My Father

My parents, along with my mother’s extended family, were refugees from Hungary’s Communist Revolution in 1956, in which thousands died or were imprisoned when the Soviet military crushed an uprising by the nation’s freedom-hungry population. My family escaped over the border into Austria, and lived in a refugee camp for months before being allowed to immigrate to America.

Shortly after arriving in the United States, my parents were married in a local St. Louis Hungarian church, my mother 23 and my father 21 years of age. (It’s hard to imagine that two of my stepchildren are the same ages now…but I digress :)…)

Life was not easy and they lived in humble conditions at best. After the day’s work was done, there were night classes to learn English. 6 people were crammed into a 5-room flat in South St. Louis, and no doubt tensions ran high as the stress of living in a new country, with virtually no possessions, very little language, and even littler money weighed heavily on all of them.

My father wanted to try his hand in New York City, where the opportunities were big -- like the city’s “Big Apple” moniker. My mother had a hard time cutting the apron strings; it was the first time she was away from her family and being in a new country made it even tougher. She and my father often fought and their young marriage suffered. To complicate matters, I came along in 1964 – unexpectedly; there was no celebration over the beginning of new life. In fact when my mother told my father she was pregnant, they just stared at each other, shocked, and not in a good way.

Having a child did nothing to resolve issues between them. They divorced shortly after I was born, not able to reconcile differences at opposite ends of the spectrum.

Their divorce was extreme even by 1960s standards. “Shared Custody” was non-existent and things like child support and alimony were rarely enforced, mostly due to a lack of proper systems in place to monitor payments. If one was to parcel out blame to the “guilty parties” there was plenty of it to go around. For various reasons, my father didn’t meet alimony obligations assigned to him by the state, but neither did my mother allow me to visit him as she should have – she was incredibly bitter and resentful over the divorce and her emotions reigned supreme over sound judgment that a child needs to see and be loved by both of their parents, no matter the circumstances between them other than endangering the child’s safety.

I didn’t see my dad again until shortly before my mother’s death in 1980 – a full 13 years after their divorce, unreal by today’s standards. In that time my mother (and grandmother) filled my head with all sorts of ideas – all of them bad -- about my father. When I got older I found out some of them were true, but it wasn’t until I was out of college and well into adulthood that I also found out how much he loved me. For the first time I got to hear his side of their sad history, and it was a powerful lesson that there are ALWAYS two sides to every story. I also came to appreciate how difficult life was for him – he himself wasn’t raised by model parents either. I met my paternal grandmother only once when she came from Hungary to visit America. She treated my father as if he was still a child; she even remarked that only after meeting his grown daughter could she begin to comprehend her own son as an adult.

Once I finished college, I worked like a dog to obtain an MBA before I was 25. I made barely enough to pay the bills but I was employed by the University and had free tuition for my entire graduate school years; it was a worthwhile investment to live on macaroni and cheese in exchange for financial freedom down the road :).

And it paid off – my income rose just fine through the years. I began to wonder how I could “give something back.” A lot of people offered me good advice through the years, and there was no shortage of young people who were motivated but lacked financial resources.

I thought about instituting a scholarship at my former high school but didn’t want to appear like I was showing off. When talking to my dad about it, he said “Why are you concerned about what other people think? You should be thinking about the example you’re setting for other people. Imagine how others might be inspired to do something if you do…” I could hardly believe the words were coming from my father??? He was happy to get cigarettes and Dewar’s for half price at the Dirt Cheap store…and here he was waxing philanthropic to his daughter!

I put the scholarship in place – full tuition for a student who demonstrated equal levels of financial need and academic excellence. Another one followed – this one to the elementary school attached to our church. Then a capital building fund was put in place at our church for connecting all of our buildings together; we joyfully gave to that as well – more than twice what I earned with my first job out of school. We made ends meet just fine and I was amazed at how much joy I got from giving away something I had almost none of while growing up. Later on, my passion for triathlon would expand to benefit the homeless – our “Race for Reynosa” fundraiser was born to help build homes for the poor in Mexico. To date we’ve raised over $40,000 which has enabled us to build more than 20 new homes for families who otherwise sleep in shanties made of construction debris and other trash.

Today we contribute nearly a third of what we earn annually and it all goes to making a difference in the lives of others – PEOPLE are the only thing we take with us when we meet our Maker. Don Henley, lead vocalist for the group The Eagles, in his song Gimme What You Got, says “…you don’t see no hearses with luggage racks…” People are the ultimate eternal investment, not our houses, cars, jobs, or other toys.

Never underestimate the difference you can make in the life of someone else. Often it comes from the least expected place – but that’s the way God works sometimes. He’s in the business of surprising us. The problem is that we think small – our desires, our views, our goals – all small by His standards. One visit to Alaska will show you a glimpse into how big He thinks – imagine the Alaska Range as just the bottom step to His front porch. That’s a good start.

