The Saga of Shooting

My parents did not allow toy guns in our household. Actually, no toy weapons, period. No suction-cup bows and arrows, no plastic knives, MAYBE a neon-tinted water gun or two, and eventually, two super-soakers. (Interesting… pretend combat seems to have escalated from finger guns to cap guns to water guns, paintball guns, and airsoft guns.)

I can vaguely recall my father hunting with my grandpa when I was quite young, and my oldest brother hunted in high school. By the time I was old enough for a hunting license, however, we lived in an urban area and hunting was no longer a part of my father’s life. 

I should mention a little bit about my personality as a child. I was non-violent. Passive. I can only recall one punch being thrown with my hand, and it missed its mark, mostly. As far as a childhood dream of being an Army-man or hunter, it was quite the opposite. I was an unusually patriotic little boy, so I told myself the only way I’d join the military was if there was another Civil War or something. As for hunting, I thought I’d have made a terrible Pilgrim, because there was no way I could stomach shooting a turkey. 

I think I did want to shoot a gun once I was climbing in my teens, though. More for the experience, than anything. I didn’t want to enter into adulthood not knowing how to handle a weapon. On a trip to visit my grandparents in North Dakota, my opportunity came. I must have been 16 or 17 at the time. My grandpa owned several guns, including a little .22 rifle. At the time, I thought it was like a hand-held cannon whose firepower could crush through any armor. My dad and brother and I took the rifle, bought a small box of ammo at the grocery store in town, and drove out to the city dump. 

After a brief lesson on weapon safety, we began shooting at stuff. Microwaves, stoves, refrigerators, anything with glass. We shot at a cinderblock, which is when I realized the rifle may not have the penetrating power I thought it did. After being sprinkled with pellets of block, I grew much more selective in what I shot at. Shooting was so much fun. I remember being nervous at first, but the fears were shattered, along with an old tv tube. After a while, we wrapped things up, and my dad said maybe after lunch we could go to some fields to look for chipmunks to shoot. I did not like the sounds of that. I dreaded the thought in fact. When I was 8 or 9, I saw a squirrel run over by a car. I mourned his death the rest of the afternoon, and held a grudge against that yellow cutlass around the corner for some time. 

Anyway, lunch ended and we headed into the fields north of town to look for innocent critters we could shoot through the head. After driving around a bit we stopped at a field and my dad said something to the extent of, “Do you guys want to hop out and see what we can find?” I seized the opportunity to nonchalantly say, “Not really.” I was relieved.

But now another thing happened on that same trip. There was a woodchuck making a home under a neighbor’s garage. My grandpa had seen it and shot at it a few times, but the woodchuck thrived. He was a bit of a nuisance, because woodchucks can chuck a lot of wood. I saw him once, but by the time someone grabbed the rifle and ran outside, the critter was under the garage. Then something in my competitive spirit took over. The woodchuck was under the garage. He couldn’t stay there forever. And when he came out, I’d be waiting for him. So I took the rifle, two rounds, and sat on a stump maybe 40 yards from the garage. And I waited. 5 minutes passed. Then 15, 30, 45 minutes, an hour. Nothing. An hour and a half. Nothing. I waited. My mom came out. “I’ll eat later”, I told her. Finally, the woodchuck appeared. My heart rate spiked, and I lifted the rifle sights to my right eye. I squeezed (probably jerked) the trigger. Dirt sprayed. The woodchuck kept moving. By the time I loaded the second round in the rifle, he was gone. No slowing down, no blood spilled. I missed.

A couple years later, I joined the Marine Corps. This is not the time to unpack all the factors that contributed to that decision. Entering bootcamp, all of my shooting experience was wrapped up in that little .22. I didn’t know how shooting was going to go for me. I hoped to qualify, and not be kicked out of bootcamp for my inability to shoot. As our rifle training week began, I was eating up all of the intricacies of shooting position, controlled breathing, etc. Then came the day to zero our rifle sights. 10 rounds at 30 yards, with my M16. Would it hurt? Would I get a good shot group? Would my shots even be on the page?  My first three shots were a tight group, but fell in the lower right corner of the page, well off the target. I made the appropriate sight adjustments, and hoped for the best on the next three shots. “Okay, Jonathan, seven factors of a good shooting position, let the shot surprise you, pull the trigger during the natural respiratory pause, relax.” 3 shots center mass. No adjustments. 4 more rounds center mass, shot holes stacking on top of each other. My drill instructor looked at my card as I walked off the shooting line. “Did you grow up on a farm or something?”, he asked. “No sir, this recruit has hardly ever shot before.” 

A few days later was qualification day. 50 rounds: 20 @ 100 yards, from various shooting positions, 20 @ 300 yards, and 10 @ 500 yards. There were 10 round courses of fire that were rapid fire, meaning all 10 rounds needed to be fired in 60 seconds or less, as well as a magazine change in the middle. If all ten shots in the rapid fire were in the center of the target, it was called shooting a possible. (All possible points) Our marksmanship instructor said he would get a Snickers bar for anyone who shot 2 possibles on qualification day. I never did get that Snickers bar I earned. 

I did shoot well enough to earn the Expert rifleman shooting badge, the highest badge awarded. I continued to gain confidence in my shooting at the range, in tactical scenarios, and in combat. To me, though, the penultimate application of my ability was to try out for a scout sniper platoon. The Marine Corps definition of a Scout Sniper is, “A Marine highly trained in field skills and marksmanship, capable of delivering long-range precision fire at selected targets from concealed positions, in support of combat operations.” I passed the indoctrination, and was invited to join the Scout Sniper platoon.

But I’m bored of writing, so where am I now? After firing around 30,000 rounds in my military career, I’ve shot 24 rounds since, and that was to qualify on the shotgun for my current job. For all the rounds fired, and all the hours spent cleaning rifles and machine guns, my proficiency with shooting them hasn’t translated into an expensive hobby, post military. Why is that? Well, I just said it’s expensive. Also, it’s fun to play the piano, until you begin taking lessons and HAVE to practice the piano. Shooting was my job. It became burdensome to go to the range and shoot barrels 5,000 feet away with our m102 Barrett .50 cal. That should never be burdensome. I’ve had very slight pangs of desire to shoot sometimes, but time by myself or with my family has always won out. I’m also hesitant to keep trying to live in the Marine Corps years as my life goes on. That was then, it’s over, and I’ll continue to shoot, but only when I need to. Oh, there’s also the immense pressure and expectation that because I was in a sniper platoon, I will shoot better than anyone, always. Nope. I can’t. In fact, I’ll probably never be the best shot in the given group of people. But my pride so desperately wants to be, that I’ll sometimes avoid shooting. 

I’m realizing I wanted to focus on how I went from mild-mannered boy to expert Marine rifleman, and I suppose I did that, so I’m done. Thanks, woodchuck, for flipping a switch in me.

