The Best of 2023 - #1 (New Zealand, first impressions)

When we rolled out of the Auckland international airport, we woke up to a gray dream.  Anna noticed it first.  The highway's side-streets were littered with lava stones and feathery evergreen trees, the sort of landscape for which I think she was destined.  We were riding a large double-decker bus into the heart of the city, our backpacks slung against our knees and our heads weary from so much traveling.

Still, it was beautiful.  Achingly so.  

The clouds lifted in various parts over the hills, and wisps of rain made the city feel so fresh after so much dank air that is the purgatory of international travel.   We had no idea where we were truly headed.  Serpentine roads took us past rugby pitches and soccer fields, through commuter tunnels and past billboards that were just familiar enough:  large media promoting their broadband, cell phone companies, and sports cars.  The language was the same, but none of the brands or logos made sense.  

In front of us were a wall of hotels and business suites.  The sun would break through occasionally, and off in the distance you could catch a glimpse of the wide ocean.  The Pacific.  We had done it.  Twenty some hours of traveling, and we had finally landed in a land we circled first in our imagination.

New Zealand!? 

Why not?  I mean if we had the chance to go anywhere in the world, I mean, anywhere, why not go to the one place that seemed almost unobtainable, a land further than most maps would even chart.

But, here we were.  Auckland.  A city resting in the Pacific.  A city for adventurers and travelers.  Sticking up towards the upper end of the North Island, Auckland is a harbor for harbors.  Sailing ships and big merchant vessels festooned the boardwalks around the city.  Life radiated up and out, volanic hills circling the city like an emerald version of Rome.  From here you could launch out west towards Sydney or northeast towards the other Polynesian islands - Fiji, Somao, Tonga.  

The bus brought us to the base of the Auckland Sky Tower and city center.  What terrible good fortune!  Someone, we had managed to take the one shuttle destined to land us right at our first hotel's doorstep.  And after bumping our way through the Sky City Hotel lobby, trying to track down an ATM, we made our way to The Grand by SkyCity.

Even better, the check-in counter let us into our rooms at the ridiculously early hour of 8:30 am Auckland time, something like a day and a half ahead of our where our bodies had left.  They most have seen the desperation in our faces.

Languishing for rest, they gave us two key cards, and we checked into our room on the sixth floor.  We were determined to keep ourselves up for another few hours at least, determined to beat back the effects of jet lag.  So after dropping our bags and taking a quick shower, we headed back out to the street.  

The air in Auckland in winter seems clean, cleaner than most ofther cities I can remember.  And while big, it's nothing obnoxious.  The city seems decently sized for being the biggest commercial and economic center in New Zealand.  But, what smells I did notice were - easily - the food.

Down the way was a coffee shop selling the things you'd see in any shop around here:  cappuccino, latte, but also this.  A short black.  A tall black.  The place we eventually stopped must have featured a bit of the tall black.  Whatever it was, it was good.  So good.  The deep, smooth, rich flavor of European coffee without a hint of something bitter to ruin it all.  The kind they pour into white, sturdy mugs and that you take into your hands like a sort of sacrament.

Even better, the place we landed for breakfast gave us our first introduction to just how rich and fresh the food in New Zealand is.  It's like it's all farm-to-table fresh.  Ironically (or maybe not surprisingly), we had chosen the "Federal Delicatessan," a knock-off of a New York big-counter place, full of clanging plates, fried potatoes and creamy spreads of lox on toasted bagels.  I opted for the pastrami plate (the "Mish-Mash"), full of those crispy potato chunks along with charred cubes of pastrami and two perfectly over-easy eggs, their orange yolks ready to burst over the plate.  I picked up the "yellow" mustard and drizzled it over the potatoes and hash, not aware that the label actually read "yellow curry mustard."  It was sweet and pugent, good and spicy with just enough zest.  The same went for the ketchup, just enough different than anything you'd find stateside to make us realize we were someplace wonderfully new.

Anna's salmon lox bagel ("The Best Ugly Bagel") was equally delicious, her face softening as she closed her eyes after the first bite.  We knew we were in for a treat.  We knew we had landed someplace special.  We knew we were home. 

If New Zealand was one of the best breakfast plates I'd ever had and all on a random whim and chance drop-in, well, we were going to be okay.  In fact, we were going to be in love.

And such is the first memory I want to capture from 2023.  The one I had waited for so patiently.  The one I hung so much of that word "hope" on.  New Zealand, you did not disappoint.  And this will not be the last time you make the list.   

  

Dirty Kanza 2019 - Somewhere in Middle America

The Legend


There’s a scene in The Force Awakens that’s worth noting.  A pair of young, would-be heroes have just escaped a handful of dangers and are now on course with a destiny larger than either could have imagined.  Fin and Rey are about to face down not only a menacing new threat to the order of the universe.  They are also about to face down their own fears.  They find themselves tiptoeing up to something massive, something demanding.


There they are – standing in front of the Han Solo himself, when Rey asks with something of awe in her voice, “The Jedi were real?”


“I used to wonder about that myself,” says, Han, “I thought it was a bunch of mumbo jumbo, …”  Then he pauses, turns away from them and reminds himself, “the crazy thing is … it’s true … all of it.”


And in that scene, you have the essential allure of why some 2,600 cyclists from all 50 states and 26 different countries descended upon Emporia, Kansas this past weekend.  There are those who have experienced firsthand the trials and tribulations … who have faced it down.  They lean over to you before the race and offer one little bit of advice, “don’t go too hard too fast.”  


