What The Nativity Story Taught Me About My Multiple Sclerosis

This is probably a cliché, but last week’s episode of Saturday Night Live made me rethink the Christmas story.

The show’s final sketch depicted a manger scene, where Mary, disheveled and exhausted after giving birth to Jesus in a barn without medical assistance, became increasingly frustrated with Joseph. First, he invited a wandering group of random shepherds into their crowded space, then he invited in the wise men, and finally he asked Mary to serve everyone drinks.  

Mary obliged, but, at least in the skit, she was not the least bit pleased with her husband, the strangers invading her privacy, or totality of her situation, entertaining strangers the night she gave birth in a pile of hay.

I don’t know how Mary really felt on that night in Bethlehem, but if she was frustrated at her situation, then she kind of had a point.

In the Bible story, Mary, who was mostly likely a teenage girl, is visited by the angel Gabriel and told she will give birth to the Son of God, who will come to bring healing into the world. Conveniently, Gabriel failed to mention anything about a barn.

In the Gospels’ telling, Jesus had a humble birth as God’s symbolism that true greatness is not caused by material comfort, and that God’s favor is not related to the privilege into which one was (or was not) born.  

In retrospect, it’s a beautiful sentiment. But all Mary knew, on the first Christmas Eve, was that she would have to draft her choice of cattle to serve as her midwife.

“God forced me to have this baby,” she might have thought, “but He couldn’t even get me a doctor? And if not a doctor, how about at least a hotel room instead of a bed of straw? God is relying on me to deliver the savior of the world, but He is treating me like an animal!”

That’s probably what I would have thought. Imagine her emotions when she went into labor on Christmas Eve. First, she was probably giddy that she happened to be giving birth to Jesus on Christmas Day itself. I mean, what were the odds?

Then reality must have set in. When Mary first found out she was pregnant, she probably didn’t envision giving birth away from home, much less in a barn. She didn’t have a Western calendar porcelain manger scene to reference, so when she first felt a labor pain, she probably expected God would provide a traditional means for delivery. After all, If God could arrange a virgin birth, surely He could arrange a qualified medical professional to wander by and assist.

It must have been crushing to find out that no doctor, relative, or inn could make room for her when she most needed it, so she’d have to duck into a random barn and make do, like an animal. It must have felt like God started this story, but then lost interest midstream and moved on to another project.

Notwithstanding the cattle lowing nearby, she must have felt alone. At least in that moment, she must have felt abandoned by God.

I would have been angry.

I know this because, while I haven’t given birth to any messiahs this winter, lately I’ve sometimes felt like God dealt me a losing hand this holiday season. I lost vision in my left eye two days before my birthday and found out I probably had multiple sclerosis the day after it. I spent Thanksgiving Day on bedrest after a spinal tap, and now I find myself literally limping through the holidays. I say that literally, because my left leg is numb.

It’s hard to celebrate the season of comfort and joy when the most prominent thing you feel is pain. It’s difficult to have holiday cheer when your new dietary restrictions mean you can’t eat the good stuff at your office Christmas party, and you have to give away all the sweets you get as presents. It’s impossible to make New Year’s Resolutions for 2017, when your most pressing goal at year’s end is to still be able to walk unassisted.

It’s much easier to be mad at God when it feels like you’ve done the right things, but life still doesn’t go as planned. I wonder if Mary played also the “why me?” card. She did everything God asked her too, and ended up in a barn in the cold surrounded by animal poop. And even when she was done, she had to host an assortment of random strangers she wasn’t expecting, one of which brought her newborn baby funeral spices.  

I try to remind myself that if Mary felt annoyed, it was because she didn’t yet know how her story would end. She probably didn’t know that her painful night in a cold barn would be memorialized as a symbol that God doesn’t care how big your parents’ house is. Mary couldn’t have understood that Jesus’ humble birth would foreshadow his life’s message that wealth and comfort were not really what’s important. She couldn’t have realized that her story would be told and people for thousands of years would be inspired by her willingness to roll with life’s punches, even when they didn’t make sense.

She also wouldn’t have foreseen that about two thousand years later, a man on another continent with multiple sclerosis would be heartened by the lesson in her story: that sometimes when life doesn’t seem fair in the moment, it’s because we don’t yet see the end of story.

This Is Blogging My Spinal Tap

The online medical websites said that a spinal tap wasn't actually all that bad. I was naive enough to believe them. I'm glad I didn't know what I was getting myself into, but at least I can blog about it now.


Wednesday, November 23:


8:15: My wife is driving me to the hospital. I have a spinal tap scheduled to confirm my diagnosis of multiple sclerosis and maybe learn a little about its progression. A doctor will soon be sticking a needle into the protective sack surrounding my spine to collect fluid to be tested. The websites said that the local anesthetic blocks all the pain, and I should just expect to feel a little bit of pressure. The biggest problem, they say, is that for a small percentage of people the protective sack surrounding the spinal column doesn't seal, and the internal fluid leakage can cause a major headache. But if you take it easy for a couple days after the procedure, they say, you should be fine. That's what the websites say. I have the feeling no one writing articles for WebMD has ever actually had to have one of these.


