Roadkill Has the Runs

Lately as I've been running in the afternoons, with fairly low humidity (25% to 35%) and a heat index well into the 100s, I sometimes think of Dune (despite the plants, which, while often fairly bleached out, are still there). So when I have to spit, I aim for leaves; water's kind of precious around here at the moment.

Running that time of day, my times aren't the best, but I get the most workout for the time invested. Nevermind that I really enjoy it (except when it's hot and humid).

I try to run all year round, so I build up to the heat in the summer and cold in the winter. (I cheat; I have a wind suit for when it gets below 60, but hey, I'm not 20 any more, even though I feel like it most days.)

I can run on a treadmill if I have to (say, if it's cold, rainy, and everyone around me has a cold), but I'd rather not.

The trails call me. The weather calls me. The sky calls me. The plants call me. The cicadas and crickets call me, the birds and lizards call me, the runners and bikers call me. The fire hydrant in the woods calls me. (No, not to pee!)

My current shoes are the first real running shoes I've ever owned. I have no idea how many miles I have put on them (the records from when I first started trying to get back in shape a few years ago were lost), but I'm guessing it's between 500 and 1,000. Not what a serious runner would put on, but I'm happy being me, and running 1-2 miles 2-3x a week with the occasional 5K thrown in is about right for my body.

I inspected my shoes a week or so ago because the left one felt funny. I couldn't find anything at the time, but yesterday part of one heel started to come loose; it's time for some new ones. When I bought these, I was a bit skeptical, but they've held up really well, and my feet and legs have been happier than they ever were in the past when I tried to run. Dr. School's, and later Ironman, pads have helped as well.

So has prayer. My shin splints are gone. I had given up hope on losing those years ago. Silly Miles. As a wise man once said, "Never surrender! Never give up!"

While some of my friends seem to feel as if we're in Narnia under the grip of the White Witch's hot[1], evil twin ("It's always summer, and never Labor Day"), I'm content with this endless summer. Today's an off day, so no running. But it's a good day for an upper body workout, so I think I'll grab a breaker bar and pick and go bust some rocks.


[1] Take that however you like. Only a fool falls for an evil witch. Just ask Edmund.

Doe, a Deer

We found a baby deer in our yard today. A seriously spotted fawn, planted by its mama in our rock garden. It lay still as could be until we got really close, marginally hidden between our house's gray slab and several red yucca.

We didn't see the doe. Well, we may have. One was resting in shade under a tree about 40 yards away. But that doe was still there a couple of hours later whereas the fawn had disappeared.

We've seen this before. Usually we've seen the fawns in plain sight, maybe in 3" or 4" tall grass, as if something sticking up 10-12 inches were well hidden there. Usually this happens while the grass is green; the extended drought this year has left everything straw colored, closer to white than brown.

What's different for me is that I could appreciate the fawn, took pictures, made sure Lizzie Bear saw it (Tyler already had), rather than chasing it off. I was always able to see their beauty, but didn't want them in my yard. Or anywhere nearby.

For years I saw deer only as pests. And make no mistake, there is a pestilential side to them. They eat many of Sharon's flowers. They drop ticks the way dandelions drop seeds on a windy, spring day. They leave deer berries (poop) everywhere even more than they do ticks. They tear up our fence, jumping over it but not high enough. And they have a bad habit of not only running or walking out in front of moving vehicles, but of lunging into the sides of vehicles that stopped to avoid hitting the deer. Smart is not their strong suit.

So for years I did my best to chase them off. For a while I shot their backsides with BB guns. (I can hear the howls of protest. This doesn't injure them, it simply stings. Having been shot before, I know.) They kept coming back.

When the BB gun died I switched to throwing rocks near (not at) them. This didn't work nearly as well, and when it did... they kept coming back.

Finally I settled on tossing fireworks (fireworks are legal in Texas) out into the yard. This worked really well, usually causing the deer to teleport so far away I never knew where they went. It's probably my fault they never shared this technology with us.

They always came back.

In the meantime, we tried using human hair around the plants to chase them away. This would work for a few days, but we had to constantly be putting hair out, and if it wasn't freshly cut, it didn't really work. Sometimes even fresh cut hair didn't help.

So we started peeing round the Flowers.

No, really.

OK, we cheated. We kept a cup in the bathroom, peed in that and poured it around the flowers. We did this several times a day, and it usually worked if we kept it up and it didn't rain all the time. (That hasn't been a problem this year.)