Blogging

(This was written while in prison)
Even in Triad it’s hard to focus on the computer screen… It’s wildly diferent from the west units, but they’re still all convicted felons. So it’s hard to just take your eyes off them. But maybe I could. I will miss petty things, though. But if you enforce the petty things, you get a unit like this. I think the therapists help, and the peer accountability is huge. They may pull one over on the CO, but the other offenders will see it and hold you accountable for your actions. That’s a difference-maker. So blogging. Is it just me, or is it dying? And if it isn’t just me, why is it dying? Why does it seem that if people want to communicate opinions, it is less and less in the form of a manifesto, letter to the editor, or blog. Oftentimes, it is summarized in a 140-character thought-byte, with a few hashtags to follow. Is that bad? Is that good? Is that of no effect? And if it is just me? Why is it dying in me? What has changed in me that has taken me from thinking more critically about nuanced ideas to coasting through life and finding intellectually dull activities to be some of the most pleasing ways to spend my time. Well let’s see… Marriage has changed in my life. A lot of things that I used to process by myself while I sipped on tea is now processed with my wife. However, more often than not, it’s not processed at all. I don’t intentionally suppress the things, but they just don’t spring up as much. Ooooh, there’s so much that contributes to this, it’s gonna be ridiculous. What I read (and don’t read) contributes to it. What I listen to contributes to it. What I expose my eyes to contributes to it. So to say that all of my deep thoughts are now processed with my wife is a cop out. I can tell that my thinking is more shallow. I haven’t been reading as many of those books where you set them down and just think about what you just read. Maybe I should re-read some of those same books. (The Pursuit of God, Crazy Love, Forgotten God) Back to 140-character thoughts. I don’t have a twitter account, so that’s not my problem, but I am a part of the culture that has warmly accepted twitter and attention-grabbing headlines and quick emails and faster arguments. If you can’t grab a listener in the first 7 seconds of a song, a reader in the first paragraphs of the book or sentences of the article, the watcher in the opening minutes of the video, you’ve lost them. Just watch me listen to Spotify or itunes radio or read USA Today and you’ll see that in action. For myself, I don’t like fragmented thoughts. It’s ineffective for deep study of any subject, but especially the immeasureable depths of God’s Word and wisdom. I don’t like that my mind no longer trends toward catching a thought in the web of my mind and examining the different sides of that thought or concept. It doesn’t. I could spend time considering how this unit of the prison runs so much differently from other units, but I just stare at my computer screen and hope there a co-worker on IM who I can type 140 character messages to. (Fortunately, I HAVE been considering the contributing factors of different unit cultures, and it has been like Febreze for my brain.)The practice of critical thought is so… critical… for lectio divina. Deep study of God’s Word. Not just rushing through it because you need to. Taking those 5 verses and literally ruminating over them. Repeating them, verbalizing them, pondering them. Rolling them around in my mind and in my heart. Pulling segments out that are precious. Praising God for His Word. I used to fight against mentally disengaged reading of the Bible. Just this typing, while it has been fragmented due to my typing in the midst of 76 felons, is a fight against 140-character thoughts. Although, because I probably won’t polish this up much at all, you’ll be able to see that my train of thought struggles to stay with one thing for very long. This will return with time, I trust. I think I will see the benefits of these practices in numerous areas of my life. And my family will benefit. And maybe I can train my daughter to sit still for more than 4.3 seconds! (That’s a generous estimation.)Lord, light these idle sticks of my mind, and let it ponder, wonder, and resolve for You. Consume my mind, my God, for it is thine.

I want to write

Funny, I don't feel like going for some profound "song-like" title to this blog. I just want to write. I've discovered some things in the past couple years of staggering change in my life. One of them is that I am a bonafide introvert. Meaning, I am refreshed and invigorated and able to better love and cherish those I love to be around when I am alone. I am alone now. The one I love to be around most is learning with me how to best express love, and she encouraged (insisted) that I go to Caribou to be alone.

Another thing I've learned is that certain activities of mine seem to be special avenues through which I can experience pure joy-filled worship. Not necessarily worship in a verbally expressed way, but worship in a, "This is pleasurable, and God designed it to be" kinda way. I'll skip the 'activity' that most makes me delight in God's love for us, and mention music and writing. I love playing the guitar, elementary though I may be in my technical skill and understanding. And I love to write. I LOVE to write! I want to write a long review of my moped trip still. I want to write questions that tumble around in my head. It's a good practice. It keeps my thoughts worthwhile. If I know I'm going to write  about things, I may not spend a half hour at work thinking, "Boy, this mousepad is filthy... I wonder how you clean a mousepad? Oh look, there's a sunflower shell on the ground. I wish my chair was taller." When I wrote regularly I thought more clearly and critically. I allowed my thoughts to stretch beyond the initial question or observation and ponder it further. It takes time, though. And quiet.

If I were blogging consistently, what would I have written about in past months? Dandelions, daughters, the moon, desiring God, not desiring God, going to the moon, Louis Zamperini, not being dumb, landing on the moon, the USSS, my life behind bars, coming back from the moon, marriage, wallpaper, biking, Lone Survivor, John the Baptist, baby names, not going to the moon (Apollo 13), climbing half dome, not climbing Mt. Everest, the power of urushiol, Henry York Maccabee, Rowena, family "planning", guns, my grandpa, my other grandpa, my other grandpa, my other grandpa, cars, corporate worship, Saturday night church, annnnnd coffee in a mason jar with a straw. And Michael Oak, my former supervisor who is now my barista at Caribou, mopping under my feet.

So do I have an application point? A conclusion to my paper? I just want to write. I need to. I need to re-check my pulse. I need to think things worth writing, I need to do things worth writing. I need to read things worth writing. I need growth worth writing. This was begun as an accountability to myself that I would not waste my life, my singleness, and that God would, "Light these idle sticks of my life and let me burn up for thee. Consume my life, my God, for it is Thine. I desire not a long life but a full one, like you, Lord Jesus." We all have full lives. When it goes up in flame will the light and heat display the light of Christ in us, or will the flame be choked out by the soggy, self-centered priorities that we heaped upon the pyre of our lives?

I love that person that wanted me to come to Caribou. She's the wife of my youth, and God-permitting, the wife of my.. oldth. Time to go home to her. 

A Farewell to my Dog

I've been away from the blog for almost two years, and THIS is what I come back with? Yes. I have never written anything more tear-stained than this letter to my dog. It was written in 2005, near the close of my bootcamp experience. Although I would like to make some changes, I'll keep it the way it was originally written. It's good to be back.


I received a phone call home today, puppy. I'm sure mommy told you I was coming back soon. Everyone in my platoon things I'm strange because I tell people I miss my family but my dog more. I was looking forward to seeing you, puppy. I wanted to see your reaction. I was nervous about how much hair you'd get on my uniform but I was going to hug you anyways. Then I'd let you smell all the new stuff I brought home and go sit in your corner, satisfied that your boy came home. Then later I'd play some ball with you. Maybe throw your tennis ball in the dryer and hide a treat from you, too. And of course I'd have a conversation with you, mom as the interpreter. We'd talk about Fairbanks and Brownie, and of course persistence. I'd flik marshmallows and watch you fall over yourself. I'd probably even go in the front yard and chase you in circles for no reason. Then, with you happily panting and me tired out, I'd rub your tummy and take a nap with you in your corner. But I won't be able to do that, puppy. Because you were feeling bum and didn't tell me. My childhood officially ended this Tuesday. Somewhere ages and ages hence, I shall be telling this with a sigh, the greatest memory of my childhood was you, puppy. You were my best friend. Other than Aaron, you really were my closest friend. I loved you like a brother, puppy. I told dad if he put you down for whatever reason this summer I would never forgive him. [Editor's note: I would have] He's lucky God took you away peacefully. I hope you enjoyed your last couple months of life. The last time I saw you, you were sitting on the front porch watching me drive away to boot camp. I'm glad I kissed you on the nose on my way out the door. You left at the right time, Roosevelt. I wish I could've seen you and said goodbye one more time. But you knew I was turning into a man now. I wouldn't be your boy much longer. God put you on this earth for a reason. To bring immense joy to one boys and one family's lives for 11 years. You and I grew up together puppy. We were bums together, we shoveled snow together, we slept together, we played together. But I'm about done growing up. You raised a good boy, puppy. Mission accomplished. I relieve you of your post, Roosevelt. I love you and will never forget you. 

Semper Fi,
Love,
Your boy

It was a surprise to be able to call home, and my dad thought they let me call because I received the letter with news of Roosevelt's death. I hadn't received it yet, but I knew before he told me that Roosevelt had died. Cancer had returned, and my dad prayed that the Lord would take him, and that he wouldn't have to put him down. My dad checked on him in the night and found him. Roosevelt died in the laundry room, in one of his favorite sleeping spots.