Thanks Dad for teaching me how to think BIG :).

The Dot and the Line - What Are You Living For?

It’s Friday night and all the cool shows are on TV – Run’s House, What Not To Wear…you’ve waited all week to see who’s going to make the cut on The Next Great American Band. So many choices!

When I was in college, MTV had just come on the scene with mostly, well, music videos! It was a huge distraction from what I was supposed to be doing, which was study. I was paying my own way through school; my parents were not around and my grandmother had raised me. We had absolutely no money for college, so I was at the mercy of scholarships, grants, and loans. It was not an easy time, and I welcomed any detour from the daily grind of class, work, study, and sleeeeeeeep (sometimes during class :)). At times I could barely see to the next hour, much less the next semester or, yowza – graduation!

I am an only child and our family was small; in fact both my parents were “only’s” too, so I have no aunts/uncles/cousins. When I was 8, my grandfather died and then my great aunt passed away a couple months later. They let me in to see the “viewing,” and I realized I was not shocked by death. Growing up Catholic, I already had a fair education in religion at an early age; I knew (and believed) in life after death and wondered how my life would count in God’s eyes. It was plain to me even then that death comes to us all; where we end up is a matter of how we’ve lived our lives while here.

After becoming a Christian I began to see life as being more than meets the eye. Life can be a dot, but when viewed through the eyes of God, it’s a LINE. In mathematics, there are an infinite number of dots on a line with no end. Eternity is the ultimate line with no end. Imagine life without the heartache of betrayal, sickness, conflict, worry, or death – this is eternal fellowship with God, absent of all the fallenness of our world today. Does it not make sense to invest your dot of a life here into the line of eternity, where the “returns” on your investment pay out forever?

So what are you living for today? Are you living for the DOT? Here are a few examples:

o Watching American Idol instead of going to a Bible study – all the time
o Spending $50 on a pair of shoes you don’t really need instead of giving to a needy family at Christmas
o Lying to a friend who really needs you, saying you’re too busy or too tired
o Worrying more about keeping up with the latest fashion trends than about how your words may affect the example you’re setting in front of others

Living for the LINE means:

o Not dining out with your friends for the umpteenth time, so you can take the money and give it to a ministry instead
o Getting up a little earlier to read your Bible instead of sleeping til the last minute before you need to get to class
o Spending time with a lonely elderly person in a nursing home instead of spending the day with your friends at the mall
o Sticking up for your Christian beliefs at the risk of being uncool

Living for the line is not always easy. In fact it is often hard and requires choices that might at times inconvenience us. But when we consider the example that Jesus set for us, dying a criminal’s death an innocent man in order for God to declare us “Not Guilty” in His court of law, how can we not respond with a view to eternity and make every moment of our “dots” count! The rewards are beyond our wildest imaginations.

Beneath the Gaze

It was Monday morning, o’dark-thirty to be exact, and I was in the pool – along with 20 other wingnuts who couldn’t think of anything better to do at 5:15am than fling themselves into 75-degree water and swim 4,000 yards (that’s over 150 laps but who’s counting?...) :).

This is the winter off-season for triathletes, and the better part of wisdom (along with last season’s performance) tells me I have improvements to make in all three disciplines of swimming, biking, and running. Of the three, swimming is the most complex and requires the most tenacity and patience – something that doesn’t come easily to most of us ordinary mortals.

I have an excellent triathlon coach, Jennifer Harrison (www.jenharrison.com), who is a rock star triathlete, and who has also gently SHOVED me :) into a Masters swim class. The name Masters is a bit misleading. The moment an individual is over the age of 19, they are considered a Masters swimmer. Though some Masters groups have competitive swim teams, there is no requirement to compete and there are swimmers at every ability – both novice and elite -- who are in the Masters category.

My swim coach is Hap Gentry, who is also excellent. He is very interactive with swimmers who want to improve their stroke and he doesn’t hesitate to offer constructive and immediate feedback to those who desire it.

There is a lot I can do to better my swim technique; at present there are no less than 10 things on my list I need to improve. Monday morning I was in the pool working on two of these items and I was getting frustrated by the minute. I’m in the hunt to lower my swim times and for the present it seems as though I’ve plateaued. Hap walked to end of the lane and met me at the wall. His style is very demonstrative, meaning that in addition to words he physically shows the correct technique to employ, sometimes actually lying on the deck to help the swimmer visualize a streamlined position in the water.

Today it was about closing the gap between my shoulder and head to minimize drag in the water. The goal is to move through the water as efficiently as possible, not to muscle your way to the other side. This is especially important for endurance athletes who swim 1-2 miles and then have another 50-100 miles of biking and running ahead of them in a race – you want to exit the water with plenty of energy left in the tank.

Hap showed me the correct technique this morning, but he also showed me what I actually looked like. And seeing what I was doing wrong was a tough realization that what was in my mind’s eye and what was actually going on were wildly disparate. It was also a bit painful, and several “reasons” (really excuses) for incorrect technique immediately sprung to my lips. Then Hap encouraged me to swim to the other end, while he walked along the deck and watched my attempts at correction.

