Yesterday was “hill day.” That’s my 6-6.5 mile early morning run which includes a mile or so of various quad-challenging inclines. Hill day, along with my weekly track session and long weekend run, form the backbone of what I hope will be a run-up to another marathon in December.

Usually, I’m pretty winded by the time I reach the top of the hills and have been in the habit of walking a few meters in recovery. But yesterday, as I topped each peak, there was no need to stop and catch my breath. Like Forrest Gump, I just kept right on running.

It was rewarding and encouraging to experience this small improvement in performance. It also occurred to me that at times we’re oblivious to tiny increments like that, focused as we often are on “the big picture.” But big gains are birthed in such small steps; day-by-day, inch-by-inch, yard-by-yard, mile-by-mile.

Of course, running is merely an analogy, a shadow of larger, more important things. There are many who are climbing steeper and more challenging hills than the 15% grade at the top of Forrest Heights Drive. But the principles are the same: sustained daily effort, small steps leading to larger ones, shoulders back and eyes up–lift those knees high.

And just when you least expect it, you find yourself cresting that difficult hill and running on toward daylight.

This is what I tell myself these days: It’s the increments, stupid.

A few years back, after noting my small knack for turning out a good phrase or two every now and then, I thought to myself: I coulda been a writa!

Then I heard about something called “blogging.” And now, nearly two years lata, I am a writa!

Well, sorta.

Substitute “writa” for “singa” and I coulda been the one asking this question.

Please take the time to read Cary Tennis’ advice to this wannabe diva. It’s some of the best, most practical, most loving guidance that I’ve seen dished out in a long time.

Then, turn off the reality show and start creating some reality of your own. Whateva it is in your heart that you’re yearning and burning to do (as long as it’s wholesome, constructive and loving toward self and others), carve out some time and space in your life (yes, it is possible), and, as Our Lady of Perpetual Branding used to say: Just do it.

And if you’re a Christian, you have the added bonus of doing it “as unto the Lord.”

Don’t be a whina. Be a whateva.

Last year this time, I was singing the blues over the US National Team’s anemic performance in the 2006 World Cup and wondering if Bruce Arena had traveled with the team as a coach or merely a spectator.

One year later, I’m watching this immaculate strike over and over and over and allowing myself to dream a little about our prospects in South Africa come 2010.

The US’s come-from-behind 2-1 victory against Mexico in Sunday’s CONCACAF Gold Cup Final may prove to be a watershed moment in the Stars and Stripes’ march toward the next World Cup. Interim-now-permanent Head Coach Bob Bradley has brought new blood and a fresh perspective to a team that was mired in a mid-90s mindset. Down 1-0 at the half, he made the necessary adjustments to shore up a backline that was being shredded by El Tri forward Nery Castillo and stuck with Brian Ching despite a quiet first half. Ching went on to create numerous opportunities up top, including the chance for Landon Donovan’s game-tying penalty kick. To see a coach actually make adjustments rather than merely watch the match is rarer than you might think, even at the higher levels of the game.

But most importantly, Bradley is not afraid to turn his young charges loose on the attack. Rather than hunker down in a defensive posture and rely on the counterattack, the US wasn’t afraid to take the game to the Mexicans and created at least as many chances in the first half even while falling behind. Had it not been for a superb outing by Mexican keeper Oswaldo Sanchez and some spotty finishing on our part in the second half (DaMarcus–we can’t afford to miss open goals), the result could have easily been more lopsided. Oh, and let’s not forget a few acrobatic saves by US tender Tim Howard on the other end.

Benny Feilhaber? You gotta be kidding me. Who’s that?

Exactly. With crusty veteran Donovan–who is all of 25–screaming “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” Feilhaber turned a still-wet deaf ear, stepped up, took it out of the air, and nailed one for the ages. Ah, the impertinence of youth!

What a difference a year can make.

Visitor Analysis

Google Search String: Nike Cortez history

Date: 25th June 2007

Time: 12:02:45

Host Name: barrierc241.nike.com

Country: United States

Region: Oregon

City: Beaverton

ISP: Nike Incorporated

Visit Length: 2 mins 18 secs

————————————

Our Lady of Perpetual Branding is back again and checking out my blog. Only this time, she stayed a full 2 minutes and 18 seconds! That means she actually lingered this time!