And there are those like me and my two friends.  The newbies.  The rookies.  The riders who find themselves tiptoeing up to something massive, something consuming, … something that will alter us.


The Event


The Dirty Kanza is no longer just a bike race.  Maybe it never it was.  It’s an event, an experience. 

As managing director and lover of this area of Kansas, Jim Cummings intentionally wanted to create something that would stretch people and push them to their limits.  In fact, that’s the tag line for the 200 mile version.  Go find your limit.  See what happens to you when you find it.  See if you learn something.  See if you can find a way to push beyond that limit and find something more to make it all the way back to town.


Jim Cummings is the event’s Han Solo, gruff and tender in equal turns, he had already told me everything I would need to know about this event.  He had put it all out there, in interviews over the last few years, in the riders’ mandatory meeting the night before the race, and in everything that went out to us as participants.


This race is an endurance race.


It will test you.


You are responsible for you.


We are not.


This is a self-sustaining ride. 


But, what Jim didn’t say in all of his talk is what might as well have been said.  It’s what I would figure out about three quarters of the way through my ride. 


“No one is going to be out there to give you a ride back, so you better figure out now what the hell you’re going to need to get back home.”


Everyone goes deep in Dirty Kanza.  Everyone.  The pros.  The endurance nuts.  The woman six months removed from chemo.  The guy doing the 200 mile edition with only one leg. 


You add it all up – the hills, the gravel, the miles, the sun, the isolation, the wind, the deprivation – and something is going to start gnawing at you.  Something on you or in you or underneath is going to give way.


If you’re lucky, your bike will hold up.


If you’re lucky, you won’t have a mechanical out there, rendering your bike into a rather heavy walker for miles on end.


But, even if your bike holds up, something will happen.  A blister.  A lack of water.  Maybe even a hallucination.


Yeah, it gets that bad. 


All you have to do is ask my friend, Mallen, but I’ll get that later.


Three Friends


Mallen is who I blame for all of this.  He’s the one who came up with the idea that Brian Bales should register for the Dirty Kanza 2019 lottery, and Bales in turn roped me into the foolishness.


Tip #1 – when an old college friend who flirted with the idea of riding professionally and who has continued to push himself to the extremes physically, suggests you enter an endurance event with him, maybe think twice about it.


Mallen was a beast even when I first met him.  He was a freshman at DePauw when I was a senior, and I was amazed at his girth, his strength.  He came to play football in the trenches of Division III.  But, he discovered a love for cycling and transformed himself from a linemen into a hulking coil of muscle and speed, what is known in cycling terms as a “sprinter.” He went off to Belgium after college to train with the “Euros,” the guys who eat, sleep and you know what this stuff.  It was there he learned the art of elbowing for wheels and grinding out 1000 watt pulls to lead out sprint trains.

Mallen’s the kind of guy who when he does something, he doesn’t do it in moderation.  He does it thoroughly and well and calculated.  In his day job, the place he’s known as Matt Allen, he runs numbers and uses his particular gift of obsession to analyze data trends for a tech company.  In his training rides, he prepares himself by putting himself up against the limit and then doing it again the next day.


Hands down, Mallen was the most prepared of the three of us.  He was the only one who would try to tackle the full 200 miles.  And his goal?  Beat the sun.  Get back to Emporia in just under 17 hours and earn a badge of honor, both literal and figurative. 


He had a mission, and nothing was going to stop him.  Not even that buffalo out there on the prairie.  Again.  Later.


Bales is about as considerate a person I know, and that’s saying a lot.  Bales is the kind of guy who will give you the shirt off his back and then ask if it’s the right size. 


He’s a doctor, but don’t let that fool you.  By this point in his life, he could easily have set himself on course for a life of ease and comfort, but instead he continues to see his calling as a doctor as his opportunity to give back, to instruct, and do the next good thing.


Here’s what you need to know about Brian.  Several months ago he seriously messed up his back riding in the bed of a rickety old truck somewhere off in a less privileged part of the world, giving medical care to a community that otherwise wouldn’t get it.  The ruts and bumps of that distant place twisted his paraspinal muscles and enflamed nerves deep near his spine. 


It got better.


Then it didn’t. 


He had to tone down his training for the Dirty Kanza, and maybe he would have been all right.  But, Bales you remember is not the sort of guy who will think only of himself.


So, there he is the night before he’s to spend over twelve hours driving in a car, and he’s in the emergency room giving care to the patients at Vanderbilt’s hospital.  There’s a guy needing to be moved from the medical stretcher to a bed.  And no one is around at the moment to help.  So, there goes Brian – lifting the patient.


And there goes Brian’s back.


Two hours later, he’ll run home just long enough to throw his prepacked bags into his truck and grit his bike over the edge of his truck only to drive five hours up to South Putnam High School where he will meet with a wince and a hug at 5:30 am in the morning.


Tip #2 – if you’re going to do Dirty Kanza, you might as well do it with friends.  They’re going to need you, and you’re going to need them.


The Journey


Why do we do these things?


What’s the point? 


It’s stupid from one perspective.  Three former athletes traveling out to the middle of nowhere in America, driving over 700 miles or more, all for the sake of spending an entire day on a bike to go literally nowhere.  Seriously, that’s what you do.  If you’re successful you end up in the exact same spot you left.  You don’t do anything out there during the ride except turn some bike pedals over in circles.  It’s not even environmentally friendly, regardless of what you tell yourself.


