A New Command I Give You

A week ago today, a tragedy occurred at the hands of two individuals.  At least 3 lives were ended by their choices, and hundreds were injured.  For 2 days, US intelligence investigated the crime while the country honored the dead and injured.  For 2 days, law enforcement hunted the suspects while the country did their best to help.  And for the 3 days since the capture of the final suspect, the country has become inundated with a resurgence of verbal violence.

I can understand the reaction.  We, as a country, were attacked and hurt.  Families have been forever changed as a result of the attack.  People want retribution.  They want the criminals to get what they deserve.  They want justice.

Normally, justice would be served in a courtroom.  Opposing groups of lawyers would present evidence and lack thereof.  A judge would preside to ensure the laws were upheld, that neither side was treated unfairly.  A jury of 12 average Americans would hear the evidence, and they would finally be asked to decide the accused person's fate.  They would assign the proper punishment based on the evidence, whether that be fines, community service, jail time, or death.

What surprised me first after Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was captured was the energy of the crowds in Boston.  While the suspect in the procession of emergency vehicles back to the police station, the city emerged after days of lockdown to give each one a hero's welcome.  But the energy of the crowd was something more than excitement.  It seemed vindictive.

The city wasn't just proud of law enforcement for "catching the bad guy," they were ready to assign punishment.  Parts of the crowd looked like they came out to catch a glimpse of the bad guy so they could do their worst to him.

The next morning, I read that Dzhokhar hadn't been Mirandized.  This was done initially, but the formal decision would take time.  The news media said the decision may hold.  The suspect may not be allowed an attorney, and he may not be allowed due process at all.  I read that the 19 year old boy who moved to the US at the age of 8 might be tried as a foreign terrorist.

From this point forward, what surprised me most were the jeers.  Social media was full of angry, violent, and vengeful statements about what Dzhokhar deserved.  He should be tossed in a pit and left to die.  He should rot in prison.  He deserves the death penalty.

Finally, I realized why this all sounded so wrong.  I knew Dzhokhar had a major part in causing the tragedy in Boston.  I knew he would be punished in a method and severity to be determined by a court.  Somehow, I knew that was enough.  Somehow, I knew the jeers of society weren't necessary.

I thought back to last April, when I sat on the jury for a murder trial.

The crime took place between old friends, practically brothers.  The victim had started to poke fun at the defendant after the defendant's girlfriend had done the same.  The defendant had a medical condition, and the joking came at the expense of his condition.  He tried to get his friends to stop, but they wouldn't.  He walked away, but the jokes continued.  He told his friend to leave, but again poking fun at his condition, the victim asked "What are you gonna do?  Make me?"  The defendant picked up a kitchen knife in threat, and his friend was killed when he lunged to take the knife from the defendant.

For 4 days, I sat with 11 other jurors unable to talk about the case.  We heard statements about the incident, statements from both mothers, and the police involved.  We had to look at autopsy pictures and hear a statement from the pathologist who detailed his wounds.  We knew full well the impact of this man's actions.

But when it came to the fifth day, we agreed on something else: this man had lived for 6 years knowing that his oldest friend was killed by a knife that he held in his hand.

We couldn't call it murder, because we don't think he ever intended to cause harm, but maybe he did.  So, wWe assigned a verdict of manslaughter, and shortly after gave the man the minimum 5 year prison sentence.

We hesitated to make this decision, because we didn't want the victim's mother to feel justice wasn't served.  We hesitated, because society would clearly say that he deserved worse for ending a human life.  What got us past our hesitation was the thought of mercy.

Suddenly, in the midst of our discussion, we knew that we held a huge gift in our hands.  While we had the power to assign life in prison, we also held the power to show mercy.  We could look this man in the eye, all understanding what had come to pass, and we could give him a second chance.  We could give him less than he deserved.

Today, I see Dzhokhar Tsarnaev sitting in the defendant's seat.  I see a boy of 19 who did something awful.  I see someone who couldn't have been in his right mind, whether brainwashed or mentally ill.  I see someone with so many years ahead of him that he could learn to love.  I see someone who needs a second chance.