Seeing (and owning) what I was doing wrong was enough to reckon with, but being under scrutiny was even more difficult, and it occurred to me this is a trait shared by all of mankind. Consider the number one fear for most human beings -- aside from the loss of a spouse or child, the biggest dread people have is public speaking. And why? It’s not so bad to be on a stage at a podium, looking at 100 people in the audience; but to have 100 or potentially 1000 pairs of eyes all looking at us causes numerous and pronounced physiological reactions: trembling, severe perspiration, shaky voice, even temporary loss of memory.

French philosopher Jean Paul Sartre once spoke of the discomfort of being “beneath the gaze.” The idea was that we as human beings, with all our flaws and deep secrets, are deeply uncomfortable being looked at by God, other people, even ourselves. Be honest – when was the last time you could hold someone’s gaze for more than 5 seconds? We all have secrets that if found out by someone else would make us want to run or die. And in those occasions that the “real us” becomes exposed, what is our first reaction – do we fight, do we run, or do we live our lives honestly beneath the gaze of God, others, and ourselves?

Being a professing Christian, I have learned firsthand the difference between the human fight or flight impulse and the incredibly liberating feeling of being completely exposed before a perfect and holy God – and being loved and forgiven anyway. If God has seen all my flaws (even the painful ones I’m hard pressed to admit), and has forgiven me through the death of his Son Jesus, it turns my view of the world upside down – full honesty is now a real possibility. Criticism from others can now be seen as a favor instead of a threat. I can now say Thank You to my critics because my standing before God has been declared as “not guilty” when Jesus took my place by dying on the cross.

It is natural for us to think of ourselves as “pretty ok” when we compare us to other human beings; we can always find someone who is “worse” than we are. But compared to the standard of a holy and perfect God, even the most moral and righteous human being is far from being worthy to come to the Creator on his own merits. God doesn’t just have a perfect standard – He is the perfect standard and breaking even just one law is the same as breaking all of it. If you think that’s harsh, imagine just one drop of H5N1, more commonly known as the bird flu virus, in a gallon of water; it renders the entire amount undrinkable! It’s the same with God’s law – God does not, cannot, grade on a curve. To illustrate with one more example, what would we think of a human judge that “judged on a curve”? Guilt or innocence is an absolute; there is nothing relative about it.

The death of Jesus Christ changed the entire landscape for us flawed human beings. He lived a perfect sinless life and died a criminal’s death an innocent man. The point is he died the death we deserve – we all deserve justice, which is fair treatment for transgressing God, but because of Jesus’ death we instead receive unmerited favor or grace. Believing this in your heart is what makes one a true Christian.

Monday morning in the pool, the excuses for my lack of proficiency in stroke technique never left my lips, and I was reminded that even the most expert scrutiny by a terrific coach is a “favor” to help me become a better swimmer....and to extend that same grace to others who come into my path as God has extended His mercy to an exposed and terribly flawed human being who hardly deserved it.

What Exactly is Christian Character...???

Tim Keller, Pastor of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in New York, owns the following quote, but it is so rich and right on point that it is worth repeating here.

"Not only is inner Christian character not the same thing as talents and gifts, it is also NOT the same thing as moral behavior. We must not confuse these things, or think that because I'm leading an exemplary moral life that I am growing in Christian character...Nietzche (rightly) was fond of noticing how much moral behavior was really just a power play, something done so we can feel morally superior...We will never become loving ONLY by trying hard...we'll only become loving through meeting and encountering. Becoming a person of love is not a mechanical process. Something profound must happen to us. We must MEET Love...the gospel humbles me out of my pride, showing me that I am a sinner. But it also VALUES ME out of my fear, showing me what Jesus was willing to do for me....there is no other way to truly change one's character than through the grace of the gospel. No one can change simply through willpower. You will always be controlled by your heart's supreme affection and love -- by your heart's ultimate source of love and meaning. The only way to change a proud and fearful heart is by the grace of God in Christ."

Where does your heart's supreme affection and love rest? Is it on money? Success? Image? Security? Family? YOU?

A Long Line of Iron (Part 2)

My grandparents bought their first house in St. Louis a few years after they emigrated from Hungary following the Communist Revolution in 1956. I was born in 1964, in New Jersey, where my parents had moved shortly after arriving in the United States. My father wanted to be near New York City, where the opportunities didn’t get any better or more plentiful. My mother had a hard time cutting the apron strings, but there was more to it than that. They divorced when I was 2, and my mother and I moved back to St. Louis to live with my grandparents. Through a sad turn of events, I would not see my dad again until just a few weeks before my mother’s suicide in July 1980. I was 15 years old and an only child. Though some by my own hand, the years ahead would bring more sorrow and adversity than I had yet known in my thus-far short life.