8:16: I'm not nervous, just anxious to get the procedure over with so I can begin my Thanksgiving break. We turn a corner, and suddenly there's a giant rainbow straddling the freeway, something I've absolutely never seen before. I'm hoping this is a good omen, and not a symbol of reassurance I should need to recall on the other side of my impending doom. My hope, it would turn out, was not well founded.


8:30: I check in and get my hospital wristband with my name and vital info. I'm asked to verify that it is correct. Soon a nurse is walking me back to my waiting room, asking again if my wristband is correct as we walk.


9:00: I'm in my hospital gown and the doctor is in to go over the procedure with me, and also to ask if my wristband is correct. I tell him my neurologist had said that I should drink lots of caffeine to help my blot clot and prevent the post-operative headache, and he says that's an old wives' tale. I wasn't allowed any coffee before the procedure, so I plan to try it anyway.


9:05: A nurse asks if the information on my wrist band is accurate. I really just want to mess with her at this point and say no.


9:07: The nurse tells me I should be sure to drink lots of caffeine after the procedure so that my blood will clot.


9:30: My hospital room has a tv. It seems weird to watch Judge Mathis in the minutes before someone opens my spinal canal, but I'm getting kind of bored. The nurse tells me that she makes really good tea, and she'll be glad to give me some after my procedure so that I won't get the headache. I don't like tea, but her personal pride is clearly at stake so I smile and nod.


9:45: The nurse comes to roll me into the operating room, after, of course, asking about my wrist band. The hospital is preoccupied with my identity, but took my word for it when they asked my weight without putting me on a scale. Since they are about to give me an indefinite amount of anesthetic, this seems like maybe this should have been important.


9:55: We reach the emergency room, and my wife returns to the lobby. The nurse tells me that if I get a headache after the procedure, I should call my doctor get a referral to come back in. "Tomorrow is Thanksgiving," I remind her. "No one will be at her office until Monday."
"Oh yeah," she says casually. "You should just come to the emergency room in that case."


10:10: The doctor appears, and asks me if my wristband is correct.


10:11: The doctor puts the coldest liquid known to humanity on my back to sterilize me. A noticeable pain comes a moment later as the anesthetic goes in. I was promised this was the worst part.


10:15: The first needle exits. A disconcertingly short period of time passes before I feel another. The doctor tells me that I will feel some pressure. I feel that and much more. "Ok, I think to myself. That was a bit sharp, but it's in now so that should be the worst part...


10:16: UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


The doctor pulls the needle back out, as I gasp loudly. It was a pain so sharp I couldn't even scream; The worst I've ever felt. "Let's get you some more anesthetic," he says.


10:18: I get another injection of pain killer. I'm hoping the doctor will give this one a little while to set in before digging around my spine. A few minutes later he goes in again, with a nurse holding onto my leg, no doubt checking my wristband as she holds me down.


10:25: The injection was not as bad this time, but the pain is starting to spread down my legs. The doctor tells me this is normal, as the nerve endings are all connected. A pressure builds inside of me. It feels like someone is literally sucking the life out of me. Which is kind of what is actually happening.


A few minutes later: The needles goes out, right about at my breaking point. "We need to get a little bit more fluid so they can complete the tests," he says. "We need to change locations."
I whimper.


10:30: I gasp again as the needles hits a new location, not quite as bad as the first insertion, but worse than the second. He tells me we're almost done. I debate telling him I absolutely can't take another second. Right as I'm about to announce it, he tells me we're done.


10:45: I'm wheeled back to my hospital room, and there are tears in one of my eyes. But my wife has coffee.


11:00: The nurse asks if I'd rather have some of her homemade tea. "Get over yourself," I tell her in my head. But in real life, I say ok, in an attempt to give her life meaning. She emphasizes the importance of drinking caffeine. Then she asks if she can order me lunch from the cafeteria, excitedly proclaiming that lasagna and cookies are on the menu.
"MS patients aren't supposed to have dairy or saturated fat," I remind her.


12:30: I order a sandwich, drink some tea, and soon they tell me it's time to go. The only problem is that I can barely walk due to what they just did to me. I ask to just make a test run to the bathroom before committing to anything bigger. As I limp gingerly down the hall, the nurse asks my wife, "Does he always walk like that?"
"No," she says. But they just stuck a needle in his spine and dug around for awhile.


1:00: The nurses put me in a wheelchair and being to wheel me to the car. One of them asks if I'd like to take her tea with me for the road. "There's nothing special about your tea," I tell her, forgetting to say the words out loud. In other words, I just smile and nod.  She grabs my tea, and bangs me into some furniture while wheeling me along the hallways. "I thought these kind of follies only happened in movies," I said, actually saying it outloud this time. As I load into the car, the nurse reminds me to drink lots of caffeine to keep the headache away. I'm pretty sure she checked my wristband one final time, just to ensure they weren't letting the wrong person go.