A Gargantuan Spoon

I've lived in Minneapolis for a little while now, and yet I never have been to this mythical sculpture park. Until today. I was able to enjoy a nice bike ride before the clouds came in, but that's completely irrelevant to my story. I rode my scooter to the sculpture. I've officially ridden her over 4,000 miles since my purchase last June.
So yeah, the park.
There were a lot of wedding parties taking pictures, and a lot of couples walking hand in hand. Others were laying on a blanket or sitting on park benches. Families were also there. I saw a grandma point out a rabbit sculpture. Then her granddaughter began imitating a rabbit hopping down the sidewalk. I also saw a dad quickly backstepping to take pictures of his daughter running toward him. A minute later the daughter was walking backward across the park. I thought that was cool. I also thought is was kinda daunting, knowing that children notice everything. And imitate it.
Of all the people at the park, though, I felt that I related most with a goose. A Canadian one. He just sat quietly by the park while people steered clear. Seemed pretty content, though.
After a while I saw two kids with bags making a beeline for the content goose. They stopped about 10 feet short and began lobbing chunks of bread the size of the goose's head at him. They both kept throwing bread with impressive rapidity until their bags were gone. I'm not sure if the goose managed to eat any of the head-sized bread rolls because he retreated to cover behind a small berm by the spoon.

The last verse of Ephesians speaks about believers who love Christ with a love incorruptible. Incorruptible love for Christ.

A statistic

It is estimated that 40% of women born in the 80's will never marry or have children. They reference women because of the child-bearing, but that number would obviously affect men as well. I read this statistic a couple months ago. I've thought about it a lot. I don't have a lot to share, though.
Is it a good thing?
Is it a bad thing?
Is it indifferent?
..and then I wonder about that whole.. Area of life. Relationships. Marriage. At a get-together a while back somebody in a game wrote that they wanted to be, or thought they would be a good mother. Someone commended them on their courage to say that.
Isn't that normal, though? To want to be a wife and a mother, or a husband and a father?
It's just something that seems to be taboo to speak about openly.. The fact that you may be unmarried and deeply long for a spouse.
Why is that?
Do we feel guilty for longing for something other than the supremacy of God?
Do feel that we aren't at peace if we long for that?
It's interesting.
Maybe I think and pray about it more than most people do.. Maybe more than I should.

Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him.

The sun is setting. I need to get home. I might regret clicking 'publish post'.

Lessons From the Marine Corps. Part 1: The Meaning of Life

“Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” Matthew 10:39

I have hesitated writing about, or even mentioning my military experiences for several reasons. You should know I have a rather immense level of pride when it comes to my Marine Corps career. From day one the Marine Corps seeks to instill pride and arrogance into their members. I’m proud of the blessing and experiences God gave me these past 6 years. However, keeping the pride and confidence that I gained but filtering out the arrogance is a tricky, slow process, and not speaking or writing about it seems to help. (Or does it? I debate that. With myself.) Since moving to Minneapolis I have experienced great success at kicking the identifier that the Corps has been for me. Nobody has yet to introduce me as, “This is Jonathan. He’s a Marine.” I’ve been able to remove the moniker so well, though, that I’ve begun to miss it. I miss recalling and talking about it, anyway. Part of the longing feeling is also related to my inexplicable year-long vacation from training, receiving my final promotion, and entering the final month of my six-year contract.

It’s strange not to speak about it because of the HUGE impact it has had on my life. I still think about it a lot, especially as I reflect in my final weeks. So, to not speak about it is a challenge. Well, I’m writing about it.

I also waited to write because I try to keep this pretty ambiguous and aloof, but I’m not divulging any great military secrets here. Sorry. A third reason I’ve not written is because I prefer to speak about it. (To whom it may concern, if you ask me a question about the military, I probably will not dive under a table, weeping uncontrollably. Probably.) God has been teaching me some very valuable lessons from my experiences, though, so I thought it would be good to formulate my thoughts a little better. Umm… yeah. Down to business. (If you’ve read this far, I am impressed by your patience.)

I was 20 years old when I went to Iraq for the first time. I don’t remember my 21st birthday, which is what I generally preferred for birthdays and holidays away from family. This deployment was in no way voluntary for me, but I was still excited to go into combat and apply what I had exhaustively trained for. I was a rifleman in the infantry. The tip of the spear. The grunt. The boots on the deck. “The guys busting down doors.” It’s exactly where I wanted to be, for some very-difficult-to-explain reason.

I was a Christian at the time, but it would have been a stretch to call me a follower of Christ. In my mind, there is a difference. Revelation 3:15-16 However, I knew my salvation was secure, and I could not be confident of the salvation of any other Marine in my 30-man platoon. With that knowledge, it was my sincere prayer (first prayed at my favorite prayer spot on planet earth) that if anyone died in my platoon, it would be me. With knowledge of this prayer in my heart, I was prepared for it to be answered. I had a nice little letter written to my family tucked into a red devotional book, and just this week I came across what I wanted for my funeral in an old notebook. I had some really good hymns picked out.

The deployment itself was not overly intense, but it was also far from boring. There was enough danger present that each new day with breath in my lungs was a blessing. My journal from that time accounts well the growing frustrations during the span of my time overseas. Without sharing too much, there were many things occuring that I was finding to be challenging to justify. Needless to say, I left Iraq eagerly, with no plans or desires to ever return.

By the way, God did answer my prayer. My platoon was the only platoon in my company to return home without a Marine being killed. You can say praise God right about now.

The return home was all I imagined and more (and I thought about it every day) My family was there, Nick was there, I cried in a tv interview, Marines made fun of me, it was great. Nick and I found a nice apartment together, God providentially closed the doors of other colleges, funneling me to Kuyper and Cornerstone, He brought influential friends into my life, and He blessed me with the joys of an active, growing relationship with Him.

A few months after my return home I caught wind of a voluntary deployment and something very surprising happened: I wanted to go. After prayer, counsel, and weighing the pro’s and con’s, I decided not to take this opportunity, but the inexplicable desire to return remained for months and years until I finally found another opportunity to go in 2009.

But hold on, why did I want to go back? Because God, in his unsurpassing wisdom, began a good work in me before I even cared about my relationship with Him. I wanted to go on another deployment because of what a combat zone has to offer: risk, a surrender of safety, sacrifice, suffering, fear. As a result of those traits, though, two more things are offered: an aliveness and a sense of meaning and fulfillment in life like you would not believe.

…I don’t remember if this was something I said or something I read, but I don’t have to cite in this story, which is something I dread. (yeah.. sorry.)“You never feel more alive than when you are risking your life for something.” I was living and fighting and planning on dying for something I cared about more than my own life. (Not America, but for Chad, Roy, Tom, and the other Marines on my right and left) God, through my experience in my first deployment, gave me a small taste of the joys of intense sacrifice. So if the joy of service can be that meaningful when serving an earthly kingdom in a conflict that I have no for-the-record comments on, how much more so will I find my life when I lose it for HIS Kingdom?!?

I try to imagine where I would be right now if God had not sent me on the Marine Corps adventure. I have no idea what I would be doing but I would be like the walking dead. Worthless and ineffective. (not that I don't fall to that status on a regular basis anyway) It's irrelevant to dwell on that anymore, because it's not what God did. I know that not everyone needs to go to a combat zone to understand the value of a surrendered life. I am just a bit more stubborn, and this was the way God chose to draw me into desiring to serve Him with my life.