My father wanted to re-insert himself into my life, and I would have none of it. Things were not easy, and I clung to the familiar – my home, school, friends, activities. Thankfully he did not force me to move to New Jersey to live with him.

I continued to live with my grandmother where the generational and cultural gap between us rivaled the Grand Canyon. Every day was fraught with arguments that often dissolved into outright screaming matches. She was the picture of “tough love” – rarely did words of encouragement flow from her lips but she was generous with putdowns that were meant to shake some sense into me. It wasn’t until much later that I would realize what she herself had been through growing up, and what a terrible weight it must’ve been for her -- at 70 years of age -- to raise an angry, strong-willed, rebellious teenager – alone -- in a country where she didn’t speak the language, didn’t have much money, and had just suffered the loss of her only child. We were both devastated by my mother’s death but we carried on nonetheless, despite our differences.

It made me crazy that she would make a statement that could be incredibly wrong and she would absolutely insist what she said was right. Once we went shopping for a new car for her and apparently she had browsed the lot a few days earlier. The car she had looked at was within her budget but the one she insisted she had looked at was not the same model – and clearly not within her budget. We argued about it (while the salesman was completely entertained by two women catfighting in Hungarian), and neither of us budged, both of us sure about being right. We went home with nothing accomplished -- me seething with accumulated anger, and her muttering something about how disrespectful children can be.

We had a washing machine but no dryer. She would gather up my laundry despite me insisting I could do it myself. She would soak my socks in near-undiluted bleach (after all they were white and MORE is better!), then throw them into the wash. We had no dryer, so she would hang them up outside in the hot sun to dry. When I put on a pair that had been through this cycle my thumbs went right through the sides, they were utterly disintegrated from the bleaching and sun drying.

Nicer shirts I owned suffered a similar fate – inevitably they would end up with frayed edges or mystery spots, where most likely they had shared residence with the bleach-drenched socks. If our washer had a “Stun the Stain Out!” setting, I’m sure she was perpetually dialed into it.

My indignation-outrage-whining (in that order) was to no avail. She plowed right ahead, single-mindedly undeterred in her daily endeavors. She was over the top on EVERYTHING.

She also did things that amazed me, though at the time I thought they were plain stupid: she drove a car despite not being able to read English (though she “talked” her way out of countless traffic tickets), shopped for her own groceries (she could read numbers), cut the grass, grew beautiful flowers that were the envy of the neighborhood, cultivated a thriving vegetable garden, handmade her own phyllo dough (the paper-thin pastry used in baklava), assembled ginormous care packages for relatives still in Hungary and hauled them to the Post Office, painted our frame garage, tuckpointed the bricks on our house, and masoned the stones in our basement to minimize flooding from heavy rains – all in her 70s and on into her 80s.

At 74, she was diagnosed with rectal cancer and had the tumors removed. After radiation treatments, she was pronounced cancer-free but she would have a permanent colostomy (rerouting the lower intestine and its “output” through a surgically created hole in the lower abdomen and into an ostomy pouch) for the rest of her life. She recovered from major surgery in less than 3 weeks and within a month was oriented to her new personal care routine. Anyone else would’ve taken twice as long, or longer, to recover and get on their feet again.

She was the unstoppable freight train that had long ago left the station – God was the only Conductor who could put the brakes on now.

It seemed only fitting that she gave me away at my wedding in 1993. I realized that somewhere along the line the tables had turned and I was now her caregiver, where earlier in my life she had been mine. I wondered if she ever regretted taking me in; at times I’m sure we mutually wished Very Bad Things on each other, but to this day I am still realizing how much of my strength has come from her countless examples of undaunted perseverance.

When she passed away in 2001, she was only 7 days shy of her 90th birthday. In a span of 18 months, she had deteriorated significantly both in her physical and mental faculties, losing over half her body weight as well as her speech. After nearly 40 years of having an ever-present column of iron in my life, I had “assumed” she would live forever. In fact the inside family joke was that she would outlive me. Watching her decline was exceedingly painful, both from a compassion standpoint as well as being forced to face my own mortality.

I had visited her one last time in the nursing facility. She was in hospice and not expected to live much longer. I left her sleeping, knowing full well it would likely be the last time we would see each other on this side of eternity. I remember standing at the nurses’ station weeping. An older nurse put her arm around me and said “The Lord allowed her to raise you and take care of you, and now He wants her back.” It was a dreadfully pointed and painfully accurate thing to say. God is sovereign. He rules His own creation and is the embodiment of truth. In the same way gravity is true whether we like it or not, God’s authority over His creatures is true no matter how we feel about it; it’s not an option and we must all sooner or later concede this important reality. It’s no accident the word “authority” has the word author as its root.