I get home and lie on the couch. We download the movie "This Is Spinal Tap" because I had never seen it and will never have a more appropriate occasion. I'm surely never agreeing to do this again.




PS: In the ensuing days, I drank lots of coffee and stayed mostly flat on my back on the couch.  I still got an excruciating spinal headache on Thursday when I sat up, but it seemed to get slightly better through the weekend. It got worse when I went to work on Monday, and I ended up in the emergency room Tuesday afternoon, getting a "blood patch"--an injection of blood into my spine to clot the leakage, a procedure perhaps chosen because no nurse was available to make me any tea. But the procedure worked, and after six days, I was finally able to stand without a train ramming into my head (although my back hurt for a couple days).


When I first was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, it seemed a fate beyond what I could bare. But after six days of not being able to stand upright for reasons not directly related to the disease itself, I just wanted to get back on my feet so I could go back to fighting it. My head is better now, and it's been a good couple of days since I've been back on my feet.  I'm back to living with the familiar exhaustion, leg pain, and blurred vision. But I went for a run in the vineyards yesterday. My alma mater won a football championship. I had an amazing glass of wine. And when I checked in at the ER registration desk, they even made me a new wristband, and all my information was correct. If only I  knew where to get a glass of tea.   

My Fight With Multiple Sclerosis

"You can't stop me," I screamed, fighting back tears, as my legs buckled underneath me on my running trail. I don't think anyone was around to hear, but I was blind in one eye, so I can't say for sure.


Not long ago, the picture of being half blind while my legs struggled to support me would have only been a nightmare, but today it's my reality. I'm in a lifelong cage match with multiple sclerosis.


I don't know if MS heard me yelling at it that day, but I won round one of my fight against it regardless. I finished a couple miles at a decent pace despite my newfound limitations, and wondered how many more rounds there would be before the odds turned against me.


The thing with MS is that you can win rounds against it, but it refuses to stay knocked down. As an MS patient, all you can do is pledge the same. There is no cure for MS, so you can never fully put it behind you. You might feel good one day, like you've defeated the obstacles in front of you, but MS is lurking behind the corner waiting for a chance at a rematch.


It might be impossible to ever fully knockout MS, so I'm just hoping to go the distance and win the fight on the judge's scorecard.


I've been touched by the number of people who have reached out to me with encouragement, telling me that I'm strong enough to handle this. I really do appreciate the support, but I'm frankly not so sure.


I go from moments of thankfulness and peace, to moments of fear and panic. The scariest part is the unknown. For many people, MS is merely a lifelong annoyance, a sentence to random sore muscles or a bad week here and there. For others, it becomes the debilitating disease I pictured in my mind when I first heard my diagnosis. I don't know which path will be mine.

A few days after my diagnosis, my legs started wobbling, my hip started hurting, and I couldn't stay warm. I started drenching my sheets every night in sweat. Most of those things have stopped for now, and the vision in my left eye is coming back but it is all too easy to think of myself going downhill further.


I try to stay in the moment, and not to think about a future that may never come. It's no different, and no more productive, than imagining yourself in a car wreck tomorrow. But then I go pout because the doctor's appointments ate up my vacation time, my hip hurts, and I can no longer have ice cream.


My first attack has mostly passed now, but here's something I learned in its worst days. As the life you knew starts to slip away, there comes a point in every disability where you stop defining it by what you can't do, and start focusing on what you still can. There is still joy in life if you can read a good book, watch your favorite tv show, or chat with a close friend. 


Amidst the constant struggle to make things perfect, I don't think we often enough stop to appreciate the good.


I used to take pretty days for granted. I hardly ever thought to be thankful just for the fact that I felt physically well, or that I could still walk myself to the bathroom. I used to be thankful only when something really new and exciting happened. I didn't stop to taste my breakfast.


I try to do better about not taking things for granted now. On my last run over the hilltop trails through the Livermore vineyards, I almost cried at how much beauty that surrounded me. I'm often in too much of a hurry to notice.


I can't always stay focused in the moment, but life feels better when I do. Even if my disease stays in remission, I hope I never forget this lesson. And I hope you learn it too.



It's been a few days now, and I'm feeling a little better. My vision is getting better. I get really tired at times, but my biggest other remaining reminders of my disease are a sore left hip and unpredictable nerve pain, which most people tell me will likely get better, at least until the next attack. There's even a good chance I can still run the half marathon I signed up for next March.


I long for a day when my vision is fully back, I have a normal energy level, and my legs feel good. If it ever gets here, I know I'll appreciate it in a way that I never would have before.

And if that day doesn't come, I'll still be ok. MS can take certain things from me, but there are others that it can't have unless I let it.

And when the day comes and I go running and feel like myself again, I hope that I'll remind MS that it couldn't stop me. It could only make me take a detour.