We have the testimony of others, too. There was a group of Korean missionaries who were tortured and some killed several years ago in Afghanistan. Later, back in Korea, one of the Missionaries who lived was speaking with another and said (paraphrasing, here), “Don’t you ever miss it? It was terrifying, but wasn’t there a supernatural peace and intimacy with God as He saw us through that.” I can relate with that completely. Because of all of the trying, sometimes terrifying moments, I was very alive, and I missed it. That's why Marines become adrenaline junkies. I love a thrilling, heart-pounding hedonistic adventure, but I am trying to focus this desire into effective servitude as well.

How can someone else learn from my experiences? Take my word that there is incredible joy and fulfillment in radical sacrifice, even true willingness to die. Lord willing I will someday be able to write about radical suffering for the name of Christ in my life instead of for the United States. I pray (sincerely) that you will too. Suffering produces steadfastness, patience, and maturity.

“God, I pray thee, light these idle sticks of my life, and may I burn up for thee. Consume my life, my God, for it is thine, I desire not a long life, but a full one, like you, Lord Jesus”

This is my deep, humble praise: I have a pulse, and it belongs to God.

Roosevelt, My Dog

I have decided that it is time to write a little bit about my dog, Roosevelt. From the years of 1994 to 2005, Roosevelt was a highlight of my life. In 1994 my oldest brother Jim brought home a little furball from one of his many adventures. My mother said that it absolutely was NOT staying and that the 'thing' had to be gone the next day. The furball slept in Jim’s room that night before being taken away in the morning. Jim put him in a small kennel in his room until his eviction the next morning. Jim is a heavy sleeper. Heavy enough that he apparently didn’t hear the yelping of the furball that was audible throughout the 701 area code (The entire state of North Dakota). My mother could not sleep with this racket so she grabbed said furball to quiet it down. Needless to say, love was forged, the furball stayed, and the name Roosevelt was bestowed upon him in honor of Teddy Roosevelt, a famous former resident of North Dakota.

Floods of memories, very good memories, come pouring over my heart when I think back to the experiences Roosevelt and I had together. Jim bought him, but moved away to college a year later. My dad trained him, so he was Roosevelt's ‘master’. I think the family can agree that he was my dog, and I was his boy.

Roosevelt grew very large very quickly. I remember when he scared himself with his first deep bark. He never did find the big dog that barked at him. I remember when I dropped to my knees in the backyard and this 'puppy' jumped on me with such velocity that he pinned me on my back with my knees stuck under me. We also discovered Roosevelt's inherent love for little spheres that he could hold in his mouth. Baseballs, softballs, tennis balls, he'd try to chase them all, even if it was during a little league game of mine and he wasn't supposed to come on the field.

On road trips in our old family van I would sit in the back seat and Roosevelt would sit with his head next to my shoulder, sniffing the wind through the crack of the window, smearing slobber all over the glass. Or, if my mom had given me some pickled three-bean salad concoction to eat, Roosevelt was the gracious recipient of all of the kidney beans, and the van was the not-so-gracious recipient of, well.. you know. But seriously, why would you try to pickle kidney beans? It cannot be done.
My brother AT and I would sometimes throw pieces of angel food cake to Roosevelt. After conditioning him to catch the tasty treat, we would toss a crumpled napkin (looking deceptively like a piece of cake) his way. He never should have trusted me.

I have never seen a living thing more terrified of the doctor than Roosevelt. The vet wasn’t even in sight and his entire body would be trembling in the back of the van. I have also never seen a living thing display more love and affection that when I would pick him up from the vet or groomers, which were cruelly placed in the same building.

When Roosevelt was 7-8 years old some lumps were found on his leg. After removing some of the tumors, it was discovered that they were cancerous, and radiation therapy would need to be performed to stop the spread. For us, there was no question of what needed to be done, although this was not a time of great financial wealth in my family. Every couple weeks we would make the three-hour drive to Pontiac, MI to take Roosevelt for radiation treatments. The staff naturally fell in love with this gentle giant, and he was dearly missed when he returned home for the last time with no traces of cancer.

On May 21, 2005, I left my parents’ home to begin my journey to bootcamp in San Diego. My family prayed together and were hugging each other goodbye. I was headed off to become a lean, mean fighting machine (or so I thought), so crying was out of the question. Until I saw my dog. In a scene I will forever have etched in my memories, my family parted and I saw Roosevelt sitting at the base of the stairs, looking at me with the saddest, most faithfully loving eyes I may ever see. I cried. I kissed him on the the nose and said, “Goodbye, puppy. I love you.”

Bootcamp was a bustle of activity that now mostly remains in my memories as a very long, bad dream. In the final weeks we were granted one of our two phone calls of the three months. My parents were my call. My dad answered, and after realizing that it was me he said, “You must have received the letter.” I hadn’t received the letter he was referring to, and to this day I do not know how or why, but I immediately knew that Roosevelt had died. His cancer had returned aggressively, and with his age, little could be done. My dad brought him home from the vet and prayed that he wouldn’t have to take him in to put him to sleep. The next morning my dad found Roosevelt in one of his favorite spots in the house; he had died in his sleep. I found out in the phone call a few days later. I was initially devastated that I was not able to see Roosevelt to say goodbye, but I quickly realized that I was blessed to have the goodbye with him that I did, and that I was spared from some devastating final days with him.

Roosevelt’s death coincided with the beginning of a new chapter in my life; one that is now about to close. The innocence of a boy and his dog was about to depart, and I would be exposed to more harsh realities of a fallen world than I ever expected to witness in a lifetime.

Roosevelt was an excellent example of love. Unconditional love. There were the rare occasions when I would be furious with him, but even in my visible, sometimes unjustified anger, he would show me love. He never held a grudge. He never showed partiality (well.. there was that one salesman). He never lashed out in anger. He would lay prostrate on the garage floor sticking his nose under a crack we left for him in the garage door, waiting for his family to return. His whole body would wag when I would come home from school. On my first day to school in Michigan, Roosevelt rode with us to school. When my mom opened the back gate of the van after returning home, he didn't move. He stayed in the van all day until we came home. He would stay in the snow to play with me until his paws bled.

Roosevelt also taught me about persistence, faithfulness, and sincerity. He definitely couldn't tell a lie. His tail between his legs was his tell. He brought my family closer together, helping us to grow in our love for each other. In some challenging years for my family, he remained a stalwart beacon of fun and levity for our home life. I praise and thank God for the blessing and lessons and memories that I was able to draw from one of my closest friends.

Have I mentioned that Roosevelt was a Golden Retriever? That should explain a lot.

Grandpa Tom

On March 21, which was earlier this week (when I typed this), my grandpa turned 88 years old. Grandpa Stockeland. I visited my grandpa and grandma two days earlier at their home in Binford, North Dakota. There are some things I feel compelled to share about my grandpa. Two things, I suppose.

Thing one:
My grandpa served in the US Navy during WWII. He never speaks much about his service, but I know it has had an impact on him and the generations that have followed. When I was in early high school my family watched an old, rather patriotic movie. I was on the front steps of my parents house reflecting on the movie (I was an odd little kid), and my parents were having a conversation inside. They weren’t aware that I could hear them. My dad was talking about the movie, and he became emotional when he began talking about his father and his generation and the sacrifice that he made in WWII for his country. I don’t remember exactly what was said, but it was clear that my father had a profound respect for my grandfather. That night I became a very patriotic young man.

In a journal that I kept during my first deployment to Iraq I noted several reasons that led to my joining the military. One of the reasons was, “All of my grandfathers served our country in WWII. ...I joined because of/out of respect for my grandfathers and the sacrifices they made for this country and for the future generations of their family.” June 6, 2006. (June 6 is the anniversary of D-Day)

Thing two:
In mid-July of 2008 I visited my grandparents, also at their home in North Dakota. It was a beautiful sunny day with a light wind. As we sat down to eat dinner Grandpa prayed. My Grandpa’s prayer was the most reverent, sincere prayer I have ever heard. There was an evident weariness in his voice from his age and the work that he had been doing around the house that day. It made his prayer barely audible, just above a whisper. The bits that I remember vividly were his gratefulness for the sun, for the warmth that it provides. He also thanked God for the meal He provided, and that it would give us the strength needed to continue to serve Him.
I just assume that when I eat a hearty meal, I won’t be hungry. If I’m in a workout mindset I may consider the energy it provides, but that’s rare. At his age, however, my grandpa was dependent on the calories of this meal to go back outside and continue working in the yard, all to the glory and honor of God. That day I became sincerely grateful for the most expected, yet undeserving blessings from God.