It was a year before I visited her grave. As far back as I could remember I had seen her signature on countless papers and documents; later as her Power of Attorney, I myself had signed her name numerous times. Standing at her gravesite, I saw her name one more time -- in the very last place I expected to see it – etched permanently into a marker of her very full life but also an indicator of her very real mortality. The realization of the latter, that our bodies as we know them today will come to an end, and that our lives are but a dot on the line of eternity, poured over me in torrents of emotion; the last time I wept this uncontrollably was upon learning of my mother’s death over 20 years earlier.

Though I have no desire to repeat the trials of my earlier years, I will never regret who I’ve become as a result of my grandmother’s influence. She taught me to never say quit, to follow through on whatever I put my mind to, and to never blame someone else for my problems. She was truly a column of iron.



Phil 3:13-14 “…Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

A Long Line of Iron

Training for and finishing an Ironman triathlon (2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, 26.2 mile marathon) brings with it endless opportunities for personal reflection.

This post is the product of one of those opportunities.

Now 7 weeks after the race, the effect of having finished one of the most grueling multisport distances still hasn’t sunk in. I got a tattoo (read our earlier post for a funny account – all at my expense of course :)) just to remind myself continuously that I actually “did it.” As a celebration, we even took a 2-week cruise to Alaska less than a week after the race and that was spectacular – it was our 4th visit to the Eskimo state and the largely untouched landscape continues to astonish us. Majestic mountains rise up from fjords that are hundreds of feet deep and easily provide passage for some of the world’s largest cruise ships, such as the one we were on in early October. Some of the passages are so narrow, it seemed we could reach out and touch the mountainside on either side of the ship.

During our trip, I took a lot of walks and spent a lot of time on our cabin balcony. Reflecting back on the race and the 9 months of physical and mental preparation required, it occurred to me that I’m not the first “Ironwoman” in my family. I may be the first generation born here in the United States, and I may be the first to finish college, but I come from a very long line of “iron” where endurance and perseverance were the norm for everyday living.

My mother and father, in addition to my mother’s parents and extended family, were immigrants from Hungary, in fact, refugees from the Hungarian Revolution in 1956. Since World War II, Hungary had been under Communist control, with Soviet troops stationed all over the country. Student protests on October 22, 1956 led to larger demonstrations, and finally to outright revolt as the Hungarians disabled the Communist government and ousted the Soviet military on October 23rd.

For 10 days Hungary knew the kind of peace and democracy that has been ours in the United States for over 200 years.

Then on November 4, 1956, the troops returned, this time with tanks; thousands died or were imprisoned as the Soviets crushed the uprising. My family fled across the border to Austria and waited several months in a refugee camp to be allowed to immigrate to the United States.

Once here, life was no cakewalk. There were no handouts, but there were wage earning jobs to be had. 6 family members crowded into a small flat in the South Side of St. Louis – it was all they could afford. When the workday was done, there were night classes to learn English. My grandmother’s own education was poor (she didn’t learn to read and write until she was 17), so she was unable to keep up with the instructor and eventually dropped out. She continued to work as a seamstress and earned just enough to put food on the table and set a tiny bit aside for savings. It was a contribution they all made to make ends meet.

By today’s standards, it is amazing they endured as they did. We microwave our meals and expect everything else to work the same way – earning money, acquiring possessions, even health and fitness. I’m a triathlete who devotes her winter off-season training to bettering her swim stroke mechanics. Swimming is only 20% conditioning and 80% technique – improvement requires getting reacquainted with the lost arts of perseverance, consistency, and patience. A good friend and colleague of mine, also a triathlete, once said “Patience my A--; I want it now!” when encouraged to be patient in improving his swim times. My swim coach concurs, saying that in the class she teaches, very few people are interested in improving through patience and perseverance. We all want it NOW.

It appears we have moved from being masters in the art of delayed gratification to a society that idolizes “instant GETification.” Where has the “iron” gone? What dignity or lesson is there in having everything come easy or right away? We live in a fallen world – 5 minutes of watching CNN is enough to convince anyone of the depths to which human depravity can extend. Adversity and trials come to everyone, no matter how much we try to avoid them or control our circumstances. And when they come and we’ve had everything easy, living on the peaks of life as it were, how well are we prepared to handle the valleys? Do we blame others for our problems or do we dig in and realize that for valleys to exist there must be peaks at either end? Do we understand that in EVERY adversity there is a seed of EQUAL or GREATER benefit?

A seed, yes…not a ready-made, greenhouse-grown blooming flower. Seeds take time to mature, but within them rest not just one flower, but rolling meadows and mountain upon mountain of astonishing beauty – all on the other side of the valleys of adversity -- but just as easily missed if we roll over and wet ourselves in despair and self pity.

Take a look at your calendar and your checkbook. Where are you spending your two most valuable commodities – your time and your money? Are you avoiding trials at all costs? Or are you taking stock of where you are now and understanding that every trial you experience will ultimately prepare you for a magnificent and resilient future, able to withstand the fiercest storm and still remain standing.

Perseverance is born in the pit -- not on the podium -- of life.

