort zone and subjecting myself to the possibility of “failure.”

That’s all for now.

First Place: Greatest Guy in the World. Second place: never heard of him.

Lately I’ve been reading Life Magazine’s Greatest Adventures of all time. It’s packed with story after story of epic adventures. Some of the stories are about a specific adventurer’s life of adventure (like Jacques Cousteau) but a lot of the stories are about “Firsts.” There’s the story of the First trip to the North Pole, First Trip to the South Pole, First trip to the Marianas Trench (deepest part of the ocean), First ascent on Everest.

In reading these short stories of famous adventurers, I’ve been thinking...how cool would it be to be the First to do....something? I don’t know what yet.

What is there left to do? The highest mountain has been climbed; the deepest part of the ocean has been reached. Man has flown around the globe; man has gone into space; man has walked on the moon!

Last summer we were hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park. We came to a remote lake, miles from any road or building. I thought to myself, “Wow, I’m in the middle of NOWHERE. I wonder how many people have ever even been here!” Then I saw a plaque on a rock.

A few weeks later, some of us climbed the mountain in the backyard of the Training Ground house. It was a really tough climb. Once we got to the top we were exhausted and felt like we had truly accomplished something. I thought there was NO WAY that we’d ever see another person while on top of this mountain, and THEN we met a nice couple from Tennessee that had hiked up the rather easy trail on the other side.

I’m sure there’s something that I could do, I just don’t think that I’m creative enough to think of it. Even if I was, I don’t think I’m passionate enough or enough of a risk taker to go for it.

There’s a guy right now (Jeb Corliss) who has been training to jump out of a plane and land without using a parachute...I don’t think I’m up for that challenge.

It seems like everything I could think of to be the first at is going to be extremely dangerous. But I guess that’s the point right? People are going to think you’re crazy...until you come back a success.

I guess we can’t all be Neil Armstrong.

Feeding A Baby

Cory and his wife Christine recently had a baby; they named Cora Sage, but call her "Sage". This baby is so incredibly cute & calm. I had never seen her cry...until last Sunday.

James was holding her and sitting in the chair next to me. She stared at me with those big blue eyes and I was hooked. I was like putty in her tiny little hands.

Maybe I was just making it up, but I could have SWORN that she was reaching for me. As she sat on James’ lap, it looked like she wanted ME to hold her, so I asked James if I could. He obliged. He handed me her tiny little body and I pulled her close to my chest.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve held a baby. It’s been a while. Additionally, I’m not sure that I’ve ever held a baby that young: 4 months old just the other day.

We sat there face to face only inches away. She was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Her tiny little arms seemed to be embracing me as much as possible. Out of curiosity, she began to grab and play with my beard; so tiny and gentle.

As I held her, I asked Cory “does she EVER cry?” He told me that she cries when she’s hungry or tired...and that’s about it.

Apparently she began to get hungry. It happened in an instant. One minute she was staring wide eyed at the people surrounding the table, the next minute she was squirming, arching her back, and letting out a wail. On the outside I may have looked composed, but on the inside I began to panic. This baby was giving me a bad rep! She was perfectly fine while everyone else was holding her, but 3 minutes after I get her she starts crying. What do I do!?

Christine to the rescue. She asked me to continue to hold Sage and Christine whipped out her baby bag faster than you could say pampers. She pulled out a bottle as if from a holster, grabbed a bottle of Dasani, found the powered formula (already measured to perfection) and mixed a batch of fresh baby milk.

I was fully ready to hand Sage back to her mother as Christine finished preparing the bottle, but as she tightly closed the lid, she said “You’re welcome to feed her, or I will if you don’t feel comfortable.”

Uh oh...I hadn’t planned for this. I was on the spot. Sure I could have wimped out and handed Sage back to her mother, but I gave myself a pep talk...I knew I was better than that. I decided to finish what had been started. I was up for the challenge.

What seemed somewhat overwhelming at first became nothing short of another beautiful experience. I asked Christine “Ok, What do I do?” to which she replied “just put the bottle in her mouth...Sage will do the rest.” And she did. The crying stopped instantly. Sage had gotten what she was asking for.

So there I sat, a 4 month old baby resting in the crook of my left arm and a fresh bottle of formula in my right hand. Sage did the rest. A newly found peace returned to the table. I just stared at this little life form in my arms in complete awe.

What an incredible miracle a human life is! I never think about it with adults or even small children, but with a baby, it’s different. This thing is new. She’s only 4 months old. A human created from humans by the power of God. 4 months ago she didn’t exist except in the womb. 13 months ago (9 + 4) she didn’t exist at all! Incredible.

How many different things have to line up in order to create a human life? Countless. Without going into details, it seems that everything has to be perfect in order for a baby to be created. That’s a miracle in my book.

So, Sage drank the bottle in what seemed like no time flat. Now it was time to burp her. Christine offered again but I wanted the whole experience. I asked for some tips and promptly got to it. Apparently you’re supposed to rub her back (much more firmly than I thought was safe, I might add) and top it off with the occasional pat. I was doing my best but it didn’t seem to be working.

“How do I know if she’s burped or not?” I asked. “When she burps, you’ll know it.” Cory replied. “She’s not going to spit up on me is she...it’s ok if she does.” I inquired. “No, the formula makes her spit up sometimes but not right away.” Christine added.

More back rubbing. More patting, then finally, a burp. It was small and unassuming. I wasn’t entirely sure that she was done. I asked if I should continue but Christine said Sage was probably finished. Victory!

A sense of satisfaction came over me as I looked at her tiny little baby eyes. I had the sneaking suspicion that to some degree we understood each other. It was beautiful.

Then she sneezed on me.