That is all. Happy Birthday, Grandpa.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

I'm not sure what to say about this. I have a growing list of writing ideas and a shrinking amount of free time, but writing about the redemptive value of sports is one of those topics. I don't think I'll try to tackle that here, save for a few sentences, maybe.

The above photograph is every male in my family aside from my middle brother, AT. I am the only one in the family to have been to the new Target Field, so it was a great opportunity to get all of us together from our three different states of residence to enjoy this time together. I've taken my nephew to several minor league games, but this was his first major league game, and a Twins come-from-behind win, at that! (At the outset of the game, his favorite team was the Texas Rangers. Not no mo')

Baseball. Before I left for boot camp, I made sure I played catch with my dad. Before I left for both of my military deployments, I made sure playing catch with my dad was one of the last things I did. While I was in boot camp I received a photograph of my brother playing catch with my nephew on the field where the movie "Field of Dreams" was filmed in Iowa. It increased my resilience.

I enjoy baseball. I appreciate that there is no time limit. I appreciate that in over a century of play, the rules are virtually unchanged. I appreciate that I can go to a game by myself and just enjoy the sounds, sights and smells of the ball field. (Permitting that there are no drunk grown men nearby) I appreciate that they play the national anthem before every game. I appreciate baseball because is ties the generations of the men in my family together. I visited with my grandparents a few weeks ago, and I had a conversation with my 88 year old grandfather about the Twins then-upcoming season. My dad has told me about how fondly he looks back on his experiences of playing catch with his father, explaining why he cries during the last scenes in the "Field of Dreams" movie. Now I cry at the same place.

The Twins went down 0-1 in the first inning. The score remained that way until the bottom of the 8th, when the Twins put together a string of hits and Harrison's (my nephew) favorite player, Joe Mauer drove in the winning run with a line shot down the first-base side. He doesn't even understand all the rules, but he was EXCITED. That made me happy.

After the game I expressed with my dad some frustration, though, as Joe Nathan was trying to finish off the last batter to secure a victory. With every pitch, I realized that a home run from the opposing team would be devastating. I sometimes wish I could watch a sporting event without getting emotionally involved, but I realize that good or bad, it is a very quickly fleeting emotion. There used to be a t-shirt slogan for various sports that read, "Baseball is life. The rest is extras." Somebody bought my dad a shirt that read a little more accurately, although still very extreme, "Christ is life. The rest is basketball." A good reminder of our perspective, anyway.

America does have an obsession with sports, I realize and confess, and I thank God for breaking some of the past compulsions I've had toward sports. With this picture, though, I cannot help but see some of the redeeming value of sports, and the need for fun.

I just realized a church service begins in a half hour. I suppose I should practice what I preach and stop writing about sports and instead worship my Savior.

Sincerity

I have begun and deleted, or finished and decided not to post at least a dozen writings in the past weeks. This one may survive my apparently rigorous screening process.

The word 'sincere' can be defined as being without hypocrisy or pretense; pure; unadulterated; not feigned or affected; genuine.

***I should offer up this disclaimer: ...this is not aimed toward any person in particular. This is a general observation I have made about my little world, as well as a challenge for my own behavior.***

Sincerity.. I was driving the other day.. wondering how I would define sincerity. I think I would use words like consistency.. and honesty.. a tendency to be unchanging, regardless of the various circumstances or contexts you may find yourself in.

Am I defining a different word? I don't think so. It seems like I'm just using different words to describe the same definition.

So people are called sincere, very sincere, extremely sincere, etc. For some reason, that reference always makes me very apprehensive and cautious. Well, I know the reason. It's because sincerity seems misused. Ugh.. I'm on the verge of deleting everything I've written.. How do I save these thoughts?? It seems sincerity and insincerity are so similar.

Please, let us be consistent. Let us be unwavering in our actions and words and behaviors. I think it was Bill Hybels who wrote a book titled, "Who you are when nobody's looking." (I'm not even going to google that for accuracy, so feel free to correct me.) In one of my first blogs I expressed a curious thought as to how the world would be if our worst discrepancies were written on our shirt for all to see. That's not what I'm promoting here, otherwise I would have no friends except for my all-forgiving Savior.

**side-thought inserted here**
It seems to be okay to have certain conversations with some people, and not with others. For instance, A friend of mine who was a follower of Christ said that is was okay to curse around him (this was years ago) because we were both Christians. Or, just this week a gentleman was leaving the DMV complaining about some fees he had to pay. I chimed in with some random complaint, but I tried to have a positive attitude about it. (hard to do when you're complaining) Put me in a different environment, speaking to a different person, and my speech would be disturbingly different. Should conversations be that much different between close friends and family or casual acquaintances? Of course, there would be a different level of openness, but what about your attitude or demeanor when you're talking? I don't feel like there should. Even in writing this post, I am taming my true frustrations with 'sincerity' down quite a bit. ... side-thought adjourned.

I'm suggesting.. honesty. Terrible acting. An elimination of false persona's. Maybe it would help to provide a few examples from my life:

Smiling. Sometimes I have a tendency to be infrequent in my smiling. I assure you, it is not because I am not happy. Well, it sometimes is, but smiling simply is not natural for my facial structure. My somewhat intimidating bearing has served me well in certain lines of work, but if I'm at church or with a group of friends I just seem really sullen and unhappy. (It's fun to hear people's first impressions of me. My lack of smiling is always mentioned.) Anyway, sometimes I think I should smile more, and be, or act, more cheerful. But I don't. Because it's not sincere. If I smile, I'm happy. And if I don't smile, I'm probably still very content, but I'm thinking about something.

One more example. Trafficking. I care about trafficking. But I sometimes wonder if I didn't just jump onto the recent social justice bandwagon just to be accepted and respected. By people. I've been praying lately that this IS a sincere concern on my heart, something that is from God, and not just an act.

Paul mentions a sincere faith in several of his letters. There's another issue for me, and I'm sure every other believer.

There is no rhythm or flow to this rambling, but I shall not worry.

I pray (sincerely) that we can be genuine in our interactions and relationships, that we won't be striving to impress people, but to please and glorify God.

SDG

Moped Justice Mission

My friends, I am excited. God planted a crazy idea in my head last August that has begun to flourish into a reality. I am eager to share about a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity my close friend Brady and I have been given.

We will be embarking on an 8,000 mile trip around the United States. On our mopeds.

http://www.mopedjusticemission.blogspot.com/

This blog will be our primary medium for providing updates on our adventure. Please share this with any other friends you know who would enjoy hearing about God's plan for justice, or just to see an example of the unique and exciting opportunities God has in store for those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.

Just about every day I literally become giddy with excitement when I realize the reality of this trip.

A new medical breakthrough in restful sleep!!

...Ask for it.

(I am writing this in an effort to better document even the 'smallest' ways God is mindful of me.)

I am in the midst of my spring 'break' from school, and I immediately seized the free time to earn some extra funding for God's plan for my summer.. From 8pm on Friday night until 4am on Sunday morning I worked 23 of 32 hours. Sunday was filled with church events and meetings, and I was staring down the barrel of another night shift that night. If I didn't obtain some needed sleep Sunday afternoon I would be sitting at 6 hours of sleep over a 72 hour period. Maybe not the healtiest routine. Even the military recommends more sleep than that as a daily minimum. (They claim you can operate efficiently on 4 hours of sleep per night for prolonged periods of time. The Army says that, anyway. The Marine Corps says you can sleep when you're dead. I'm going to miss my beloved Corps.)