But you do it for the deeper journey. 


You do it because when you get that email from the race promoters, the one that says, “Congratulations, you’re entered for Dirty Kanza 2019,” something happens.  There’s a clarity that emerges for you, a purpose to get you through a winter in Indiana, something to peg yourself to mentally and physically.


You do it for the simple fact that the tediousness of life demands we find new things to surprise us and challenge us.


And you do it for the opportunity to share the journey with those around you.


I am pleased that I crossed that finish line on Saturday.


But, I am grateful that Brian was there awaiting me, already having packed up his bike and his day as a result of that poor back.  I am grateful he kept bringing me ice-cold rag after ice-cold rag until my socks were socked through and my body had cooled.


I am grateful for the street vendors who doled out five al pastor tacos complete with barbacoa just past the Episcopalian church.  I am grateful for the couple, one from Costa Rica and the other near Reynosa, who offered up chairs next to them in the shade as Brian and I ravenously ate our food.


I am grateful for the trip out to IHOP the night before the race and the chance to sit around and talk about the good old days.  I am grateful for trying not to choke on my harvest grain pancakes as Mallen relayed the time he and Bales built a four-foot snowman in Bob Dinn’s room back in the fraternity house at Delta Upsilon – lugging heaps of snow in fifty-gallon trash bins up a flight of stairs.


I am grateful for the guy who rode up next to me just before the first checkpoint and told me he had just been cleared by his doctor to ride outside again.  He had broken his pelvis some months ago, and here he was on his second ride out doors in the past week.  And all he had to do was go another 50 miles to finish this one.


I am grateful for that vista on top of some hill I had to walk to get to the top of.  I am grateful for the immediate friends I had around me as we all took out our phones and snapped pictures of endless green.  I’ve never been somewhere so high up where no matter where I looked, I couldn’t see a water tower, a petrol station, or some highway running through the land.


And I am grateful for that guy at mile 82 who pulled up his truck at an intersection so he could give out free water and cans of beer for those truly in dire straits. 


On the way home, Brian and I listened to a podcast on Fresh Air about the “stressed years of our life,” the reality of anxiety and mental health issues that seem to be overwhelming our culture and even our colleges these days.  Now, to be sure, it is a crisis.  And I know firsthand the importance of taking all of that stuff seriously.


But, part of me can’t help but wonder if a significant factor in our lack of mental health these days is our overwhelming fixation on what is right in front of us (which is often the screens on our phones) and on working towards some result.


Kanza, as Jim Cummings says over and over again, is about the process, the journey.  Kanza is about doing something so out there that it forces you out of your mental space, out of the four inches between your ears and into something that will assault you but also empower you … and excite you … and awe you … and curse you … and challenge you.


The psychotherapist on that podcast said that the hardest thing is when we lose hope.  When we are unable to see anything before us that is hopeful, that is inviting, that is beautiful, we can’t help but become worn down and fatigued by the weight we are carrying. 


Tip #3 – Go find hope somewhere, however you need to find it.  It doesn’t have to be some stupid bike ride out in the middle of nowhere, but do something you love.  Keep finding some vehicle and road that will take you into a future where you can see promise and where you can feel the connection of community.


The Race


Oh yeah, this is a bike race. 


It’s kind of hard to forget that when you’re sitting on your bike surrounded by about 750 others and Jim Cummings is counting down the final ten seconds before you roll out.  If you do lose track, just look down and take a glance at your heartrate.  It will likely be elevated.


One of the legit contenders for this year’s 200 mile version said his goal was to stay “as bored as long as possible.”  I should have plastered that immediately in front of my eyes for the first hour of the ride.


I, however, made the quintessential mistake in bike racing.  Go out too hard too fast.  Be a hero early and a zero later.


Shoot, though, it’s hard not to get swept up in those first forty miles.  It’s hard not to hang onto wheels as others drift off the back.  You’ll tell yourself you’re playing the game right.  You’ll tell yourself this group will pull you along and make it so much easier going into the headwind.


But, unless you’re insanely fit, you’re not going to be able to hold wheels, especially when the gravel gets worse (and it will) and the hills start coming (and they will).


The first forty-five minutes I essentially did a crit race to start Kanza


Tip #4 – Don’t do that.


I eased off finally and settled into a more realistic pace, latching onto wheels as they came up from behind.  We were still cruising, and we were crushing the miles, even the disastrous sections of road that were torn up by recreational vehicles and whose patches of gravel were seemingly dropped randomly from a helicopter.  True story, some guys told me about a dude who literally cartwheeled over his bike off into a ditch.  Said he tried to bunny hop a rut in the road, missed his mark, and jackknifed his handlebars – turning him into a real-life rag-doll, spinning over the gravel into the grass.


Brian passed a guy with a broken clavicle.


I did the same later on.


Meanwhile, this whole time, I just prayed I didn’t flat.  A flat spells bad luck.  Many flats makes for an incredibly hard day.  And so I went back and forth with myself in my head as the miles ticked by over this rough stuff.


“It’s okay.  It’s just a sandier road.  You’re good.”


“Shit!  You’re screwed.  Good luck catching up with these guys again.”