Why?

Someone asked me recently why I race. If one was to query the triathlete population, the reasons would be infinite, ranging from the profound to the ridiculous (although if you spoke to the athlete with the "ridiculous" reason, there is a good chance it wouldn't be so ludicrous to them :).

A long time ago, I found a quote from Teddy Roosevelt that I've adopted as my Personal Motto. Roosevelt was famous for overcoming enormous odds to succeed in nearly any endeavor. In his book "The 21 Irrefutable Laws of of Leadership," John Maxwell describes Roosevelt's life:



Of all the leaders this nation has ever had, Roosevelt was one of the toughest -- both physically and mentally. But he didn't start that way. America's cowboy president was born in Manhattan to a prominent wealthy family. As a child he was puny and very sickly. He had debilitating asthma, possessed very poor eyesight, and was painfully thin. His parents weren't sure he would survive.



When he was twelve, young Roosevelt's father told him, "You have the mind, but you have not the body, and without the help of the body the mind cannot go as far as it should. You must make the body." And make it he did.



Roosevelt began spending time every day building his body as well as his mind, and he did that for the rest of his life. He worked out with weights, hiked, ice-skated, hunted, rowed, rode horseback, and boxed. In later years, Roosevelt assessed his progress, admitting that as a child he was "nervous and timid. Yet," he said, "from reading of the people I admired...and from knowing my father, I had a great admiration for men who were fearless and who could hold their own in the world, and I had a great desire to be like them." By the time he graduated from Harvard, he was like them...



The following quote has helped me in times of triumph as well as through abject failure...inevitably I get back in the saddle to ride again. Next time someone puts you down for trying (and perhaps failing at) your latest endeavor, remember the following:

"It's not the critic who counts; Not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, Or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; Who errs and comes up short again and again; Because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; But who does actually strive to do the deed; Who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly; So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."

Walking Among Giants

It was like we were walking through one of those stately European cathedrals. However, instead of the light coming in through stained glass windows, it was pouring in between a long line of massive trees on either side of us. It was also falling in from above, through a canopy of branches opened at the top. From an earthly perspective it seemed we had walked into the antechamber of God’s throne room itself, so magnificent and majestic were these trees. I was overcome with an urge to fall facedown out of reverence for the sheer beauty of His creation.

(That is me standing at the bottom of the picture :)).

This was not the first time we had experienced such a feeling. As often as we convince ourselves of our own importance and immortality, it runs counter to our nature to conceive of something so much bigger than ourselves. It's altogether startling. What human could not be moved by the majesty of the Redwoods, the untouched-by-human-hands mountains and glaciers of Alaska, the glorious ribbons of color inside the Grand Canyon – all put here for “our viewing pleasure” by the Creator Himself.

Joseph Strauss (not the composer) was the Chief Engineer on the Golden Gate Bridge for San Francisco. This engineering marvel stands as a testament to his brilliance, the second longest suspension bridge by span in the United States after the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge in New York City.

Strauss wrote a beautiful poem that strikes a chord with many who visit the famous California Redwoods. It speaks both of the character of man as well as of our Creator:

The Redwoods

"Here, sown by the Creator's hand,

In serried ranks, the Redwoods stand;

No other clime is honored so,

No other lands their glory know.

The greatest of Earth's living forms,

Tall conquerors, that laugh at storms;

Their challenge still unanswered rings,

Through fifty centuries of kings.

The nations that with them were young,

Rich empires, with their forts far flung,

Lie buried now - their splendor gone;

But these proud monarchs still live on.

So shall they live, when ends our days,

When our crude citadels decay;

For brief the years allotted man,

But infinite perennials' span.

This is their temple, vaulted high,

And here we pause with reverent eye,

With silent tongue and awestruck soul;

For here we sense life's proper goal:

To be like these - straight, true and fine,

To make our world like theirs, a shrine;

Sink down, O Traveler, to your knees;

God stands before you in these trees."

“What Could Possibly Hurt Worse…”

…than Ironman? Getting a tattoo!! Now you’re probably thinking “aw, c’mon…how bad could it be?”

Steve and I had decided 2 years ago that if I finished an iron-distance race that the Ironman symbol, the red “M-Dot”, would take its rightful place on my ankle. I’ve heard all the apprehensions about getting a tattoo “I know of no one who doesn’t regret it later” or “You’re getting a butterfly on your shoulder? Don’t you know it’ll be a CONDOR when you’re 80?!”

After completing the Great Illini Iron Challenge 4 weeks ago on September 15, we decided – apprehensions aside – it was time.

So I thought who better to ask than my friend and coworker Ian. Ian has this on his left leg…

Yowza! I exclaimed when he sent the photo to me. This guy’s an expert, I thought, so naturally he was my first choice to get the 411 on all things “tat”. Ian explained that the first step was to print the image if it’s custom “artwork” you want, eg, not found in the tattoo shop’s portfolio of existing images. No problem there, plenty of images to be found on the Internet. In fact he had no trouble locating one for me.