Running Diary: I Paid Good Money to Hurt this Badly

It's 45 minutes until I run the San Jose Rock and Roll Half Marathon. I'm excited. Parking was easy and I'm stretched and ready to go. I decide to jog a bit to loosen up, a decision I soon regret.  After a few steps my left hip suddenly feels like it's going to explode. "This is not a good omen," I think. I have to run 13.1 miles in a few minutes.


It went something like this:



7:30: Thirty minutes to race time. I'm not going to risk another warm up run. I'm just going to hope I can push through once I get started. You see, I trained for four months, and near the end I did too many hard runs without enough rest in between. I got progressively slower, but I didn't figure out the problem until too late, after I ended up with bursitis in my hips. I also reaggravted the pinched nerve in my back, which doesn't slow me down but results in occasional shooting pain down to my left foot. I'm hoping the two conditions will just cancel themselves out, at least for the next 13.1 miles.



7:45: One of my favorite things about race day is that everyone is in a good mood both before and after the race. Groups of people are taking pictures, some of them in matching outfits. I find my corral, thankful that I got assigned to number 3 out of about 25. They release a corral every minute or so once the race starts, so being third means that I won't have to stand around too long watching other people get started while it gets progressively hotter outside.


7:48: There's a group of six young women in hoop skirts next to me; there's a married couple in their 50's on the other side. They assign the early corrals based on expected finish times, so these people must be faster than they look. One of the cool things about running is you can't tell how fast someone is by looking at them. I say a prayer that my body holds up to the mileage today. I ran 13 miles 10 days ago, so I'm not worried about my fitness, just whether or not my body can hold up in one piece. I probably should sit this race out and heal, but when you get hurt 99 percent of the way into a four-month race training, you don't want to see all that time go to waste. Besides, there's plenty of time to rest on the other side.

7:50: Someone is singing the national anthem. I don't see anyone protesting, but the festive pre-race mood definitively turns somber. I begin to wonder: why do we play the national anthem before sporting events? It's a public gathering, but so are movies and plays, and we don't play the anthem then. What's the difference? I vow to play the national anthem before I host my next game of Parcheesi, just to mess with people.

7:57: I turn on my GPS watch and ask it to track my time and distance. This is my sixth race, and ever since I finished my first one I've wanted to run a race in an hour and 45 minutes, an eight minute pace. It's an informal dividing line between serious runner and weekend warrior. 1:47:31, an 8:13 pace, is the closest I've ever come, but this is an easier course. I was progressing favorably toward this goal until a few weeks ago when my body starting failing me. I know that 8 minutes is a pipe dream at this point, but I'm hoping for an 8:12, which would be progress toward my ultimate goal. Sometimes that's all we can hope for in life.

8:00: The first corral of runners is released. I begin to panic because the GPS on my running watch still hasn't figured out where I am. I picture myself standing alone directly in front of the start line, with all the other runners having left, waiting to step across until my watch cooperates. Thousands of spectators would look at me and wonder what I'm doing, holding up the next corral, standing there like an idiot. I wonder how long I can wait on my watch if it comes down to that, but I can't pace myself without it.

8:02: Finally, my watch finds its signal, just in time. I breathe a sigh of relief, and remember that the bigger challenge remains. I can fight off the tingling numbness of my pinched nerve, but I'm entirely at the mercy of my bursitis. I haven't tired to run since I had to abort my last training run five days ago and hobble home. I don't know if I can do this, but I tell my hips that they can't stop me no matter how hard they try. I smile widely, ready for the challenge.

8:03: I'm off.

8:04: Mile One is underway. Somehow, the pain I felt 30 minutes ago when jogging while warming up has vanished. I feel good, the weather is nice, and my fellow runners and I have taken over downtown San Jose. We run by the first of multiple bands along the course (playing Cajun music, oddly enough), and life feels good.

8:11: Mile One took me 8:28. Slower than my race goal but exactly what I was hoping for my first mile. It takes a little while to get warmed up.

 8:19: Mile Two complete. An 8:07 brings me only 11 seconds behind my target. I want to run faster, but telling myself to hold back. It's not a sprint, it's half a marathon.

8:21: One of the best things about a race are the signs that spectators hold. Every race, including this one, has one reading, "Worst Parade Ever." Beside the guy holding that one, another guy has a sign reading "Smile, you paid good money to hurt this badly."
8:24: One of the worst thing about a rock and roll series race is that your ears are at the mercy of the performers. The second stage we run by hosts a singer screeching so badly that I speed up just to make it stop.

 8:27: Mile Three, 8:09 (8 seconds behind target pace). I run by the arena where the San Jose Sharks play. The street was line with cheerleaders, and one table is handing out orange beverages. As I go to carb load on some orange juice, I see a champagne bottle on a table nearby. A mimosa after the race would be fantastic, but at mile 3 it's a recipe for disaster, so I keep going. I hear the runner behind call out a question, and a volunteer assures that while she is drinking the hard stuff, the runners only get juice. I mentally kick myself for not asking myself, but it never occurred to me. I'm prone to getting runner's brain during races.