Now that I have her attention, what should I ask/tell her? I’m open to suggestions.

With the mercury already rising on another sultry Sunday morning, the runner stopped for a much-needed drink of water. The mammoth megachurch had always been a good wayside for such purposes. Situated approximately halfway through the run, one of the side doors was usually open by 7:00am, and there was a water fountain just a few feet inside; real water, and who knows, on a good day, maybe a little “living water” too.

The runner was not exactly dressed for church, but he rarely encountered anyone inside, and he would only be there for a few moments, so he didn’t see any harm. He entered the building, stooped by the fountain, and began to eagerly lap up the refreshing fluid. As he did so, he knew he was being watched. A Sunday School man, in a dark suit, white shirt and black tie, was eyeing him warily from around the corner at the end of the hall. He began to approach the runner slowly and cautiously, as one stalking wild prey. By the time the runner had drank his fill, Sunday School man had stopped only a few feet away.

[...]

There are certain immutable laws of the universe which govern the course of the day. The sun rises in the east and sits in the west. Politicians will talk a good game, and when push comes to shove, fail to follow through (or use their fists instead). And whenever I absolutely have to be somewhere in a hurry, I will inevitably end up behind an octogenarian in an Olds. Or in this case, a memaw in a Marquis.

There were no cars behind me or coming toward me, and it would have been a simple matter to have downshifted, crossed the double yellow, and blown granny’s doors off on my way to church. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but there was something not quite right about that idea. So instead of grinding my gears, I ground my teeth instead, hoping and praying that my slow-going foil was about to reach her destination.

Mercifully, she signaled right. And after she very sloooowly executed her turn, the road ahead was clear. Truly, God will not allow us to be tempted beyond that which we can bear.

[...]

“Well that’s it, boys. I’ve been redeemed. The preacher’s done warshed away all my sins and transgressions. It’s the straight and narrow from here on out, and heaven everlasting’s my reward…Neither God nor man’s got nothin’ on me now. C’mon in boys, the water is fine.”

–Delmar O’Donnell in O Brother Where Art Thou

The phone rang in the middle of the night, shattering my blissful slumber like a Louisville Slugger against a plate-glass window.

Okay, whoa—better nix the miserable metaphor and start over. It was really only 10:30pm. But after the kind of day I had Sunday, I needed the extra rest. Go ahead, call me a geezer, but kindly pass the Geritol while you’re doing it.

Even through the thick, sleep-spun cobwebs which enveloped my rational upper brain, I had an intuition about the identity of the caller. I heard the door crack, and Eyegal entered our bedroom, cordless phone in hand. My intuition was correct.

[...]

Philip Yancey is one of my favorite contemporary Christian writers. My first exposure to him was during my premed days at Harding when I read Fearfully and Wonderfully Made, a book he coauthored with Dr. Paul Brand. Since then, he’s only become better and more prolific. As someone who in the past has described himself as a “reluctant Christian,” Yancey to me feels like spiritual next-of-kin.

Two weeks after the Virginia Tech massacre, Yancey waded into the morass of grief that was Blacksburg, Virginia and delivered these words.

I sent this link to Number One Son, figuring that he might appreciate some of the things that Yancey had to say as he prepares to take up the tricky business of learning and living out his faith on a state university campus. This was his reply:

Wow. I’ve heard so many preachers, ministers, devotional leaders or whoever make it sound like God erases pain like it never happened, like the pain is an entirely bad thing. While I do believe that God will erase all suffering someday, I’ve always had a problem with the concept that he intend this life to be painless. This guy shoots that idea down and says that God intended pain, along with every single thing that happens in this life, to be used positively . . . even the pain of being a part of something like the massacre at VT to honor those killed. I like this guy, good find, you should blog it.

Good idea, Number One. I think I will.

As someone who has sat on the mourner’s bench as both the comforter and the afflicted, I know firsthand the paralysis that can set in as one ponders the difficulty of what to say in the midst of dire and death-filled straits. It’s all too easy to try too hard and strike the wrong note.

Yancey, however, is pitch perfect.