I had work at 8pm, and laid down around 5:30. Just before falling asleep, I quietly prayed that God would grant me a very restful time of sleep. I fell asleep very quickly, feeling like I could sleep for 12 hours. In Sunday school earlier that day we looked at James 1:2-12, which shows us what our response should be to trials of various kinds. Having my alarm set for 7:30pm, I sensed a small trial coming on when I inexplicably snapped awake at 6:39. After just a few minutes of laying wide awake in bed I realized my time would be better spent on more productive endeavors. (although I was thinking sleep to be a pretty noble endeavor at the time) Based on my study of James 1, I knew I shouldn't ask God what he was trying to prove, but trust that this small trial would mature me in a special way. (Praise the Lord for Sunday school, by the way)

Around 1am I realized that I was still wide awake. I had a pretty strong headache, but I didn't feel tired. I even closed my eyes during a half-hour break at 2am, but couldn't fall asleep. Now, to the untrained eye, you may say that I was just using my incredibly strong will-power and determination to overcome any fatigue. Wrong. I happen to know myself, and I am acutely aware that my 'will-power' is composed of the same toughness you would find in mashed potatoes and gravy.

As I was thinking about it, I was likening this to the story of Gideon, when God reduced the army of thousands to just 300, so that HE would receive the glory, and not Gideon or any army. God knows my pride's tendency to seek glory for myself. If I had awakened with the alarm and rushed to work, I would have thought nothing of it. I would have made it through the night and really felt good about myself. (key word being 'myself') The abridged sleep gave me pause, though, and opened the opportunity for God to show me a little something about HIS capabilities, even in the small matters of my life.

This is just one bite of the feast of provision that God is pouring out on me.

Post-script: I was still wide-awake after work, but after tending to some emails, I decided that sleep was again a noble endeavor. So I slept a few hours.

I Timothy 5:11

"But refuse to enroll younger widows, for when their passions draw them away from Christ, they desire to marry..." I Timothy 5:11

I spent a good deal of time last week thinking about, pondering, and meditating on this verse. Why would I choose such an abstract selection to spend so much time thinking about, you ask? Because I was told to.

In an email I received from a good friend (to fully appreciate this story, you should know that this good friend is an unmarried young lady) they told me they were praying for me from I Tim. 5:11 and went on to say that they were praying that I would be strengthened to run from anything less than His best.. etc. So, I looked up the passage and read it. I blinked my eyes and re-read it. My eyes grew large and my eyebrows raised. I was confused. And a little distressed.

One of my first thoughts and hopes was that she clearly gave the wrong reference. I flipped over to 2 Timothy, but that book only has 4 chapters!! I then began to try to think outside the box, wondering what she may be trying to say with this verse. I've come to admire her knowledge of scripture and her ability to dispense passages from memory and expound on them, but this was a whole new level of depth.

"So.. Am I the young widow here? She IS praying that I would run from anything less than his best.. Is she saying that if I desire marriage I'm not desiring what's best? Is she saying my other passions are drawing me away from Christ? What makes her think I desire marriage? Is SHE the young widow?! That would make a little more sense, but neither of us have been married, to my knowledge. But that scenario doesn't make as much sense in the context of what she followed the verse with.. Am I somehow drawing her away from Christ? Does SHE desire to marry?! AAAUGH!! I am SO confused! I feel like she's using a pretty straightforward verse, given the context, and taking a LOT of creative liberties with the interpretation. But she's not Baptist, so maybe she can do that. (HA!)"

I went to bed that night with no conclusions on how to receive that verse. The next morning, still completely perplexed, I recruited the assistance of the most Christ-like man you or I know. My dad. In an email with the subject line titled, "Care to interpret?" I pasted the paragraph from the email along with the remarks, "This was sent to me by a young lady yesterday. Trying to understand what the 5:11 passage is about.."

I scooted off to class, fully confident that my father would come through for me. I was right. As I was waiting for my second class to begin I checked my email and found a message from my father with these words, "A quick response.....she must have meant 6:11..................5:11 would be quite disturbing......6:11 has the words she included in the message........"

I quickly pulled out my Bible and flipped to I Timothy 6:11, which reads, "But as for you, O man of God, flee these things. Pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, steadfastness, gentleness." That fit with what she was saying SO much better.

I replied back to my father, "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!! Oh man!!!!!! I figured it was a mistaken passage, but I looked to 2 Tim... Didn't think about a different chapter. YES, 5:11 WAS somewhat disturbing. 6:11 is better. Much better. I'm losing it right now. No bearing."

The mystery was solved! Unfortunately I was in a quiet classroom, unable to unleash the uproarious laughter that had immediately welled up inside me. I sent a quick email to my friend saying, "I'm going to have to call you later. Your email has just been immortalized as an instant classic in my heart. Oh mercy, I'm having a hard time not laughing.."

After I scooted home in between classes I walked in my door and doubled over in the kitchen laughing, unable to catch my breath from this priceless gem of an incorrect scripture reference. Later that night my friend and I did have a very pleasant talk on the phone, and my smiling continued well into the night. I can say with confidence that during my time in Minnesota, no event has produced more laughter for me.

Tapioca

An original poem by Jonathan Stockeland

Tapioca is a treat
That I really rather like to eat.
Tapioca, hot or cold
Cures even the most common cold.
Tapioca in a bowl
Reminds me of times so long ago.
Tapioca in a mixing bowl
Is a single serving for me alone.
For this poem to continue on
There are other sounds I must rely upon.
Tapioca is really great
Sometimes even with strawberry shortcake.
Tapioca is a dessert
Extracted from an Amazonian root.
Tapioca, now I turn to you
You are a wonderful, creamy, tasty goo.
Tapioca, whether served thick or thin
You have brought me through thick and... thin.
Tapioca, I can say no more
For I must pack my bags and run to the store.

Take that, Robert Frost.

Action

By Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Daring to do what is right, not what fancy may tell you
valiantly grasping occasions, not cravenly doubting-
freedom comes only through deeds, not through thoughts taking wing.
Faint not nor fear, but go out to the storm and the action,
trusting in God whose commandment you faithfully follow;
freedom, exultant, will welcome your spirit with joy.

This is.. challenging.

February 18, 2010 I returned home to MI after 10 months away. God has been so good to me.

"The God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you." I Peter 5:10

Break my heart for what breaks yours
Everything I am for Your Kingdom's cause
As I walk from earth into eternity

Studies Show Sneezing Leads to Reduced Brain Capacity

I was getting around this morning, and an abstract memory popped into my thoughts. It was probably from 12 or so years ago. I had needed to sneeze, so I plugged my nose. My mom was doing some knitting or something at the kitchen island and said, "That's not good for you." I was curious (and probably a teenager) so I asked, "Why?" Her response has stuck with me. "Because you'll blow your brains out." She said it completely straight faced, without even looking up from her work. I've seldom known my mom to have a whip-smart sense of humor, so I was pretty confused.

Normally, my mother has a very medically sound reason for things, as she is a nurse. But this time was different. I think she did expand on her argument to support her initial claim, but I don't remember that stuff.

She also, being a good, cautious mother, usually assumed the worst.

Me: "Mom, I don't feel well."
Mom: "You probably have incurable cancer."

Me: "Mom, I have a stomach ache."
Mom: "You probably have incurable cancer."

Mom: "That cough doesn't sound good. You may have pneumonia."

Me: "Mom, lookit this scar I have from a sunburn!"
Mom: "It's probably skin cancer. Way to go."