Near the end of the several years of using the BB gun on them, we saw _Evan Almighty_, Somewhere in there, the "Acts of Random Kindness" bit attached itself to a mental image of deer. I scoffed at it and moved on.

After a couple of years, that had become a refrain that played every time I saw a deer in the yard or even in the neighborhood. It began to dawn on me that maybe someone (and I don't mean Morgan Freeman) was suggesting I learn to accept the deer and live at peace with them.

I started by simply not chasing them around the yard until they left when I drove up.

When I ran out of fireworks, I didn't get any more for deer dispersal purposes. Nor did I resume throwing rocks, or fix the BB gun.

Eventually I learned to live at peace with them.

And so, today, I smile, encourage the grandkids to look closely, and take pictures.

We still pee round the flowers.

The Man Who Saved My Life

The other night I had an odd experience. It didn't feel odd at the time. I'd just met Nan, the type of person I call "instant family". As we talked after class, both at the conference and later in a group eating at Kerbey Lane, there were a couple of times Nan responded to something Desiree or I said with, "Oh, that's good!" and wrote it in her notebook.

Later it hit me that this was the second time in a couple of weeks this has happened to me. I'm not sure it ever happened before. But as I looked at it from outside rather than inside it caught me off guard. It was a slightly uncomfortable feeling. I wondered, "Is this what Bill feels like? Gushed over all the time?"

To keep the record clear, Nan wasn't gushing, She was simply excited at things she thought would help her, and I was excited to be able to help. But Bill does get gushed over. I'm pretty sure I've done it. It can be hard not to gush when someone saves your life. And that's what I tell people-- "Jesus saved my soul, but Bill saved my life."

OK, he didn't snatch me from the jaws of physical death. But he looked at me, and instead of seeing what some folk see, he saw what God sees, treated me that way, and called that out in me. Had Bill not done this three years ago, I'd probably still be fairly safely and fairly miserably ensconced where I'd been for years. Instead, I walked out a free man, a new man, a man with limitless possibilities ahead.

I'm not the only person who says these sorts of things about Bill. I can name quite a few people who feel similarly, at least a couple of whom put it in very similar ways. Bill has impacted tens of thousands of lives (at least, probably far more) for the better. And a number of them (us?) have been known to gush. And to write down things he said, things which really grabbed hold of us, touched something deep, promised life, blooms and water in a parched desert. Life changing words.

While Bill and his awesome family recently moved to another state, he continues to be a friend, a mentor, a brother, a strength, a sounding board, so many things. He left behind, as he has other places, a community of people in closer relationship with God, themselves and each other, a community changing the world around them, a community walking in freedom, love and power.

I've been known to say, "He's my Bill Johnson". (If you don't know who Bill Johnson is, just take my word for it that he's touched a lot of lives, including my friend Bill's).[1] By the time Bill moved away, he'd raised up quite a few leaders here. I pray that some day many people will say of each of us, "S/he's my Bill Vanderbush".[2] Not because I need the accolades, but because I want to make an impact like Bill-- and because he deserves a lot of honor for all he's done.

Being the awesome guy he is, Bill will smile that amazing smile that has Daddy's love for his kids and Jesus' love for his bride all over it, and say something simple but profound and we'll all go, "Oh, that's good!" and reach for our pens and journals.


[1] This recognition originally hit me at the same time it hit Will Matthews. It immediately popped out of our mouths in perfect sync, cracking us both up.

Love and War: A Memorial

Each Memorial Day I especially think of my Uncle Elliott; I never knew him.

Perhaps in part it's because I was named after him (my middle name). But also there is the sadness of the family never really knowing what happened. His bomber was shot down during the Korean "conflict". He was MIA. He was eventually declared dead. Few details ever came to light.

Dad was shot down over Korea in a fighter. His best friends, his wingmen, whose names I have never heard (he hates to talk about it) were blown out of the sky just before he was hit. He was senior POW in his camp, horribly mistreated, in terrible shape when he was finally returned home. He could also have easily been MIA, presumed dead.

Millions have died for freedom. Some truly died for freedom, some died for for other reasons disguised as freedom-- greed, pride, empire, whatever. As regards their deaths, their sacrifice, the honor they deserve, it really doesn't matter which. But thinking of whether they should have died, and upon whose hands their blood lies, it matters a great deal.

God, grant us wisdom to see the difference, and the ability to hold leaders accountable. Send us leaders who will not take us needlessly into war, into bloodshed, into destruction, into sorrow, into grief, into the land of MIA and KIA and collateral damage, but into life, love, peace, and joy wherever possible. Let us live our lives that way to be worthy of such leaders, that we may no more need days such as this.