If you’re a dad, I hope it went well. For me, everyone basically left me alone on the couch all afternoon to ice my right ankle which I rolled badly while running a trail yesterday morning and to rehydrate after crashing and burning in the rising morning heat somewhere around mile eight.

Man, it just doesn’t get any better than that.

Consigned to the couch, I watched the US Open. I don’t play golf and rarely watch it, but I was trapped. But it became interesting and even mildly dramatic, going down to the final hole before a winner was decided. Maybe my sudden tolerance for the sedateness of the sport had something to do with having just read this little father-son tearjerker.

For me, it’s not the anniversaries or holidays when I miss my Dad the most.

It’s when I have a question, like: How do I install a ceiling fan without burning down the house?

Or: How do I be a good daddy?

There is nothing but silence, though, and I plod on.

Hey y’all. Mike the Redneck hear-uh. Fer yew new folks, I’s showed up a coupla times befour (hear-uh and hear-uh) iffen thar wuz sumthin’ im-pahh-tunt to say ’bout Bama football. I did.

Well, this mournin’ thar shore be sumthin’ im-pahh-tunt to say–Koach Sabin dun finely up and put his “X” on that thar multie-millyun dolla’ contrack!

Finely, we’s numba won in sumthin’!

Them thar Barners at that thar otha’ skool are shakin’ in them thar rubba’ boots they use win they milk them thar cows. They are.

Roll Tide, Roll.

Malady: 45-year-old Caucasian male who should know better running 6 miles, including over a mile of hills ranging in grade from 5-15%, finishing last mile in 7:30

Rx: A 20 oz. bottle of orange Gatorade, two, no, better make that three 200mg ibuprofen tablets, deep muscle massage with one of these and whatever you want to eat, including…

copious amounts of ice cream and apple cobbler.

I just returned from my semiannual teeth cleaning at my dentist’s office. After 20 minutes of me suppressing my gag reflex while my hygienist rooted around in my mouth with a sandblaster, an industrial strength shop-vac, tiny pickaxe and enough gauze to wrap King Tut five times over, she declared:

“Either you’re completely fooling me or you’ve been doing much better with your flossing.”

What, me floss? Wow, a Pollyanna dental hygienist–I didn’t know they existed.

All I can say is: Ha! Gotcha!

I floss the same way that many of my patients use their glaucoma drops: that is, only during the week leading up to my next appointment.

But I’m betting I’m not the only one with pieces of last night’s dinner stuck in the sagging pockets formed by my rapidly receding gums. Come on, ‘fess up. You’re among friends here.

Commentator Frank Deford has another fine outing at the mic.

Counting words. Hmmm. I like that idea. I wonder if it would work in church?

There is the endless drone of the mainstream press serving up bland portions of the same o’ same o’, and then there is Camille Paglia.

I have a confession: I dig a lot (but certainly not all) of her stuff. Yeah, I know, I know, she’s a gay-atheist-feminist with a fetish for homoeroticism, but nobody’s perfect, right? Still, apparently beholden to no one, she writes things that others are too wimpish to even think, and does so with a vim and verve that are a rare sight in today’s media landscape.

She’s taken some time off, but Camille’s back. And just in the nick of time to make things interesting.

I can’t remember if we were watching a college wrestling match or a ballet performance a few years back when Number Two Son looked at the form-fitting outfits that one of the participants was wearing and declared emphatically, “I’ll never wear one of those.”

Of course, those of us with a few more miles on our odometers and who’ve forced down our fill of crow over the years could have reminded him of the old adage: Never say never.

This past fall after club soccer season ended, Number Two was looking for a way to get into even better physical condition and for a sport to occupy his time during the spring since his school didn’t field a soccer team. Someone suggested rowing. The Rocket City Rowing Club has been around for a few years, drawing high schoolers from around the Huntsville metro area down to the banks of the Tennessee River and into sleek, cigar-shaped shells with names like The Enterprise and The Black Pearl (whose crew motto is, “Once you go black, you never go back”).

But as Number Two found out, one doesn’t simply show up and sit down in one of these beauties, grab an oar and start splashing. Something else must come first.

Pain. And lots of it.

[...]