His next question was Where do you want it? When I mentioned my ankle he said “Oh…when I have any work done near my ankle it always feels like razor blades…” I thought precisely what you were thinking 2 minutes ago: How bad could it be? I’ve had razor blades near my ankle when shaving, no worries.

He found a reputable shop in Portsmouth (I happened to be at our corporate office in New Hampshire that week), and because the image was uncomplicated, I was considered a walk-in. No appointment necessary. Cool :).

We waited for about 30 minutes and while doing so, Ian explained to me that not all shops are created equal. Naturally things like using sterile products, surgical gloves worn by the artists, a clean workspace, etc, were the marks of a decent tattoo shop. The one we were at met all these requirements.

I brought the printout with me, and My-New-Friend-and-Tattoo-Artist Todd created a stencil that he then imprinted onto my ankle. It was to be used as a rough outline for the permanent image that would become the tattoo. I thought this is great.

Then he unfolded what looked like a massage table, so I could sit with my legs tucked under me, right ankle facing him and at table level. He could comfortably work and I could comfortably sit and watch him work.

I watched him unpack the needles, ink, gauze, (gauze???) and prep his tattoo gun. He put on a new pair of gloves every time he handled something not packaged or sterilized – a great sign; this guy was top shelf.

He put the needle into the gun, dipped the tip into the black inkwell, and proceeded to…….oh man…… RIP THE SKIN OFF MY ANKLE…!!!!

Not actually, but the moment the needle touched and moved along the thin skin above my ankle, all sorts of images flashed through my mind…things like the opening scene of nuclear bomb testing in Godzilla…lava flowing out of the active volcanoes in Kona…the alien mothership exploding in Independence Day…Steve McQueen in Bullet…(ok that was just a hot dude in a cool movie and doesn’t belong in this narrative)…The Second Coming of Christ (it must be – I’m dying here!)…mostly it was searing white-hot pain flashing right behind my eyeballs.

My head whipped around to face Ian; I heard myself say “MOMMY!!” through all 28 of my clenched teeth. Ian smiled cordially and proving his emotional maturity in a pinch said “Hurt a bit?” Though he may have been thinking them, the words “I told you so” never left his lips. What a friend – seriously :).

The pain was momentarily withdrawn and I looked down to see My-New-Friend-and-Tattoo-Artist Todd had lifted the tattoo gun and was wiping off (was that blood????) the excess ink from the thus-far completed image on my leg. I thought he must be finished with the outline of the M-Dot; surely I’ve suffered enough to be that far along.

Not so Bobby Joe – he had drawn a quarter-inch line that was the top of the squared-off M in the M-Dot. For a moment I stared and actually thought about bailing, but then I remembered how I had put over 140 miles on my body and persevered to the end of a glorious race just a few days ago. A voice inside my head (not unlike the one screaming at me a minute ago) said “What?! You’re not thinking of bailing are you? There’s no such thing as an Iron-Sissy!”

Turns out the pain was directly related to how close to my ankle Todd was – once he moved farther up my leg it was bearable – mind you, I still have trouble understanding how people sit for hours under the tattoo gun; I was having trouble withstanding a few seconds ­– but the moment he hovered back toward the ankle bone, my teeth would clench and the homicidal thoughts would return, each comeback more intense than the one previous – I was beginning to imagine how I was going to kill My-New-Friend-and-Tattoo-Artist Todd. :)

Not realy :). After 30 minutes (it seemed, though I’m certain I passed out somewhere along the way…:)), Todd said “All done!” I looked down and she was truly a beautiful thing to behold – the red M-Dot, a permanent reminder of a goal I had planned and labored several years to achieve.

And to think I actually “paid for pain.” :)

Iron Maiden

It wasn’t 3 years ago that I sat and watched NBC’s airing of the Hawaii Ironman World Championship. The personal stories of adversity overcome brought tears to my eyes over and over again; I could relate to what it meant to persevere during times of difficulty and overcome what life had thus far handed me.

What I hadn’t realized, though, was that the pinnacle of triathlon -- the “holy grail” of multisport racing – the Ironman itself – was run by ordinary mortals, people like myself. All these years I had thought the race and its grueling distance was a challenge taken on by only the pro’s. It hadn’t occurred to me that “regular people” – folks with jobs, bills, demands on their time, responsibilities just like mine – trained and raced, and actually did well.

And here I was, on September 15, 2007, at 6:30am, on my 43rd birthday no less, standing in the 77-degree water toeing the line for my first Ironman. I could say the whole reason I was shivering was because of the ambient temperature, but that wouldn’t be entirely true :). 9 months of training had come to this one day – did I have IT in me? Would I be able to handle the 2.4 mile swim, the 112 mile bike, and a 26.2 mile marathon – all in succession?