But for now, thank you for the love, courage and strength of those who gave their lives for us. Let us give our lives meaningfully and dearly for you, and for those you have put here with us.

Amen.

Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Uncle Elliott. Thank you to all who died that we might live, and live free.

Thanks to the Mik Chiks for inspiring this.

I'm a Monster, She's a Monster, Be a Monster, Too!

I'm a monster. Or so I've been told. Not a hairy one (though I have certainly been that). Not an ugly one (though I've been told that). Not a scary one (though I've even scared myself at times). Not a dangerous one (demons may argue).

Apparently I'm a Love Monster. I can live with that. Beats being sewn together from dug up pieces from graveyards or being undead, or the walking dead, or a radioactive mutant that feels compelled to stomp on buildings and eat cars, yet somehow never poops. A constipated car-nivore? Yuck.

So, what is a Love Monster? I think of it as sort of the opposite of Cookie Monster[tm]. CM consumes cookies; LM exudes love. CM is owned by cookie lust; LM is owned by love for everyone around.

A Love Monster can't help but love on people. This can take many forms, from hugs to hurting with the hurting to visiting someone in a hospital to taking someone out to eat to sitting at a funeral and crying-- or joking-- with a mom who's just lost her son.[1]

But the most important thing (which drives all of the above) a Love Monster does is simply to see who another person is, see who they are meant to be (seeing past their past, as it were), and calling out the gold, the good, their destiny-- encouraging and honoring them. In short, loving them from who they think they are to who they really are, which is who they were always meant to be.

A Love Monster tends to see others as family. A Love Monster acts as a mom or dad, grandparent, son or daughter, grandchild, aunt or uncle, cousin, niece or nephew, etc., to the people who let them in past their defenses. (They'll act that way toward everyone, but not everyone will see it, and even a Love Monster has some limits.) In some cases this becomes a covenant, or at the very least a semi-formal role. It goes beyond mentoring because love is the basis. It may be a one way thing; you don't cease being a parent just because a child rejects you, or vice versa.

Being a Love Monster isn't all hugs and laughter. Sometimes it's crawling into bed with the sick or dying-- being willing to speak life to them, fight for them, hold them whether they live or die. It's walking through the hell of someone dying, then walking through the aftermath with those who loved them. It's holding a rape victim, listening to sordid, anguished details you'd rather not here, or being yelled at, or even beat on, as they work through their pain, fear and anger; then it's being there to help put their life back together, going through tough decisions if they're pregnant, or if the rapist is known or caught. It's 3AM texts and phone calls. It's about last minute changed plans. It's about laying down your life for others. In the words of Maxwell Smart, Secret Agent 86, "aaand... loving it!"

But it's also about new life, seeing people set free or restored or waking up to their destiny, their gifts, their passion, their calling. It's about seeing people make good choices and reaping good consequences. It's about trading beauty for ashes, security for insecurity, love for fear, hope for pain.

And, quite often, it's about hugs. Lots and lots of hugs. Real hugs. Not brief, wimpy, chicken hearted, lily livered, lawyer and insurance company mandated, sideways hugs. Hugs. You know, like Italian families give each other. Hugs,

I'm a Love Monster standing on the street corner nearest you, holding up a sign. It's cardboard, but the words are in bright, rainbow colors. "WILL TRADE HUGS FOR... PRETTY MUCH ANYTHING YOU NEED TO GET RID OF." It's the best job on the planet.

Anyone want work? There's always room for one more Love Monster!


[1]Yes, we got some glares for that. I'll tell you the story some time.


A tip of the Stetson to Sally Hanan. This was her idea, or at least she passed it along from Daddy.

I Hate Boxes

It wasn't really that hard to love and honor the people closest to me. I could look in their eyes, hug them, laugh with them, cry with them, and easily see them, see in whose image they were made.

It was sometimes tougher to do that with others-- neighbors, co-workers, strangers, my nemesis. But not really all that tough once I started trying. I could still look them in the eyes.

But bad drivers... That one's been tougher. Not impossible, but tougher.

For years, my main transportation was a motorcycle. Motorcyclists refer to cars as boxes. Many car drivers are so trapped in their little box they have no clue what is going on around them. This is especially perturbing when you are exposed on a motorcycle. Several years in a Miata weren't that much different. Even now, in a Mazda 3, dwelling in the Land of Pickups and SUVs, it can be unnerving on a daily basis (think MoPac).