Me: "Mom. I think I have incurable cancer."
Mom: "You're fine. Stop complaining and eat your breakfast."

Or as my father once said during a sermon, "Our family doesn't get headaches, we get brain-tumors."

Well for the most part, she was concerned. (She is very gifted at diagnosing the weird ailments I experience, even over skype.) I don't remember the real reason for not plugging your nose when you sneeze, but I've stopped.

I love you, mom.

Would you rather?

Would you rather wake up an hour before you needed to, or sleep an hour later than you planned to?

I'm awake this morning. But I shouldn't be. In my absentmindedness last night I set my alarm one hour earlier than I needed to. As I've been getting around, I've been feeling a little more fatigued than normal. I was even in my bathroom pondering how I can get up on 5 hours of sleep with no problem, but I could sleep 8 hours, and unless there's a pressing matter to get up for (i.e. school, work) I'm prone to abuse my snooze button.

This happened once last semester, although I didn't realize it until I was already at the bus stop and traffic seemed really light. It was 6am. The free buses don't start running until 7am. In that instance, though, I accidentally moved my clock ahead an hour in my sleep, so I thought it was the right time all morning.

Some things I've observed in this new semester:

60% of my psychology class believes in God.
9% of my psychology class believes in the creation theory.
I felt like those two percentages should have been a bit closer together.

Young men sometimes battle in a fashion similar to mountain goats. Two guys were having a heated discussion yesterday and they began leaning into each other with their heads and shoulders. Their arms were at their side. It looked more like an aggressive hug than a fight. But one leaned the other into a sign, and a more theatrically appropriate fight broke out, with wide, sweeping 'punches' and coat pulling (hoods were utilized, as well). I intervened before they embarrassed themselves any further. They obliged my firm request that they leave the campus.

In a class discussion one morning, I assumed my post in the front row as the classroom began filling up with students. Eventually, the entire room was filled except for two seats. The seat on my left, and the seat on my right. Normally, I'm a fan of having some elbow room in class, but this unusual phenomenon was somewhat disconcerting for me. I had showered that morning, and I even remembered a little cologne, but for some reason I was ostracized from the rest of the class. I will continue to study this in coming weeks.

The River Bank Run Miracle

The story you are about to read is true. Completely. Even the parts that you don't believe. Those especially are very, very true, and definitely happened. Here we go.

It was a dark and stormy.. wait no, that's not true. Okay, true from this point on. It was a chilly, overcast Saturday morning during the early spring in Grand Rapids, Michigan. The city was abuzz with energy because race day had finally arrived. *Pause* *rewind one day* It was a chilly, overcast Friday morning during the early spring in Grand Rapids, Michigan. The city was somewhat abuzz with energy because race day was only one day away.

Myself and two of my friends were signed up to participate in the 10k run event of the annual River Bank Run. 5k and 25k were also available, but 5k was too short, and the 25k would be impossible to finish. Impossible. It was myself, Rick, and Nick. I like this 10k because they have two clydesdale divisions. (over 190 lbs. and over 200 lbs.) I appreciate this because although I am by no means fast, when my finishing time is determined by body-weight, I trick myself into thinking I'm at least not slow.

I was the only one of the three runners who was planning to run the race at a higher than leisurely pace. I was also the only of the three runners who had run more than a few times in the months leading up to the race. That's why I needed to rewind one day. The night before the race, Nick called Rick. Nick had only run twice, I believe, in the weeks and months leading up to this day. Nick's phone call was an attempt to convince Rick to change their entry to the 5k run, if they even ran at all. Nick's left foot was also bothering him, which was a legitimate claim. ...This story is better understood if you are aware that a couple years earlier Nick was in a car accident. His vehicle exploded. Blown into pieces. (Don't believe it? Refer to the opening statement, please.) Nick barely survived, physically, but his mind was remarkably improved. Anyway, the heel pain was a residual effect of the fender bender he was in.

Rick staunchly refused to waver in his commitment to run the 10k and demanded that Nick man up and run it with him. Annnd I think now we can move forward to race day. So yeah, chilly, overcast and all that stuff.. Nick and I are on our way to the race. It's packed. This is the biggest 25k race in the U.S. On the way there Nick informed me that his right knee had now begun hurting. Also legitimate, but no excuse to not run 10 kilometers, right?

Parking was kinda crazy, so I dropped Nick off near registration and looked for a place to park, hoping for an open spot in the state of Michigan. I found one.

Meanwhile, Rick and his wife, Natalie, and their son, Lincoln had arrived, and were getting Rick registered. The plan was for all of us to register, give our registration things and warming layers to Natalie, and then run our hearts out. That was the plan. The Marine Corps taught me that the only thing you can plan on is that things will never go as planned. Nick had registered. I ran to the registration and signed up. I looked for Nick for quite some time. I found many other people I knew, but not the tallest person there. Rick had signed up, but I never saw him, either. The 10k race time was drawing nigh.

Finally Nick and I were able to link up with the aid of our cell phones. I quickly put the tag on my shoe, my number on my shorts, my phone in my race-goodie bag, and gave the bag to Nick. I figured that because I was actually hoping to finish well, I should get going. Selfish, perhaps, but justifiable.

At this point the stories of Rick, Nick, and Jonathan must depart, as I desire to keep the reader in the context of the story as it unfolded before me this day. I pushed through the mass of runners, trying to get somewhat close to my pace group. Too late. The horn blew. The race had begun. Three minutes later I crossed the starting line and began my agonizing half mile shuffle until the crowd thinned out. My wonderful race soundtrack that I programmed for every mile of the race was on shuffle, and my ipod was in this insane mode where if you shook it, it would skip to the next track. That little music plan of mine was quickly defeated as I skipped through songs every 3 seconds. I finally figured how how to swing my left arm so that the songs wouldn't skip, and got back to the task at hand.. being a fast clydesdale. I arrived at the first clock and realized my goal was impossible. I know finishing strong is key, but starting faster than a stroll is important as well. Nevertheless, I knew two girls who were running in the race, and I hadn't passed them yet, so in a panic I kept running, terrified that they may finish before me. (I'm a tad bit competitive.) At the halfway point I saw the girls parents, and they told me I was ahead of them. I relaxed. A little. I ran a little bit longer, and then I finished. Whee.

I was a few minutes off of my goal. I chose to look at it optimistically, though, and realized that I probably passed around 3,000 people during the race. I grabbed some water, a banana, and waited near the finish line for Rick and Nick. After a few minutes I saw the two girls I knew. I beat them. (I am positive they were not running very hard, though, and could have finished before me quite easily.) They went on their way, and I continued waiting for Rick and Nick. Further waiting occurred. I really needed to go to the bathroom, so I quickly ran to a port-a-jon that was only overflowing a little bit.

As I was heading back to the starting line to resume my task of spotting Rick and Nick, I found Rick! Only Rick, though. Not that finding Rick isn't a great thing.. I just expected to see Nick with him because they planned on running together.

(dramatization of our conversation)
Me:"Rick! You finished! Where's Nick?"
Rick: "I don't know! I haven't seen him yet!"
Me: "Weren't you going to run together?"
Rick: "Yeah! I don't know where that guy went."
*At this point, I realize that Rick is wearing heavy sweatpants, a heavy coat, and carrying a bag of race-goodies.*
Me: "Rick, why are you wearing all those clothes, and WHY are you carrying your race-goody bag?"
Rick: "I couldn't find Natalie [his wife] before the race, so I ran with all of this. People were looking at me soo weird. I think they thought I stole something."