Sledding

We just got back from our first wilderness trip to Snowy Range, Wyoming. It was an incredible time.

At the beginning of the trip, we hiked a few miles on the road before reaching the trail. Once we got to the trail head, we put on our snowshoes.

My experience with snow has become increasingly limited in the past few years. I’ve been on a couple of snowboarding trips here and there (nothing big since my snowboarding injury two years ago) along with my trip to Snowy Range last year and that’s about it. This year was even better.

It took almost no time at all for me to re-familiarize myself with snowshoes. Once you get used to them (and remember that you can’t try to walk backwards) it’s really like riding a bike.

We hiked in a few miles and set up camp. It was a great first night. The guys were prompted to spend some time in the bible reading a passage that Xan and Cory had given them and then they spent some time in prayer.

Then we circled up, had a great dinner of “pizza bagels” and then got right into discussion. We talked about what it must have been like for Jesus to call the disciples and whether or not these Training Ground participants could identify with being called in that way (to Training Ground).

Day 2 was where the fun REALLY began. We got up in the morning and hiked to a new campsite. We made great time and were able to camp much closer to our final destination than expected. The surroundings were beautiful; we set up our tents in what seemed like a very small valley so that wind would be blocked from either side. We were wrong.

The “valley” turned out to be more of a wind tunnel in which the wind came tearing around the corner of a small field and channeled itself right into our tents. Not the ideal camping spot.

In the midst of setting up the tents, I realized something. These hills on either side of us looked remarkably like sled hills.

I wasted no time. I started looking frantically for something to use as a sled. My first thought was to use a sleeping pad, but no one would let me use theirs, and mine had too many straps on it (it converts to a chair).

Finally, I settled for a waterproof pack cover. I reached the top of the small hill, hopped in the cover, and pushed off. Pretty anti-climactic. The pack cover simply wasn’t rigid enough to navigate the bumps and dips of the snow. I made it down the hill, going at a snail’s pace.

Then to the snowshoes. Surely I could figure out some way to avoid using the metal gripping features of the shoes and use them as skis. It worked briefly, but then I caught the metal edge and took a small spill. Another failure.

Back to the sleeping pad. I simply would NOT give up on this idea. It still seemed like the best option! No one would let me use their pad, so I eventually took matters into my own hands. Dave, the other intern, had gone off to get water. His pad was as good as mine. I noted publicly that if I ruined his pad, I would allow Dave to use mine, and I climbed back to the top of the small hill. I sat down on the pad, rolled it back like a toboggan, and pushed off. EUREKA! My plan had worked! The sleeping pad had effectively become a somewhat flexible toboggan!

After a couple more trial runs, some of the guys began to express more interest. A few guys gave the sit-down method a try, but it was Clarke that finally took the plunge head-first. It was clearly the way to go. Enough testing, we’re ready for the real deal.

Me, Clarke, Robb, and Rem grabbed our pads and began hiking up a much bigger mountain. We set our course and made a goal to get to the first rolling ridge about half-way up.

As we reached our goal and looked down, I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t jump a little bit. It was much steeper than I had anticipated. I think we were all a little concerned, but still up for it.

What would have been a nice enjoyable ride on either a snowboard or skis, looked like a death trap while I clung tightly to my half-inch foam sleeping pad. I honestly had no clue what was going to happen, but I anticipated break-neck speeds.

Once we re-gained our breath (we were somewhere around 10,000 feet elevation), we all got in our ready positions: hands gripping the front of the pad, squatting down, and ready to dive. We were all going head-first. There was no other option.

On the count of three, we all dove. With our weight hitting the snow, we all sank for a moment. I was about to be VERY disappointed, and then the pad resurfaced. We were moving. It was awesome.

I let out a couple of yells as we rode down the mountain. We weren’t going as fast as I would have expected, but still quite fast...maybe 25 mph.

The little kid inside me wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to go again. I wanted to climb higher and go faster. James and Rem were quick to act when I said “I think I want to go again.” The three of us began climbing.

We set our goal about 100 feet higher than the last time, aiming for the top of a curve in some snowmobile tracks.

As we climbed, we could faintly hear some of the guys down below trying to communicate with us. Perhaps they were telling us to go higher, maybe to hurry up, I couldn’t really tell. However, once we got about 50 feet above our previous drop-in, there was no mistaking the bellowing voice of Ryan Phillips yelling “THAT’S FAR ENOUGH!” Our climb was over.

We saddled up on the sleeping mats for another ride down. I set my sights for the rut that I made on the previous run. Off we went. It was an even slower start than last time until I steered my way into the rut from the run before. I was off. Much faster than last time with a top speed of about 35 or 40 mph...on a sleeping pad. What an amazing experience. The child inside was satisfied.

There’s an eagerness about this place that just makes young men want to experience life in a whole new way. It brings us to a place in which we’re willing to have fun like we used to, before the pressures of the world stifled our spirits.

The 12 guys this summer have come to do things differently, to do life in a way previously unbeknownst to them. To step out of the box a little bit. To be willing to make mistakes. To some extent, live like a child again.

It reminds me of Mark 10:13-16 in which Jesus talks about people receiving the kingdom of God like a child. Of people having child-like faith.

Here is the passage in it's entirety:

¹³People were bringing little children to Jesus to have him touch them, but the disciples rebuked them. ¹⁴When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. ¹⁵I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." ¹⁶And he took the children in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them.

Wouldn’t life be better if we all stopped to indulge the child within us every once in a while? Whether it’s sledding, eating an ice cream cone, or swinging on a swing set, these types of simple pleasures remind us that we are ALIVE and that life can be fun!

It also makes me think about John 10:10 when Jesus says "I have come that they may have life and have it to the full."

I want to experience the abundant life that Jesus has to offer.