Somehow, my Donnelly EMP tires held up, and they should.  The EMP is the airport code for Emporia, KS – the tires were built specifically to ward off the sharp edges of the “flint” stones.


Tip #5 – Get yourself a good set of tires.  But, even more importantly, just pray that you don’t flat.  Seems like all the pros flatted.  Kanza is like anything else.  You better prepare, but nothing can prepare you for what is really going to happen.


Halfway through the race, I was making good time.  I rolled into the first and only checkpoint in about three and a half hours – having gone 54 miles.  I was averaging 15.7 mph and crushing Dirty Kanza.


I had no idea what sort of suffering awaited me in the second half.


By 11 am, the sun was near zenith, and it was getting hot.  I drank a full 32 oz. Gatorade at the checkpoint, downed another half bottle, ate a payday and swallowed four Endurolyte pill plus two shots of pickle juice to ward off any cramps down the road. 


I would have been wise to drop three more such caches down the road at 20 mile intervals.


Tip #6 – It is practically impossible to overhydrate for Dirty Kanza.  Drink until you feel like a tick on a bloodhound.  Then drink some more.


Honestly, miles 54 through 64 weren’t that bad.  We started to climb some steeper gradiants, but around mile 65 were turned westward for a long, lonely stretch of hills and headwind.  That’s probably where I first started to feel the small stabs in my quads and calves, the early indications of dehydration.


By the time we turned south to head back towards Emporia, I knew I was going to have “issues.”

There is a lonely stretch of road some thirty miles west of Emporia.  There are old rock fences where farmers have pulled sharp flint out of the fields, and grass along the side of gravel roads.  But, there ain’t much else.  Every five or six miles, you might happen upon a dip in the road where the water sustains a few shade trees.


Out there in one of those shady spots is where I laid down.  Yes.  I’m not ashamed to say it.  I pulled off my helmet and sunglasses, my gloves, my jersey, and I just laid in the cool, soft grass for five … ten … maybe fifteen minutes.  I listened as other riders went by, their voices barely audible over the gravel and their high pitched hubs.  I knew whatever prize I was chasing, nothing was worth heat stroke. 


I got myself cooled down, climbed on my bike and started slogging up the endless gravel that climbed before me.


People rode by in ones and twos.


We turned eastward, and I pulled out my Red Bull, downing it in four large gulps.


I crushed the gravel too at this point, hammering my way past some of the same people who had just passed me.  On the flatter sections, the stuff that reminds me of Putnam County’s gravel, I churned out 17 to 18 mph easy.  I hammered past three guys standing under another shade tree, and thought, “I know what they’re feeling.”


Around mile 75, the road turned north again.  This is when my body started giving out.  There was a long climb in front of me, and if I managed to hold my body just right and keep my cadence right around 85 rpm, I was good.  But, I had to go deep.  I churned my 32 rear cog, but had to do so at 60 to 70 rpm.  My left quad seized.  It went pancake flat, and I could see quaking underneath my skin.


But, I made it to the top, damn it.


And then I saw the next hill to the east.   And the next.  And the next.  Stretching off into the unforeseeable future.


I tried to find anything out there that spoke of civilization.


Nothin’.


Mallen would tell us later on this is where he cried.


He got to the top of one of those long, gnarly hills where all you could do was pedal and bake under the sun.  He was certain he would climb to the top only to see it descending before him, carrying him back to town.


But, oh no.


All he saw before him was another hill he’d have to climb.


And another.


And somewhere out there too is where Mallen hallucinated.


He said he was riding along when all of a sudden a bison jumped out of the ditch and started coming after him.


Yeah, a bison.


So, what do you do when you’re thirty miles from civilization and a bison is chasing you? 


Naturally, you stand out of your seat and sprint as fast as you can.


It was only after he threw his body into this vicious effort that his sanity reminded him that there was no bison behind him.  He returned to his normal effort, strangely wondering if that wasn’t in fact a bunch of twigs in the ditch.


I would pay so much money to see video footage of my friend, Mallen, sprinting away from an imaginary buffalo thirty miles west of Emporia, Kansas.


Tip #7 – If you see bison chasing you out on the course at Dirty Kanza, you might want to take a break.


When I would finally cross the finish line some four hours later from that vista, I would tell Jim Cummings, the founder and masochist behind Dirty Kanza, that there wasn’t anything out there “but pain and beauty.”


And I would cross the finish line. 


I would cross after walking several of those hills that Mallen kept pushing himself up one after another.


I would cross after riding the last ten miles through Kansas farm fields that had been flooded and were baking in the sun – the smell of that pond near my house in Colony Woods filling my nostrils, rank and summery.


I would cross after counting up to 60 in my head, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, and doing that for the last five miles that seemed to never end.


I would cross not really sure if I was proud of my time … or if I would ever do it again.

When it comes to a race, it wasn’t really my best.


When it comes to a journey.  It was worth every moment.


Epilogue


The night before the race, we slept in the Wyatt Earp Hotel & Inn just off I-35 near Lebo Junction.  There’s not much out there, and our sleeping was meant to be functional and short before the race.  My sleep was not heavy.


Two doors down from me, Brian slept a good sleep even though his back would soon re-awaken him to what lay before him out there.


But, deep in his psyche, way down there where the good stuff happens, he was dreaming that he was running.  He was running like he remembers many years ago.  He was smiling as he was running.  A

And he was free.