I learned to loathe certain types of boxers-- the clueless, the uncaring, the inattentive, the aggressive, the downright vicious. A while back I decided to love and honor these people, too. Some days it's *really* hard. Why is that?

It's for the same reason, I think, that motorcyclists labeled them as box drivers to begin with. There's a wall there, and some drivers can't or won't see through it, and I can't easily see through it, either. I can't look them in the eye. It's hard to see the human being in there. I certainly can't know them well. I can't even engage them in discussion.

But I do my best. Despite their driving habits and skills or lack thereof, they're moms, dads, children, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles, cousins, grandparents, grand-kids, friends, coaches, and so forth. They matter, too. We have the same Daddy. So I pray for their peace as well as mine.

Oddly enough, the more I'm able to do this, the happier and less stressed I am when I get wherever I'm going. If only I could get this message across. But while driving, hand gestures are about all that's available, and somehow they don't do the job.

So I bless them, and pray for them, and love them.

Occasionally I still flash my brights at them when they pull over a car length in front of me on the interstate, but most days it's more an attempt to communicate how foolish they're being rather than what I used to try to communicate, which was more along the lines of "I wish these were blasters fired by Chewbacca to wipe your foolish driving habits off the map!"

I'm still on CST (Centex Spring Time)

Early March to mid March were what we think of as spring in most of the country. Coming on the heels of something similar called "fall" in October of last year felt almost surreal. This is, after all, central Texas, where I have long said we have only two seasons-- summer and not-summer. Not summer can vary from not sweltering to below freezing, but even in December or January you might have days in the 80s. An actual spring or fall, at least more than a few days worth, is rare.

On the other hand, the old adage, "Texas: If ya don't like the weather, wait a few minutes; it'll change", is fairly true (except when the summer is hot and dry; then it's likely to stay that way for days on end, perhaps months). That works on a macro scale as well, as evidenced by our having an actual spring and fall within a single year's time.

Late March cooled a bit; it was more like a lot of early Marches I recall from years in the southeast. Yesterday, perhaps as an April fools prank, we hit 91 or so for several hours in the afternoon. Today should be close to that, but in a few days the highs should be in the high 70s. Spring again.

I lived through the Global Cooling days (official motto: The Ice Age Draweth Nigh! Prepare to Die!" I lived through the Global Warming Daze (Ted Turner's motto: "Only the cannibals will survive.") Now I'm living in the "Global Climate Change Daze (official motto: "It's all your fault, but we can't prove how or why."

Torrential rains in the southeast-- no surprise there. Lots of cold and snow up north-- no surprise there. Variable with warmth in central Texas-- no surprise there. While at the extreme end of the bell curve in some cases, it's pretty much what I learned in geography class back in the stone age (the 60s).

So far, while many people claim it's a proven fact that we're on the verge of a cataclysm, and that it's All Our Fault, I'm enjoying the weather here. Frankly, so long as my house wasn't washing away, I'd mostly enjoy the rain. So long as I weren't starving or freezing to death, I'd enjoy the snow (my wife wouldn't, but she just hates the cold unless it's really dry, like in the Colorado mountains).

I suppose I could be fretting about the weather. There are several reasons I don't.

1) I can't tell that anyone has proven anything. There's more than reasonable doubt on some of the work; some of it was as unscientific as it could be. Much of it is politically tainted. And nobody can actually explain to me what's really happening. They just wave statistics and call theories facts, proofs, and results.
2) As I noted, the actual theory and name keep changing. "Global Climate Change" is so broad a term as to be meaningless.
3) The usual mantras to solve the alleged problem (less gas, less coal, etc) are to be replaced by alternatives that-- at best-- postpone it. What will billions of acres of giant wind turbines do to the weather, never mind bird and insect populations and patterns? What will geothermal heating and cooling do to the Earth itself? Nobody really knows. Too often, government mandated cures are as bad as, or worse than, whatever is to be cured-- especially when rushed through.

We seem to forget that much of early civilization was migratory, precisely because of weather patterns such as we are seeing today. There are indications the climate has simply been calmer for some time but the data relating to that tend to be ignored.

Hmmm. I started out just wanting to talk about spring time in Texas. And that's really what It I'd rather do. I miss the Miata, but at least I have windows and a sun roof. We have a back porch. We have a great neighborhood for walking, with trails, a creek (of sorts), and parks nearby. When traffic is moving, I even enjoy the commute to work just because of the weather.

If you aren't enjoying yours, perhaps you should consider a migratory lifestyle. We can always put you up here for a bit. Swimming, anyone?