We could join in with the rest of the country to shout "crucify!" to the  courts.  We could join in with jeers of our own, urging for the most severe punishment the law allows and more.  We could strive toward an eye-for-an-eye punishment.

Or we could choose to love our enemies.

"A new command I give you: Love one another.  As I have loved you, so you must love one another.  By this everyone will know that you are my disciples." (John 13:34-35, NIV)

"You have heard that it was said, 'Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.^' But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well." (Matthew 5:38-40, NIV)

 "You’re familiar with the old written law, 'Love your friend,' and its unwritten companion, 'Hate your enemy.' I’m challenging that. I’m telling you to love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst." (Matthew 5:43, MSG)

 Always moving forward,

Tyler

Our Hearts Go Out to Boston

As the news came in, I was in shock.

I watched a web feed of the race in the morning, pulling for all of my favorite runners, and staring in amazement at the mile splits the athletes pulled off, mile after mile.  I watched my facebook feed fill up with words of praise for the winners, and encouragement for friends who were still running the course.

This can't be happening.

I talked with coworkers about the give and take as a handfull of elite runners moved in and out of the lead.  I shook my head thinking of the training plans.  Two-a-day runs.  100 mile weeks.  8-mile speed work sessions at a pace I can't even hold for 1 mile.

Who would do such a thing?

I considered the thousands of runners who trained for years just to qualify for this race.  People like me, who might not possess any unusual amount of athletic ability, yet trained and trained to make it under their 3:30, 3:20, or 3:10 qualifying time.  The people who finally reached their goal of running the Boston Marathon.

How many were injured?

As I watched the 117th running of the most prestigious marathon in the country, I thought of its history.  The race was run before the marathon became a 26.2 mile race.  The race was run for 75 years before women started to compete in these events, now taking up over 40% of the field.

How many were killed?

I remembered the fable of Heartbreak Hill.  It was 1936 when defending champion, Johnny Kelley, passed Ellison Brown for the lead on the last of the 4 Newton Hills, just past mile 20.  When passing, Johnny gave his competitor a consoling pat on the shoulder, planning for a repeat victory.  But Brown wasn't fading, he was just holding back.  Brown came back for the win, breaking Johnny's heart.

Is it over yet?

On days like today, I'm always torn between heartbreak, fear, and the desire to make it all go away.  Today, I choose to do something about it.

I'm calling all runners to join with me in support of the victims at the Boston Marathon.  Starting at 9PM tonight (EDT), just 12 hours after the final starting gun of the marathon, I'm asking runners around the world to join me in a 24 hour run.  You don't have to run on your own, because we're doing this together.  I'm asking each runner to take as little as 15 minutes to run in support of today's victims, and for the next 24 hours, the roads, trails, and treadmills will not be empty.

For the next 24 hours, we will pay homage to their sport.  We will send up silent prayers for the injured and deceased.  We will join with the victims, our fellow athletes, to show the world that runners remain strongly together in the midst of tragedy.

To join the run, click here.  For those unable to run, or those who just want to do more, I'm looking for a charity that will directly benefit the victims of today's tragedy.  Contact me if you find a charity that we can work with.  Until then, please direct people to this blog or my facebook page for updates.

Always moving foward,

Tyler

Run On

Since about February 2009, I've called myself a runner.  Well, maybe I didn't use that word at the time, but looking back, that's when I became a runner.

This is an odd term, mostly because "running" is an ambiguous term.  Consider the first running boom in the late 70's into the early 80's.  People didn't go for a run then.  Instead, they went for a jog.  The competitive runners, whether on their school track team or just a talented enthusiast, probably "ran," but for some reason the rest of the world didn't identify them.  There was a separation between the competitively successful runners and everyone else.

In the current running boom, there have been lengthy discussions about these terms, and the general consensus is that we're all runners.  Of course, now we have the "elite" classification to identify the uber competitive.