Sometimes we must put ourselves through much in order to reclaim what is core.


That’s what I learned.


Tip #8 – Go find your limit.

Galileo, Mr. Rogers & Learning to Love My Gay Neighbor

We're Sorry Galileo

Think about this for a moment.  The Roman Catholic Church didn't publicly acknowledge it was wrong in its condemnation of Galileo until 1992.

1992.

He died in 1642, living out his last few years under house arrest.

That's three hundred and fifty years.  Finally, three hundred and fifty years later Pope John Paul II worked up the courage to offer a papal "our bad" (not a direct Latin translation).

Now, let me ask you this:  in those three hundred and fifty years between 1642 and 1992, did the Church's unwillingness to acknowledge the truth of Galileo's theory and findings keep the earth at the center of the universe?  Nope.  Of course not.

The perception of the Church didn't nullify the truth of the reality. 

So, maybe there's another question in here.  Maybe the other question is this:  what makes us hold on so tightly to some ideas?  What makes us cling to some traditions so strongly?

Well, I know the answer to those questions because that's part of my story, and I'll get there in a moment.  But, first I have to talk about Mr. Rogers.

Mr. Rogers

By pretty much all measures, Mr. Rogers is about as good as you can do when it comes to accepting and loving others.  Having experienced firsthand the reality of being taunted and teased as a child for being sickly and pudgy, Mr. Rogers set out to make sure that didn't happen for other children.  Formed and fashioned by the work of Dr. Spock, Erik Erikson and others, Mr. Rogers wanted to create a world where children especially could be free to express how they truly felt, to have their thoughts and emotions verified, and to know that they had value inherit within them.   What he said to Michael Keaton in a 2004 documentary captures his worldview:

"You know, I think everybody longs to be loved, and longs to know that he or she is lovable. And consequently, the greatest thing we can do is to help somebody know they’re loved and capable of loving.”

So, when Mr. Rogers set out to create a "neighborhood" for children to enter and learn and grow, he set out to make it an inclusive space, a place of differences that were seen, valued and loved.

That's why he sought out singer and actor Francois Clemmons.  Fred wanted Francois Clemmons (that's Officer Clemmons to you and me) to be seen as an African-American man who was to be valued and respected.  At first Francois resisted, knowing how law enforcement officials could be seen by kids like him from neighborhoods like his back in urban Ohio.  But, Fred Rogers insisted.  Fred intentionally wanted people to see Officer Clemmons as a person of dignity and worth.

All of which is great.

Except there's more to the story.  There always is.

It turns out Francois Clemmons was also gay.  He tried to be otherwise, fit himself into a marriage that ended in heartache and frustration, tried to fit the mold others thought he should be in.  And, while Mr. Rogers was willing to push certain issues, this one was maybe a bit too much for a new show.  There was too much on the line.  So, Mr. Rogers politely asked Francois to keep that one little fact about his identity from the public and the press.  No need to raise too much of controversy.

So, for many years, Mr. Rogers went around telling all sorts of people "I love you just the way you are," but Officer Clemmons had to listen to him say that and wonder, "Yeah, but what about me?"

Mr. Rogers and Me

Turns out Mr. Rogers and I share a few things in common, I mean, besides the fact that he too was a Presbyterian minister.

You see, for a number of years, I found myself trying to hedge my bets and have it both ways.  I liked to see myself as open and accepting, but when it came to taking a stand on affirming gay and lesbian individuals, well, that was a bit controversial.  That was a bit too risky.  That's the kind of thing that can blow up your church.  That's the kind of thing that can drive people away.

There's this moment, though, in the most recent documentary about Mr. Rogers' life where Francois Clemmons realizes his friend, Mr. Rogers, really is seeing him and loving him.  Mr. Rogers says that line again to end one of his shows, "I love you just the way you are."  But this time Clemmons realizes his friend, Mr. Rogers, is talking directly to him.  And with a heart that is full (and eyes that are teary), Francois Clemmons recalls how incredibly powerful and life-giving it was to have Mr. Rogers tell him this.  It opened up a wealth of dignity within the man's soul.

Somewhere over the course of the last five or six years, my own heart has changed.  Little by little and bit by bit, any and all insecurities I had about acknowledging the dignity and worth of someone who is gay or lesbian has completely disappeared.  In truth, it goes back even longer than that.  I was blessed to know some really incredible people in my time at DePauw, including some of my best friends and fraternity brothers in Delta Upsilon, who eventually opened up about their sexual identity.  And in recent years, I've been blessed by some of the most amazing people who have been bold enough to share their own stories with me - men and women who tried like Francois Clemmons to put themselves into a mold that wasn't ever going to fit.  It changed me to hear them relay their stories of struggle, of hope, of praying, of yearning, and of eventually coming to see God's love for them unconditionally.

I don't even know how to explain it.  It just happened.  I just found myself sitting there one day with this deep awareness that I had no problem loving and accepting the person sitting in front of me for who she was ... for who he was.  Honestly, it felt like grace.  It felt right.

Our Traditions Are Valuable

But, let's get this straight.  I'm not perfect, and I'm not pretending that I'm settling this debate.  I've spent many years wrestling with the "issue" of homosexuality, and I think I know why.  This is the part that goes back to Galileo and the Roman Catholic Church.