8:36: Mile 4 was an 8:25, to my shock and horror. It didn't feel any slower than my last two. Am I giving out already, I wonder? This isn't good.

8:43: I'm running up a hill and my shoe is untied. I should pull over and tie it, but I'd like to get to the next mile marker first so I get an accurate reading of how my time is trending. As I run up the hill, I'm kicking my shoelaces with every step and it's driving me crazy.

8:44: Mile 5, 8:09. I'm back in business! I'm so excited by the return of my race pace, that I forget to tie my shoe.

8:52: Mile 6, 8:17. There are a pair of giant inflatable legs straddling the race course. It's an ad for a clothing company. Also, Toyota has a demo car for sale and a group of designated supporters are enthusiastically cheering the runners on. "This is a cheap and transparent marketing ploy," I think. "Also, my next car will be a Toyota."

9:01: Mile 7, 8:10 (21 seconds behind pace). I'm over half way done, and not a moment too soon. This is starting to stop being fun and just being painful. My shoe is still untied, but I might as well try to hold out at this point. Also, the next 6.1 miles seem entirely unnecessary.

9:09: Mile 8, 8:06. (+15) I hurt and I'm running out of gas. I'm shocked this mile was so fast. I see a sign that's kind of amusing, but ten seconds later it's out of my brain. The group of women in pink hoop skirts are running directly in front of me. I'm not one of those guys who gets upset at the idea of losing to women in races, but I absolutely hate the thought of losing to anyone running in a costume. At a July 4th race a few years ago, I nearly came to blows with Uncle Sam when passing him on the home stretch. I vow to keep going, to overcome the oppressive pace of the hoop skirts before me.

9:17: Mile 9, 8:10.(+13)  I run a few steps behind another guy running about my speed, hoping to save some effort by drafting in his wind tunnel. I try to give him a little space, but soon he seems annoyed by this. I give it up after a short distance, but this guy and the hoops skirt people in front of him temporarily allowed me to forget how tired I am. On a small hill, I pass both parties, almost stumble on a pothole, but keep moving. My shoe is still untied, but I've ceased to notice by this point.

9:25:  Mile 10, 8:08. (+9) Only 3.1 miles left, the equivalent of a 5k. I can do this. Maybe. If I can just keep my pace steady, I can make up the last few seconds to my goal pace on the final stretch. According to the race map we ran by the Municipal Rose Garden at some point in the last mile, but I never noticed. My heart is sad that I wasn't able to stop to smell the roses, but my legs regret it even more.

9:33: Mile 11, 8:05 (+2) A photographer is on the course taking pictures of runners as they pass. A  woman in front of me poses for the camera, makes a funny face and some wild arm motions. "If she has this much energy," I wonder, "why is she running alongside of me." I want to die.

9:37: To the extent I still have brain function, it strikes me again that one of the cool things about running is that you can't predict people's performance by their appearance. I will ultimately finish among the top 10 percent of all runners, but in front of me I see kids who look 12-years-old, those runners who look to be in their 50s, guys who look fat, and women who look dangerously thin. And now, once again, one group of women in pink hoop skirts.

9:41: Mile 12, 8:09 (-1). Somehow, I'm ahead of my race goal pace, having run the elusive negative split (a faster second half than first) for the first time in years. Also I'm delirious. Scattered fans cheer, as I begin to count down every tenth, sometimes hundredth, of a mile. I'm going to make it, I think, but it's going to be miserable for the next 10 minutes.

9:42: Mile 12.1. My watch says 1:39:06. I won't hit my 1:45 goal today, but I'm ahead of pace to beat my personal record of 1:47:31. I just need an 8:24 time on my last mile. We turn a corner and suddenly there are fans everywhere, cheering us along. The first one I see has a Donald Trump sign. "What an appropriate metaphor," I think. "The pain of the last mile of a marathon is exactly what a Trump presidency would feel like."

9:49: Ahhh! Mile 13, by my watch, was an 8:00 pace, which should leave me 13 seconds ahead of my goal. But my watch GPS and the course are having a disagreement. According to the course, I don't hit the 13-mile marker until my watch says I've already run 13.1 which was as far as I had planned to go. My watch reads 1:47:00, but I'm still not at the finish line and only have 30 seconds to get there. I begin to panic. As much as I hurt, I could have run this mile a little faster, but I thought I was ahead of pace.

9:50: I sprint with disgust that I've been running for this long and the record I worked so hard for might get stolen from me. I run with such anger that I worry that it looks like I'm desperately just trying to chase down the woman in front of me out of misogyny. But I can worry about appearances later. At the moment, I just trying to beat my racing record. I don't even notice whether I beat the pink skirt posse.

9:51: I'm not going to make it. The course was 13.2 miles, instead of 13.1, with almost of all of the excess tacked on to the end.  My watch reads 1:47:41 when I cross.