One thing my coach had told me was to be confident in my training. She reassured me I had done all the work and just had to put together a great race and execute – “make it YOUR day Catherine!” she had said. Her words would ring true all day long J.

The morning of the race was cold – 39 degrees! None of us had gloves and my hands were a bit numb while I was racking my bike and setting up my shoes, helmet, food, race belt, etc. Who knew metal could get so cold! For the first time I was actually looking forward to getting into my wetsuit, made rather difficult by the cold – my fingers would not bend to grip the suit and pull it on my body despite loads of Body Glide. Steve finally had to help me; I think he actually enjoyed it immensely as it gave him a legitimate reason to grope his wife in public :). I tried to add to the fun by holding my right hand under my left armpit inside the suit and flexing my left arm – you know, the old arm-fart trick. It didn’t work but lots of people laughed – it served its purpose for sure.

At the swim start, the fog was so thick we couldn’t see to the next swim buoy so they delayed the start by 15 minutes. We stood shivering in the water, for once all of us glad to be submerged in temperatures nearly twice as warm as the ambient temperature. To stay warm and calm my nerves I swam several times to the first buoy and back, no more than 20 feet, and it helped.

The gun finally fired and we were off. The fog was still thick on the water and all I could sight on were bobbing heads in front of me. I had long ago decided to relax – it was after all my first Ironman and I wasn’t about to blow up on the swim. By the time I came around the first loop (it was a 2-loop swim of 1.2 miles each), the fog had burned off and I was in cruise mode. I stopped briefly to adjust my goggles and was surprised to see several athletes still in the vicinity.

An hour and 40 minutes after the gun, my feet were touching the shore and running to the transition area. I couldn’t believe it – I had “negative-splitted” my swim, meaning the second loop was faster than the first. A great sign and very encouraging.

Onto the bike – well, to say it was windy was an understatement. Ok, this wasn’t the 50mph gusts of Kona but the wind was a formidable opponent, and not surprising at all in the cornfields of Illinois where there are no barriers and only open fields. I hunkered down and squeezed my knees into my top tube, a knife into the wind, grateful for all the miles I’d ridden in the aero position; I was at home resting on my forearms and letting my legs do the work.

56 miles later and onto the bike’s second loop, the wind had largely died down which was a measure of grace, but hey this is September in Central Illinois and it’s harvest season – hello combines and hello DUST. My nose started running a LOT, and I was blowing snot rockets every 5 minutes. I actually wondered if I could leave “snot crumbs” and laughed – the mind at work in survival mode. Around Mile 80 my crotch began to complain rather loudly (payback for being aero I guess), and I was forced to stand and pedal more than I wanted to. Luckily I was keeping right on with my nutrition and felt great in that respect. Seeing Steve at various spots on the bike course was great too – he was actually in a lawn chair reading a book, soaking up the sun. I wondered for a second what was wrong with this picture – me hauling my butt around 112 miles on my steed and him doing what he loves – reading a military book and watching his wife – but any doubts about where I was quickly vanished as he said with a big grin “You look HOT and AWESOME!” I love this sport :).

At Mile 105 of the bike, with 7 miles to go, I could hardly WAIT to get onto the marathon. I mean, I was looking forward to running! In all the bricks I’d done (bike first then run immediately afterward), I’d never felt that way. It would take a mile to “find” my legs, which is not a pleasant feeling.

Not today. I was happy to be off my aching butt, standing upright so I could stop blowing snot, and I was back in my “old school” – back to my first love – running lonnnnnnnnng. It felt wonderful, and I was clicking the miles off, a tad slower than I wanted but moving forward nonetheless. Steve would drive up alongside me at various points and grin – for the umpteenth time I wondered which of us was having a better time :).

The sun had gone down earlier and I was on a country road. Looking up there were no buildings or obstructions to my view; it was only me and the vast dark blue sky, and the feeling of being under the Almighty’s gaze washed over me like a warm breeze – I was filled with gratitude that I had been able to get this far and the certainty that He had never left me, ever. In all the days of sorrow I had known earlier in my life, I could look back and see where He’d been at work all along.

At Mile 22 I was still running and I couldn’t believe it. I still had stamina left and while there was pain to deal with, I had mentally prepared myself for it to come; there was nothing I couldn’t make peace with and carry with me to the end. For goodness sakes, only 4 miles left to go – this was an easy training run!

Steve was standing at the Mile 25 marker and I had contained my emotions until then. When I saw him, I couldn’t hold back any longer; the tears came and flowed and we both cried as we ran together to the Finish. What a great metaphor for life – run with my husband to the Ultimate Finish someday where we will have eternity to enjoy with our Heavenly Father.

The clock said 15:28 when I crossed and held my arms up high, pointing to the sky. Thank you God for this beautiful gift, this wonderful opportunity to learn once again how to deal with pain and overcome in the midst of it, knowing the joys that await us in the end.

“but those who hope in the LORD
will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.”

-- Isaiah 40:31