I used to have some trouble taking on this "runner" identity.  I fell into the sport and enjoyed it, but there's one thing most runners talk about that can be the great divider: speed.  I'm a good middle-to-back-of-the-pack runner, and at some distances I've even pushed toward the front of the pack, but I've never been faster than that.

That first year, I ran a couple 5k's and started training for my first half marathon, so I started to feel more a part of the "runner" identity.  My second year of running, I finished 3 half marathons and got a PR (personal record for a particular distance or type of race) that held up for almost 2 whole years.  Somewhere in there, it clicked.  I don't know if it was the 10-12 mile training runs, the feeling of crossing a difficult finish line, or the set of finisher's medals that were collecting on my wall, but it happened.  I finally embraced my identity as a runner.

After 2 years of running, I even felt comfortable enough to take some time off.  The first 2 months was mandatory recovery from a surgery, then another 1-2 months were just for relaxation, but I still knew I was a runner.  It wasn't long before I was back training for my 4th half marathon, then my first full marathon later that year, and I've been in and out of racing seasons ever since.

So far, every racing season has been a learning experience.

For one, I've learned I love racing in the Fall and Winter.  The Summer weather makes it tough to get my training started, but with the weather getting cooler by the week, my runs become not only faster and more comfortable, but more fun also.

I've also gained a love for trail running.  While road running can bring you some scenery, a smooth surface, and is good for pacing, trail running is just exciting.  Even when I run on a familiar trail, I get anxious to see what's around the bend, or wonder whose footfalls I hear coming toward me.  You never know exactly how many miles you have left before you get back to your car, and you always see something you've never noticed before.

But most of all, I've learned that running is hard.  When I was new to the sport, I used to hope for the day when running became easier.  I would think that if only I could train up to 10 miles, a 5 mile run would feel easy.  If only I could work down to a 9 minute mile, a 10 minute mile would feel easy.

To be honest, I was only part wrong on that, but I can say now that running never gets truly easy.  Sure, cutting back your distance keeps you from having to push back your wall, and slowing down drops your heart rate a few BPM's.  But the hardest part of running is the endurance.  It's not just a physical endurance, it's a mental endurance.

You have to be able to meet every step with a certain expectancy that gets you excited for what might come next.  You have to be able to tell yourself "I know I can make it to that next telephone pole," then when you've made it, say it again about the telephone pole after that.  You have to be able to lace up your shoes on days when you would rather just stay on the couch watching Duck Dynasty.  True, there's a part of running that gets easier after time, but year after year, run after run, I find myself thinking "why not just turn around now?"  This is the hardest part of running, and it doesn't get easier.

Sometimes I can make my runs more fun.  I take the dog out, or try a new route around an unfamiliar neighborhood.  Sometimes I just play games in my head, thinking about the cars that pass me, and how the drivers must think I'm crazy for wearing shorts in cold weather.  Sometimes I have to find outside motivation by thinking of a struggling friend, or remembering to start my Charity Miles app.

But a lot of my runs are spent in serene reflection, even prayer.  I think through everything that's going on in my life, whether it's family sickness, my wife's stress over grad school, or all of the good I've been able to experience in my life.  I let myself be pulled into a mindset of quiet and calm by the metronome created by the tapping of my feet, and I finally feel like I've pulled away from the chaos of the world back into the reality of my own life.  This is where I hear my prayers answered, where a new perspective brings the struggles of life into better focus.  This is when I remember why I love being a runner.

Because it's not all about fitness for me, and it's sure not some quest for bragging rights.  Running is my discipline.  It's the physical manifestation of my ever-moving journey through life.  It's the matching of all of my worldly flaws against the solitude of connection with my Creator.  When I choose to run,

"... [I] throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And [I] run with perseverance the race marked out for [me]."  (Hebrews 12:1)

If I made that choice every time I considered it, I would be a much better man.  But for now, I can only remember that the last step is in the past, and I can only move forward by focusing on the next step.

Always moving forward,

Tyler