Ten seconds. I've just killed myself for 13.2 miles, or 4 months, really, and I have nothing to show for it thanks to a course measuring error, and only I (and now you, if you believe me) will ever know the truth.

I fought through a bad back, an injured hip, and running on 97 degree summer days only to fail by 10 seconds, due to someone else's measuring mistake.

I'm crushed.



9:57: I lower my head to take my finisher's medal. It might be all I get from this experience. The moment I stop running, my hips lock and every step hurts worse while walking than when I had been running. I devour every post race snack I see.

10:00. I look through my watch to try to process my failure. It says I ran 13.2 miles at an 8:10 pace. I was soooooo close. So painfully close.



10:05: I sit by a tree and have a drink, processing my apparent failure. As a musician plays in the background, and my brain comes back to reality, I repeat the numbers over in my head. It hits me: my prior personal record was running 13.1 miles at an 8:13 pace. I just ran 13.2 at 8:10. That's better than what I had ever done before, no matter what this poorly measure racecourse says. I just ran longer than I ever had, at a faster pace than I'd ever finished a half marathon. This wasn't a failure after all.


10:07: This is kind of a metaphor for life, I think. You do the best you can, and work with what you have given your circumstances. Along the way you make progress that you can see, but that you can't always prove and that those watching you may not seem to acknowledge. Sometimes only we know the reality of a situation, but have no means of correcting the record to the world.


I can't prove that I just ran the distance of a half marathon in a fraction of a second under 1:47.
But I don't really have to.


I wasn't running to prove anything to anyone else. I ran to prove that I could achieve something hard if I worked at it long enough. I didn't finish the job today, to be sure, but I got a little bit closer to what I'm working toward.
And that's all that really matters.

That, and that I paid good money to hurt so badly while doing it.


On to the next race.

This Is My Fight Song

It's been exactly two years since I moved to California. Yes, I miss my home, I've lost some friends and I'm definitely chasing sleep. And yes, some have worried about me, wondering if I was in too deep, in too deep.
No, this is not a Rachel Platten song. This is my life.


In the video of the song sharing a title with this post, the artist spends the opening moments sitting in the dark by herself. A frustrated writer, she wads up her half-written manuscripts, sings to empty concert halls, and some days, can't even manage to get out of bed. She finally gets frustrated and leaves her dreary and isolated life to move to California, where she finds joy dancing in the redwoods, meeting new friends, and driving down the oceanside cliffs of the Pacific Coast Highway in the bright sun.


It's enough to make you want to move to California, if you hadn't already. 




It's beautiful here.


But real joy--the kind that goes deeper than Hollywood happy endings--takes more than just a change of scenery.
I stopped blogging back in January in an attempt to find it.


There was that fire burning in my soul that was book idea that I'm still working towards. Or at least that I intend to get back to working towards eventually. You see, I wrote all that was in my head and it wasn't enough for a book. So I need to burrow a little deeper into my head when I can find the free time and energy. Or possibly just get a new head that has better ideas. I'll let you know when I decide.



I had other life goals when I stopped blogging too. For years I've wanted to finish a half marathon in under an hour and forty-five minutes, so I could consider myself a serious athlete. I've kept trying and falling short, but I'm taking another shot next week. I've trained harder for this one than any race ever, but my times keep going up instead of down, so I'm not entirely optimistic. But however the race ends up, it should make for a great blog come race day. And maybe that's what really matters.




I also wanted to explore my new world out West. Since I live in wine country, I wanted to see how the wine industry worked up close, how it went from grapes to bottles, and why one year's vintage can taste nothing like grapes from the same vines the next. I've gotten to do that here, and to meet some really amazing people involved in the process. It's been wonderful, and I highly recommend having a glass if you don't find this blog very entertaining. Like the cheapest bottle at Walmart, it might not be very good at first, but it gets better the more you drink.




Taking a break from the blog also meant that I had more time to revive my church acting career in skits meant to introduce the conflict at issue in that day's message. I'm telling you, if there were an Oscar award for Supporting Actor in a 5-Minute Drama, I would come nowhere close to being nominated for any of my work. But it's fun, and I even get to write them sometimes. But these opportunities don't come up every week, so they're not a good reason to keep the blog on hold.



More than anything, my break from blogging was meant to give me some time to clear my head. When I wrote for my paper back school, I was the guy known for making enemies by writing controversial satires challenging people in power. I used to get dirty looks from my school administration and threats of personal injury from the student special interests I targeted. My law school dean called me into his office once to have a meeting. I loved it because it meant that people saw I had a point.


Now, I mostly go for non-offensive mindless laughs and uplifting spiritual messages here--the writing equivalent of posting pictures of cats on Facebook.
Where did I go soft?  Was it when I got a cat?




Anyway, since I've accomplished almost none of the personal goals for which I stopped blogging, I figure I might as well start Just Thinking again. Clearly, it wasn't the blog that was holding me back from my life's ambitions, so it's time to pick a new inaccurate scapegoat.  I suppose I'll pick Donald Trump for that job, since he's already picked everyone else. Or if he's not available, I'll settle for the mom who brought six screaming kids into the library coffee shop where I'm sitting, who have declared an unholy war on my chance of having a quiet working atmosphere.