My church family growing up has meant the world to me.  It was there in ways I can't begin to describe.  I can't imagine where I'd be without that community of pastors and mentors and families who were there to support myself and my family during tough times.  And, to feel like I would be betraying that family ... like I would be walking away from that tradition.  Ugh.  That was tough.  That tradition was stability to me.  That tradition was my home spiritually, and I don't say that lightly.

But, at some point, my worldview changed.  I wasn't looking to change my worldview.  At least, I don't think so.  Maybe Galileo wasn't either.

But once you see something, you can't unsee it, as the saying goes.

Our understanding of human sexuality is changing.  It has changed.  That's happening right now in our lifetime.  And I believe the deep invitation coming to us from Jesus is to not shy away from those questions but to enter into them more deeply ... more humbly ... more humanly.  In other word, more like Mr. Rogers.

One Last Word from Mr. Rogers

Now, though, there's one last word for me to remember here.  This one is really important.  Mr. Rogers was right in that interview and what he said to Michael Keaton.  The fact of the matter is that each and every one of us wants to be seen, to be valued and to be loved.  That goes for ... each ... and ... every ... person.  Including my gay neighbor.  But also my neighbor who still finds it hard to see this matter differently.

In the end, "the greatest thing we can do is to help somebody know they're loved and capable of loving."

~Wes
 

My First Black Friday: "Save yourself" at Menard's

Keep this in mind.

There's never been a moment in my life when I've thought, "I can't wait until Black Friday."  Never.

Everything about it is diametrically opposed to my worldview and ethics:  rampant consumerism, bait-and-switch ploys that hamstring the economically impoverished, and - most importantly - early mornings.  Plus, large groups of people.  That's the deal-breaker for me.  I once abandoned a New Year's party in high school because the house - by my own estimation - was beyond capacity.  I pushed my way through a huddle of sophomores in the entryway like a salmon swimming upstream.  Keep this image in mind.  It will come around again.

So, I'm not sure what foolishness overtook me yesterday.  With some prodding and enticing from my brother-in-law after our Thanksgiving dinner, I agreed to go with he and his wife and my father-in-law to Menard's this morning.  Drew, my brother-in-law, waved his iPhone in front of me at the dinner table, complete with the Menard's 6-hour Black Friday promo.  Maybe it was the cordless tire compressor.  I could really use one of those.  Certainly, the barn door hardware was part of it.  $39.99!  50% off!  And, I really needed to get a ceiling vent for our bathroom.

Sensing my weakness, Drew threw his upper-cut.  "We can get Square Donuts" on our way.  I'm a sucker for donuts.  Every time.

We circled back to the topic of our Black Friday trip as we said our goodbyes for the night (Drew conscipiously avoiding the words "Black Friday" I now realize).  We agreed upon a time.  I'd pick my father-in-law up at 5:30 am.  We'd meet Drew and his wife at 5:50 and be in Terre Haute by 6:15.  I'd be eating donuts by 6:15 am.

The donuts is probably why I woke up ready to go at 4:30 am.  Definitely.

Sure enough, we get to Drew's house at 5:50 am.  His car is running, and we're back on 40 heading west bound while Brazil quietly rests.  There's hardly another car on the two west bound lanes, and we start joking about how we'll get there to find like ten people in the store - just a few retirees and insomniacs.

Just past Rose Holman I make some joke about the Terre Haute Air Show.  That was one of our last forays over this way, and it was a madhouse.  Traffic backed up for hours, poor planning, and - again - crowds:  all the makings for frustration.  How silly that was of us!  Man, I'll never make that same mistake again.  

Meanwhile, we were driving into a trap.  Everything was about to go sideways.

First of all, there was no Square Donuts.  Of all things, some family had the nerve to honor this cultural holiday by - you know - sleeping in ... and enjoying a quiet morning at home with their family.  I know this because I called the Square Donuts number and was told such.

No worries, though.  We were still in a jovial mood.  Pretty soon, we would be leisurely browsing the aisles of Menard's - picking up our two-pack of Stanley tape measures (25' & 30').  Pretty soon we'd be listening to the "save big money at Menard's" jingle in a cavernous retail store practically all by our lonesome.

This next thing is the best part.

We're approaching Menard's, but not quite there. Off to our right is a darkened retail store, one I had never previously noticed.  But for whatever reason, the entire parking lot was full.  Holly, Drew's wife, says, "That's funny.  Trader Buck's flea market sure looks busy, but the lights aren't on."

Then it hit us.  Trader Buck's wasn't busy.  Menard's was BUSY!  In fact, Menard's was so busy that not only was its parking lot already full, so was Verizon's and La Isla Mexican and Trader Buck's and the U-Haul drop-off place tucked back into the alleyway.

It was a trap!  But before we knew it, we were following a line of cars pulling into Menard's.  Dazed and confused,  Drew, who was driving, bypassed two customers pushing two over-loaded carts.  We nearly hit an Amish woman carrying an armload of Mason jars.  Eventually, after driving out to what I can only describe as the place where Clark Griswald parks the station wagon at Wally World, we realized we needed a plan.  Joe, Drew's dad, volunteered to drop us off.  He would sacrifice his Black Friday deals for us.  Heck of a guy that Joe Cooper.

But first, we drive past the front of the building.  I'm not sure why.  Someone said something about needing to see how long the lines were.  Unfortunately, we were duped it this moment.  The lines looked extremely reasonable.  So, Joe dropped Drew and me off.