Rick ran a 10k race with far more clothing than the weather required, and a bag full of junk. (It's not goodies when you've run with it for 10 kilometers.) As Rick recounted to me, he couldn't find Natalie or Nick, and the 10k was beginning so he started clear at the back. He intentionally hung out back there, hoping that Nick would come running up to jump in the race. A short distance into the race, Rick realized Nick wasn't back there, so he began passing people, hoping Nick was ahead of him somewhere. Rick also passed thousands of people, all while looking like a shoplifter running from the scene of a crime. People were openly questioning his style. "Lookit that guy! Why is he running with all that STUFF!?!" Don't question Rick's methods. He flew. But he didn't find Nick amongst the thousands of people left in his dust. He did find me, though, and we at least had each other.

As I mentioned at the beginning, it was a chilly day, (high 40’s, maybe) and I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. We were also both pretty sweaty. My warming layers were in my car, my car keys were in my bag, and I last saw my bag with Nick. We waited a while for Nick at the finish line. Long enough that the 25k leaders were finishing. We hoped Nick wasn't still behind them. We decided to split up and begin looking for Nick. Or Natalie. Natalie would be a good find as well, as she had a phone, Rick's car keys, possibly my clothes and keys, Lincoln, and a generally joyful, warm spirit. Anything warm would be great.

Rick and I canvassed the downtown area for quite a while, reconvening every so often with nobody located. We also made several trips to our vehicles, hoping to find Natalie. I was the only one who knew where my car was, so we didn’t expect to find anyone there. We looked for a stick or something to write a message with on Rick’s vehicle, but it was very smudgy and completely illegible. We decided to leave a finishing pin in the driver’s window so that Natalie would know, if she came by, that we had finished the race and had been to the vehicle. Much thought was put into this form of communication, and I think Rick and I were both pretty pleased with our creativity.

Despite all of our creativity and searching, we didn't find Nick. Or Natalie. I did find many other people I knew, though. I would always ask them if they had seen a very tall guy with a white long-sleeve shirt or gray sweatshirt wandering around. Nobody had. It had now been over two hours since I finished the 10k.

Rick and I were at our meeting place near the goofy red sculpture when I found my friend, Tim. Tim had finished the 25k very quickly. Tim’s brother had a cell phone, so Rick and I asked to borrow it so we could at least call Natalie. Rick called, and she answered her phone!

(Dramatization of their conversation)
Rick: “ Hi! John and I are finished, but we can’t find Nick anywhere. Where are you?”
Natalie: “I saw Nick before the race, he gave me all of his stuff and went to find you.”
Rick: “Good! Well tell me where you are and we’ll be able to get warm and look for Nick.”
Natalie: “I’m by the goofy sculpture”
Rick: “Where?! We’re by the goofy sculpture!”
Natalie: “I’m on the stairs by the finish line.”
Rick: “We’re on the stairs by the finish line!! Where ARE you?!”
Natalie: “I’m right at the bottom of the stairs..”
Rick: “Are you sure?! John and I can’t see you any... oh never mind. We see you.”

Natalie was 10 feet away from us. This was not my proudest moment, considering I’m trained by the military to see needles in haystacks from 1000 yards away. But we found Natalie, and we were happy.

Nick had indeed left his things with Natalie, including my bag, which contained my keys and cell phone. I promptly waddled (muscles were pretty tight by now) to my car to move it next to Rick’s. I donned my warm clothes and met back up with Rick and Natalie. They still had not seen Nick. I found Nick’s cellphone in his things and checked it for voicemails. Nothing. I think there was a missed call from his sister, Angie, so I decided to call her. I was thinking maybe Nick found a phone somewhere, called his sister, and asked her to call his phone. It was a long shot, but it was the best shot we had at this point. (Based on the way I’m building this up, you’re probably going to think I’m about to find out where Nick is. If only that were the case.)

I called Angie, and there was no answer. I left a voicemail that we couldn’t find Nick, he could be badly injured somewhere, and there was definitely need to worry. (I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it probably resembled that.)

So, where are we? Rick, Natalie, Lincoln and I are standing between the goofy red sculpture and the finish line. It has been somewhere between two and three hours since I finished my run. We began debating Nick’s whereabouts..

(Dramatization of our conversation)
Me: “Maybe he finished before me, or I just missed him when I was running.”
Rick: “But you definitely started before him. So he would’ve been back by me.”
Natalie: “He didn’t find me until the 10k had already begun and the 25k runners were lining up. Rick, did you run with all your stuff?”
Rick: “Yes. It was horrible. But there’s no way Nick ran the 25k. He didn’t even want to run the 10k.”
Me: “He probably just ran by the 25k starters and jumped in the back of the 10k to find you.”
Rick: “I never saw him.”
Me: “Maaaybe... maybe he finished the 10k, wandered around, found someone he knew, and got a ride back to the townhouse. I could see him doing that. But then again, he’s extremely erratic, and I could see him doing just about anything. Except run the 25k.”
Rick: “He may not have even run. He didn’t want to.”
Me: “But he’s so careful with his money, I can’t believe he would pay for this race and then not run it.”

As you can see, Nick’s behavior was, and still is very difficult to predict. However, although some of his actions are very challenging to determine, I believe that I know exactly how Nick’s interaction with Natalie went before the race..

(Very accurate dramatization of their conversation)
*Nick walks up slowly. Very slowly.*
Nick: “Hi Natalie.”
Natalie: “Hi!”
Nick: “Soooo.. how’s it goin’?”
Natalie: “Good. Have you seen Rick?”
*Nick straightens up sharply and raises his eyebrows slightly*
Nick: “No I haven’t! *Quickly tilts head forward and slightly to the side* Have you?!”
Natalie: “No. He went to register and I haven’t seen him. And it looks like the 10k is about to begin.
Nick: “Yeahhhh.. Hmm.. Lookit that.”
*Nick looks at the race start for an unusually long time* (Usually people would scramble to make the race, but he’s probably debating some major ethical issue in his head right now)
Natalie: “Do you want to leave your stuff with me? Rick left to register a while ago, so I’m guessing he’s probably in that group somewhere.”
Nick: “Yeah, I guess that’d be good.”
*Nick hands Natalie our bags and his warming layers and puts his hands in his pockets. He’s really tall, though, so only half of his hands are in the pockets.*
Nick: Whelp! See ya!
*Nick turns abruptly toward the race, pauses for a moment, and starts running with the straightest form you’ve ever seen and a very unique stride.*

Back to our little group by the sculpture.. we had decided that Rick and his family would return to the vehicles to warm up, also hoping that maybe Nick had discovered our vehicles and was waiting by them. We had cellphone communication now, so I decided that I would continue roaming around the race area for sight of Nick. I walked south along a ledge toward the finish line area, searching the recovery area as well.

Suddenly, as I was scanning around me, about 200 feet away near the finish line, I saw a tall figure with a white long-sleeve shirt.

(Our exact conversation)
Me: “NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
*Nick spins around and sees me on a ledge with outstretched arms*
Nick: “JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHN!!!!!”

Nick then thrust his arms in the air and I saw a green medal in his right hand. They don’t give medals to 10k finishers. They give them to 25k finishers. Nice. Nick had clearly stolen a 25k finishers medal. Oh yeah... we also terrified everyone around us. Our yells were at full volume. No holds barred.

I called Rick as I quickly made my way to Nick before losing him again.

(Dramatization of our conversation)
Me: “Rick! I found him!! I found Nick!”
Rick: “Really?! Where?!”
Me: “He was right at the finish line! He had a 25k finishers medal in his hands. Rick... I think Nick may have run the 25k.”
Rick: “No way! He did not. He probably stole the medal.”
Me: “Well I’m almost to him. I’ll find out and head your way.”

I found Nick as he was grabbing a banana and we had a long embrace. Three hours apart is a long time. Especially when I have NO IDEA where he is.

Me: “Nick.. did you run the 25k?”
Nick: “Yep.”


Nick, with virtually no preparation, completed a 25k race that he hadn’t decided to run until he was already several miles into it.

I have nothing more to say.