But the point is that blog is back, and no amount of screaming children (or screaming politicians, which is pretty much the same thing) can stop me. I'm not sure how often things will appear, and it probably won't look exactly the same as it used to, but hey, you probably don't look the same as you used to either.






I blogged about the process of moving out here with two cats on a cross-country flight, but I never, in this space, explained why. Those words I didn't say are still wrecking balls inside my brain, so I won't scream them out tonight.
There'll be plenty of time for that later, just as there's more time for random thoughts (Seriously, I understand why there is a New Mexico and a New England, but what about New Zealand? Is there an Old Zealand?), time for more Bad Ideas Presented As Really Serious Propositions, and silly pictures of me with inanimate objects.  I even get six weeks to complain about the election, where most everyone hates the top two candidates, but not enough to actually vote for someone else.




So why is the blog back?
My life's biggest fear has long been that my life wouldn't matter, that I wouldn't spend it accomplishing its purpose or create any lasting benefit for my having been here. And if I don't ever get around to writing a best-selling book, or any book at all, I want to at least do something. That's sometimes all we can do.


Rachel Platten's song never reveals whether or not the main character's career does any better in California that it did before she moved, it just shows her having more fun and feeling more alive as she tries.


Maybe you can relate. I don't know if your story, or mine, will have a Hollywood ending. I just know we'll never find out sitting on the sidelines with the book closed.


So the blog is back, with the new stories to tell, new mindless conversations to recount, new memes to run into the ground, and new battles to fight.
Because this my fight song.
And I've still got a lot of fight left in me.

My Conversation with an Idiot

Hesitantly, I called to schedule a blood donation. The last two times I donated I got sick immediately afterward, but I figured my getting sick beats someone else dying. But I might have given my own life to avoid the conversation that followed.


The phone begins to ring...


Customer Service Rep: Blood Bank, may I help you?
Me: Yes, I'm calling to schedule a blood donation as part of my company's blood drive on Tuesday, August 16th next week.
CSR: Ok, where is the blood drive?
Me: At your office.
CSR: Where?
Me: At your main office, on Thomas Lane.
CSR: What's your last name?
Me: Smith
CSR: What is it again?
Me: Smith
CSR: Oh, Smith. Ok, and you are trying to find out how to give blood? Our office is located at [333] Thomas Lane, and open on Mondays from...
Me: No, I'm trying to schedule an appointment to take part in my agency's pre-existing blood drive.
CSR: Have you given blood before?
Me: Yes.
CSR: What's your first name?
Me: "Andrew"
CSR: Ok, .... are you calling about the blood donation set for March 9th?
Me: Ummm, no that isn't me. I'm calling to schedule a blood donation on August 16th as part of blood drive for (my agency).
CSR: (skeptically) And your name is "Andrew Smith?"
Me: Yes, that's my name.
CSR: Sir, if that's your name, you haven't given blood before.
Me: I haven't given blood at your location, but I've given blood a dozen times.
CSR: Where?
Me: The last several times, in Nashville.
CSR: Where did you given blood there?
Me: It was at the Red Cross, but why does that matter? I'm calling today to schedule a blood donation as part of (my agency's) blood drive next week.
CSR: What was the date?
Me: For the third time, August 16th!
CSR: Ok, who was the person here you were working with to schedule that?
Me: I have no idea. I would have called that person directly if I did. There have been flyers around my office for two weeks advertising a blood drive next Tuesday. It said to call this number to schedule my appointment. This is your office's main phone number, right?
CSR: Well, if the blood drive is at your office you don't need to sign up here.
Me: No, it is at your office. We are supposed to drive in at our scheduled appointment times. I just need an appointment.


Pause...


CSR: (flustered) What was the address in Nashville where you gave blood?
Me: I don't know that off the top of my head. It was Red Cross headquarters. But why does that matter?
CSR: It sounds like you are not in our system. You just need to come into our main office next week. We are at 333 Thomas Lane.
Me: I know. It says that on the flyer. I'm just trying to schedule an appointment.
CSR: We are open from 10:30-5:00 on Tuesdays. Let me give you directions...
Me: Your hours are on the flyer, and I know how to get there. I just need an appointment.
CSR: You can just come in. And if Tuesday doesn't work for you we are also on open on Wednesdays from 10:30-5:00 and Thursdays from...
Me: My office blood drive is Tuesday. I just need an appointment time!
CSR: Just come in whenever.
Me: If 100 people from my office come in at the same time, that isn't going to be a good situation for anyone. We need appointments.
CSR: Oh, what was the name of your agency?
Me: (Name of my government agency)
CSR:  I don't have any record of that company having a blood drive. But it must be at our headquarters. We are at 333 Thomas Lane. We are located off the freeway next to In-and-Out Burger.
Me: It sounds like you are not going to be able to help me.
CSR: Honey, I'm afraid not.
Me: I'm just going to talk to the person at my agency who organized this and ask her who she talked to.
CSR: That sounds like a good idea. I'm sorry I couldn't help you, honey.
Me: Don't worry, I'll get to the bottom of this mystery somehow.
----
I told my agency contact about the call and got the name of someone else to talk to at the blood bank. I might call back tomorrow, but I'm not sure if she'll be able to give me directions how to get there.