The moment I set foot in the store, I knew we had a problem.  The place was teeming with people.  All the carts were gone.  And there was "caution" tap strewn about the front, directing the herds of customers through two designated checkout lines.

Drew and I regrouped in the tool section.  By this point, I literally could not think of any one single item I had planned to purchase.  Not a one.  I stared blankly at the tape measures in front of me.

Thankfully, Drew still had his iPhone and Black Friday promo.  I pulled up the pictures, recovering my wits and made a B-line for the cordless tire compressor.  I turned to Drew like a man desperate to avoid a coming plague or zombie acopalypse, "Where do you think the barn door hardware is?"  A man rolled a cart past me with what had to be a three foot slab of summer sausage.  Scores of people had oversized dog beds hanging over all sides of their carts.  I resorted to my salmon-swimming-upstream strategy.  I stuck to the side aisles, slipping through the masses gathered around the dog toy section.  Up in front of me - near where the barn door hardware was supposed to be - there was something resembling the beer line at a Colts' game.  I would discover only after what was causing this human whirlpool:  Menard's had dropped whole pallets of Chinese electronic items on its sales floor to lure its Black Friday shoppers into a feeding-frenzy of heavily discounted junk.  That is, of course, except for the barn door hardware.  That was a steal!

I made it out alive.  Never mind that Drew and I got separated.  He nearly got suckered into the 5-foot high blue-tooth speaker.  Thankfully, I pulled him out just in time, and I found a sales clerk.  "Where are the shop-vacs?  The ones in the promo," I called out over the blue-tooth record players.  "Down there, aisle 35," he replied.  "Look for the plywood section."  Naturally.

Now we came to a critical moment.  Up to this point, everything we had accumulated we could carry with our own two hands.  Shop-vacs, though, are large.  So are pancake air compressors for $74.99.  Same with rolling tool chests.

Drew put his stuff on top of the tower of shop-vac boxes.  I knew what he was looking for:  a cart.  Good luck with that!

I'm afraid to admit this, friends.  Here is your first peek into some of my darker recesses.  There I was in aisle 35 with my brother-in-law and the prospect of this casual morning turning into my final hour. I'm sad to say I could not be my brother's keeper.  "Drew, I'm going to go see if I can check out.  I'll be right back.  And I'll bring a cart if I find one."  That last part was definitely a lie.

I wove my way towards the front, hoping I'd find some lonely sales clerk with one of those Star Trek-like scanners, eager to check me out.  Ever the idealist.  Of course, nothing.  I looked around me and saw a sign pointing towards the appliances.  "Checkout line," it read with an arrow pointing back to some forelorn distant corner.

Do you know that part in A Christmas Story when Ralphie realizes the extent of his predicament - a Soviet-era bread-line stretching beyond sight?

Now I must tell the second awful thing about myself.

I saw a man struggling to keep command of his two carts near the fake Christmas trees.  A ten-foot gap opened between he and the two women in front of him.

Yes, I did precisely what you are thinking I did.  I was THAT guy.

But, I was also THAT guy who happened to be only forty feet from the checkout clerk.

Five minutes later, and I was unloading my meager gatherings (one cordless compressor, one box of barn door hardware, one pair fur-lined Thinsulate gloves, and one 50' Stanley Fatmax garden house.  The garden house was totally an impulse buy.)  Shell-shocked, I never even thought to look for the ceiling vent, the only item I truly needed.

I asked the two women in front of me what time they got there.

"2:30," they said.

"What!  Are you serious?  How much sleep did you get," I asked.

"Three hours."

"You're nuts," I said.

Says the guy who just cut two hundred people to buy an armful of goods.

And who never did get any donuts!

Yup, folks.  This is me.  And this is us.  Welcome to America.  Home of the Black Friday.

By the way, I just checked.  Barn door hardware.  $39.99 online.  Same price as I paid this morning.

Laughs and memories for next year's Thanksgiving, though:  priceless.

Wes










   

Calling All Inter-generational Missionaries

My sister sent me a message the other day through Facebook.  Somehow, she had caught a glimpse of my friend, Josh Husman, doing his thing on Facebook Live.  Josh and I go way back.  We met each other at DePauw.  Josh stood with me in my wedding.  And, to top it all off, we were also part of the greatest Fuller Theological Seminary flag football team ever created, although the actual documentation on this achievement seems scant.  Then again, we did have an Armenian track star lining up for us at wide-receiver, so there is that.

In any case, there was Josh on my computer screen, dressed in his hipster cardigan, standing in front of an elegant and sharp looking backdrop of neon tube lights.  Around him were the obvious displays of a modern worship band:  a drum set, several guitars in their stands, microphones, and a keyboard.  I may have even spied a banjo. 

Josh's story is an incredible story.  In five years, Josh and his fellow servants have seen a church grow from a small plant meeting in an out-of-the-way office building on the north side of Indianapolis to a congregation with four weekly services.  Oh, and it's also moved from that little office building all the way up to the heart of Carmel, Indiana, taking over an old Borders Book Store.  Inside it is now barn-wood and stainless steel and Kuerig machines and Ikea tables.  

Most church plants don't make it.  Like 80% fail.  But, this church - Mercy Road - is more than making it.  It is flourishing, and it is flourishing largely because it is engaging younger people.  Gen-Xers like me, to be sure, are coming to church.  But, primarily, they're hitting it big with Millenials.  I know Josh well enough to know it's more than just a young church.  Tom Abernathy goes to his church.  Yup, that Tom Abernathy.  That old dude from IU Basketball's glory days.  Still, Mercy Road trend's young.  You don't go there if you like choirs and robes.

Which is pretty much exactly like the church I serve, aside from the barn-wood and the worship band and the the neon tube lighting.  We pretty much trend young, if you count 60 as young.  Oh, well, I guess we do have a Kuerig machine.  We even have two!  And we have a projector. 

Anyhow, this explains why just after lunch, I found myself traveling up the road with three of my church family members up to Autumn Glen, one of our resident local assisted-living communities.  

Allie Peabody lives in one of the smaller condos at Autumn Glen.   She's been back there now for about six months, and normally she would make the short trip to our church on Sundays.  However, a few weeks ago she took a weird step, damaging a ligament in her foot.  She didn't think much of it at first.  Allie is tough, and if you want proof just ask her about the time she coordinated a protest to get a "STOP" sign installed at a local intersection.  She mobilized a crew, got everyone into action, and after the local authorities saw she was serious, they relented to her request.  But, time and age have a way of presenting challenges that are even too tough for people like Allie. 

At least, that's what I'm learning now as a pastor to Allie and others like Allie.  Like John McKee, a ninety-year old man who has worked harder and longer than I can even begin to imagine, who still walks his yard to pick up the sticks before mowing his lawn for the first time in the spring.  John is the sort of guy who puts us young whipper-snappers to shame, but recently his back has laid him low again.  He looked me in the eye today and told me he is thinking about going in for his third back surgery.  He's had four bypasses by the way, too.  One time they even went ahead and just replaced a whole artery in his neck because the old one was growing useless and constricting the blood flow to the width of the lead sticks in a mechanical pencil.  So, yeah, individuals like Allie and John, they've seen a thing or two.

When you sit with older individuals these are the stories that will come up.  It used to make me squirm a bit, but I've since grown to see that there is holiness even in this liturgies of illnesses and aches.  Besides, if mortality proves true, there's a good chance I'm headed down this road too.  i

More importantly, if you sit long enough with the Allie's and the John's of this world, you also begin to hear and see another story unfolding, a beautiful and deeper story.  That's precisely what happened as I sat with Allie and a few others in the library room at Autumn Glen.  We moved past the aches and pains.  We moved back in time.  Allie started telling me about killing chickens once a week for the family dinner, lopping off their heads and plucking out all those feathers.  You saw this fire called dignity start burning in her eyes.

To my left, Juanita took up the slack and added her own story.  For a year, she would take the bus all the way up to Indy, get off at the bus stop and walk thirteen blocks to her employment only to do it all over again each afternoon as she headed back for Coatesville.  So when Juanita tells me about her aching feet again in the future, I'll think twice before I write her off.  I can't say I've walked those thirteen miles in her shoes.

There are times I'm wise enough to shut up and just listen, and what I begin to hear is of a generation that isn't so much demanding respect as wondering how precisely the world has moved on so quickly.

But, as I watched these four individuals come alive in that library, this other thought really took control of me. 

Josh's church needs our church.   

And our church needs Josh's church.

For whatever reason, ours is a culture that compartmentalizes almost everything.  Advertising and marketing trends break us into generations.  Churches often follow suit.  Hands down, though, the healthiest young people that I know are the ones who are gaining wisdom from their elders.  Likewise, the healthiest senior adults I know are the ones who are actively interested in what is really happening in the lives of young people.  I don't mean harping or bemoaning on what is wrong with young people.  That is a different thing.  No, I mean those older adults who are still young at heart and longing to pass on their wisdom and love to the next generation.

I am reminded of a couple Anna and me met while we were out in Pasadena.  We were going to this hip church, for - you guessed it - young people.  Hey, we progress in stages, okay.  It was called Warehouse, and by intention it was the exact opposite of the morning service at the big church.  No choir, no pews, no hymn books, and no grand stage.  Everything was stripped down, and to suit the younger audience, church started at 6 pm in the evening.  Young people like Anna and I didn't start filing into until 6:05 pm at the earliest of course, and when we did, there was a worship band leading us through a series of songs to ease us into the service. 

Near the center of the aisle, though, in the middle of the congregation at Warehouse, there was this older couple, probably in their mid-70's.  He was tall with nicely parted hair and khaki pants and loafers.  She wore casual but classy clothes and often had bracelets or jewelry around her neck.  They stood out among the crowd, and at first I wondered if they had accidentally walked into the wrong room, as if they had come for a Primetimers Bible Study, but took a left where they should have taken a right. 

Not at all.  They were here, I came to find out, because they believed it was important to be there for the next generation.  They believed it was important to see how young people were connecting with God and to be there to support this next generation in their faith.

I don't know that they would have put it this way, but they were inter-generational missionaries.

We need more inter-generational missionaries.

We need mature, older Christians willingly stepping out of their comfort zones to befriend and encourage younger Christians.  And we need younger Christians to embrace ministries of help and service to older adults.  We need younger Christians to embrace opportunities for friendship and to claim a mentor in their lives.

We need to find each other because each generation has so much to give to the other.  We need to find each other because separated as we are, all of us languish.  But, perhaps most importantly, we need to find each other because the future of the church in America may just depend upon it.

Josh's church needs our church.

We need Josh's church.

Let's hope we find each other.