What Happened to Your Blog?

If you watched a movie about a guy who wanted a Volvo and worked for years to get it, you wouldn't cry at the end when he drove off the lot, testing the windshield wipers. .... The ambitions we have will become the stories we live. If you want to know what a person's story is about, just ask them what they want. If we don't want anything, we are living boring stories, and if we want a Roomba vacuum cleaner, we are living stupid stories. ... If what we choose to do with our lives won't make a story meaningful, it won't make a life meaningful either.


-Donald Miller (from A Million Miles in a Thousand Years) as partially transcribed in my first blog, April 2010.




Thanks for following along with this chapter of my story.
For the past six years, you've kept me sane, or at least something resembling it. You've given me a forum to air whatever silliness has crept into my head and wouldn't leave. You've been a sounding board to pass along whatever it was I thought I had learned along life's journey. You've indulged my creative misfires, my obsessive need to explore the meaning of song lyrics and sitcoms, and even my random thoughts.


Speaking of which, why is it that things are "revitalized," but nothing is ever "vitalized"?


Along the way, you've given me enough encouragement to believe I was making a difference for some of you, adding beauty to your life or at least easing some of its sorrow. There's no greater feeling I've known than to create something that somehow connected with someone else--it's a momentary affirmance that we are all connected in some way and my life isn't in vain.




That kind of feeling was exactly what I was searching for when I started this six years ago.


When I started this adventure I wasn't sure what it was going to look like--I was just a guy tired of working the 9-5, going to the gym and the occasional cookout and not doing anything uniquely meaningful with his life. I wanted my life to tell a better story than that of an Assistant Attorney General who might some day get promoted to a Senior Assistant Attorney General and buy a better sedan and an automatic vacuum. That's when I started sharing life with you.




There's a bigger story I need to tell, though, and I've been working on putting it into book form for the last year. I'm stalled 21,000 words into it, with both the book and the blog taking up just enough mental space that neither can quite get out of my head and onto the page.
I was hoping to keep up at least a minimal blogging presence to keep you engaged until I had something bigger to offer, but trying to do two things at once has meant doing neither very well.
---------




Kermit the Frog introduced himself to the audience in the "Muppet Movie" in a song. 


In the movie's opening moments, he tells the audience that although it wasn't very logical, he believed he had heard a call toward something more than singing alone in a pond. He was meant to sing, alright, but someone else was supposed to hear it; someone who could somehow relate to the lonely yearning in his soul.


Following his inner calling would involve Kermit leaving his comfort zone and taking some crazy chances to have his own voice heard, but he knew he'd never be quite satisfied if he didn't give it a chance. He wasn't exactly where his journey would take him, but he left his pond in search of his dream, believing there was a rainbow somewhere on the other side. Even if he was wrong, he had to give it a try. As he concluded:


I've heard it too many times to ignore it;
It's something that I'm supposed to be.
Someday we'll find it--the rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.




I'm no singing frog, but I have a story too. It's a story that will make some people laugh as they nod along in agreement, make some rigid people angry as they read in disgust, but hopefully it will provide peace for others.
It's an idea that I wish would have been published somewhere 20 years ago when I needed to hear it, so I'm guessing there's someone else who needs to hear it now.
--------
When I was growing up as an unpopular but deeply religious kid, my church taught me that God would eventually make my dreams come true according to a strict formula if I just obeyed all the rules they gave me. When that didn't happen, when the proverbial bumps in the road indisputably became dead ends, I was left to believe that God had uniquely withheld those promises from me, because I somehow wasn't worthy of God's love.


It sounds tragic, and in some ways, I guess it was, but some of the hoops I was forced to jump through as a kid are entertainingly ridiculous (I still have the ribbon I won at 6-years-old for being one of the first five kids in my first-grade Sunday School class to recite the 66 books of the Bible in order. Although I cried each time I lost out to the prior four) as are some of the ways I treated God like a Cosmic Vending Machine.


But I eventually found peace with a God who doesn't follow the formulas humans created, and who, I think, both laughs and cries with me looking back at points of my journey. I also learned some pretty cool things along the way.


I can't wait to tell you the story.


It's a story that I think I'm supposed to tell, and I've heard the call too many times to ignore it.
Six years of blogging have led me to this point, and it's something that I'm supposed to be.
So I'm off to find my rainbow, which needs another 39,000 words to completion.





Until then, you won't see me around this space. I'll be back, in some form or another, when I reach the other side.
And I'll have a better story for my trouble.