When preparing for my 50k, I drove to Murrell Park and ran some miles on the race course. There was 1 part of the course in particular that I hadn't run before, and I had heard this was the hardest part of the trail. I made a trip out there a week before and tried it out, and it was even tougher than I expected. I knew these miles would slow me down, and by 9:00 I was into this terrain.
There's a great thing about trail running that helps with these miles: walking. Unlike road runners, all trail runners walk from time to time. They know it's dangerous to navigate some terrain at a run, and when you're running 31 miles or more it's just not worth risking injuring yourself at every rough patch for a little extra momentum. Only having run 1 trail race before (a 15k exactly 1 year prior on the same course), I was learning just how the later miles differ from a road race.
Almost 2 years ago, I ran my first full marathon. I had trained for months to the point that I completed a 22 mile training run 3 weeks prior to the race. I was used to the mileage, so the looming question was how to pace myself. I could have kept to my training pace to ensure that I could finish, I could have aimed for a reasonable goal, or I could have pushed myself to try to reach my highest potential. Unfortunately, I opted for the third.
During the weeks leading up to the race, I had run the numbers over and over and decided that I should be able to finish in about 5 hours 10 minutes without pushing myself too ambitiously. But the more I looked at that number, the more I wanted to reach 5 hours flat.
I kept running the numbers again and again, played with the length of my walk breaks, walking vs. running pace, and first stretch vs. last stretch pace. I had finally found a set of numbers that would get me close. Close enough that, if I could summon the energy in the last few miles as the finish line was within reach, I could reach or break the 5 hour mark. It was perfect. Not impossible, not far from the pace I knew I could run, just enough to work.
I stuck to my plan on that race day. My first few miles were a little faster, while I had adrenaline to pull me along, and my pace steadied as I pushed toward the 10 mile and half marathon mark. It felt great until about mile 15. I started to feel as if I was running out of fuel. My legs still worked, but my heart rate was increasing and my lungs felt strained. I pushed on for 1 more mile, and I knew. I pushed too hard. If this feeling had held until mile 20 I could make it, but this was too soon. I couldn't push through this for 10 whole miles.
I walked. A lot. Probably 3 miles straight before I decided I was recovered enough to run, and by then I could only run about as often as I walked.
The Ultramarathon was different. By mile 16 I had hoped to push back to the pacing I had maintained during the first hour (since I had returned to the easier terrain), but I also knew this would be the hard part of the race. Right on schedule, my legs began to tire. I had gained a running partner by that point (who would continue to help me pace the remainder of the course), and I told her "I'm going to be hurting in 3 more miles."
She told me to stay positive, but I couldn't avoid this reality. It happened every time I passed the 16 mile mark. First, my legs started to tire. Then, walk breaks got longer. By the time I reached mile 19, my legs were screaming, and I could hardly convince myself to begin, or even hold, a jogging pace. Race day was no different.
I had reached the hardest point of the race, and it was time to dig deep.
More to come,
Tyler
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Rockledge Rumble 50k - Part 2: Pacing the Way
By 8:00, 1 hour into the race, I was cruising along the trail with 3 people behind me: David from Odessa, Curtis, and Shannon. I was the impromptu pacer for our misfit group at the time, and I was leading us down the trail at a good first-stretch pace. Not too fast, so that we didn't burn out, but not so slow that we were wasting our energy before it started to wane.
I seem to end up in this position in trail races. Early in the race, the runners are still a little crowded, and the trail is usually only wide enough to accommodate 1 runner until someone steps aside to let a faster runner pass. I think I end up here from a lesson I've learned from almost 5 years of distance running: I run my own race. I don't keep up a particular pace just because the guy in front of me is, and I try not to let the adrenaline get the best of me. I stick to my goals, and I do my best to run no faster than what's best for me. Since I'm not a follower, I guess that makes me a leader. This group stuck with me until the first aid station.
To me, the idea of running your own race is the most important and most difficult lesson in distance running. We look to others for advice and leadership, and while we take their nuggets of wisdom for our benefit, we have to understand that every runner is different. I learned this lesson in a different way than most.
One of the great things about that 5k in 2009 was my running partner. I didn't go lurking around the gym to find another runner, and I didn't try to schmooze my friends into taking up this challenge with me. When I signed up for my first 5k, my wife signed up with me. We registered together, we trained together, and we started the race together. I wish we had finished together, because after I missed Katie's finish, it took another 15 minutes to find each other in the crowd.
This led to 4 half marathons in a year that we ran side-by-side. My race was her race, my PR was her PR. We signed up for Team in Training together, and we even took on roles as Mentors together in later seasons. I had the best training partner I could have asked for.
Of course, taking on challenges with your spouse is just that: a challenge. What we did was hard. Training for and completing a distance run is tough, and sometimes it brings out the worst in you. We saw each other at our most dejected, and we saw each other in pain, but we also held hands as we crossed finish lines, celebrated together, and hung our medals on the same rack.
After so many races side-by-side, we both started to look to our own individual goals. We began to run races separately, and we had to re-learn our running habits. We no longer had someone else to help gauge our pace, rather we had to manage it ourselves. We didn't follow a run/walk schedule based on each others' needs, instead we drifted toward our own running priorities. After 2 years of running, I finally started learning to pace myself.
I kept up my pacing as David, Curtis, and Shannon followed, and once they peeled away to visit our first aid station, I took off on my own. My plan from the beginning was to eat every 5-6 miles and take a long walk break while I ate. I enjoyed my break, then picked up the pace. I knew that was starting to enter the most difficult part of the course. This is where the race really started.
More to come,
Tyler
I seem to end up in this position in trail races. Early in the race, the runners are still a little crowded, and the trail is usually only wide enough to accommodate 1 runner until someone steps aside to let a faster runner pass. I think I end up here from a lesson I've learned from almost 5 years of distance running: I run my own race. I don't keep up a particular pace just because the guy in front of me is, and I try not to let the adrenaline get the best of me. I stick to my goals, and I do my best to run no faster than what's best for me. Since I'm not a follower, I guess that makes me a leader. This group stuck with me until the first aid station.
To me, the idea of running your own race is the most important and most difficult lesson in distance running. We look to others for advice and leadership, and while we take their nuggets of wisdom for our benefit, we have to understand that every runner is different. I learned this lesson in a different way than most.
One of the great things about that 5k in 2009 was my running partner. I didn't go lurking around the gym to find another runner, and I didn't try to schmooze my friends into taking up this challenge with me. When I signed up for my first 5k, my wife signed up with me. We registered together, we trained together, and we started the race together. I wish we had finished together, because after I missed Katie's finish, it took another 15 minutes to find each other in the crowd.
This led to 4 half marathons in a year that we ran side-by-side. My race was her race, my PR was her PR. We signed up for Team in Training together, and we even took on roles as Mentors together in later seasons. I had the best training partner I could have asked for.
Of course, taking on challenges with your spouse is just that: a challenge. What we did was hard. Training for and completing a distance run is tough, and sometimes it brings out the worst in you. We saw each other at our most dejected, and we saw each other in pain, but we also held hands as we crossed finish lines, celebrated together, and hung our medals on the same rack.
After so many races side-by-side, we both started to look to our own individual goals. We began to run races separately, and we had to re-learn our running habits. We no longer had someone else to help gauge our pace, rather we had to manage it ourselves. We didn't follow a run/walk schedule based on each others' needs, instead we drifted toward our own running priorities. After 2 years of running, I finally started learning to pace myself.
I kept up my pacing as David, Curtis, and Shannon followed, and once they peeled away to visit our first aid station, I took off on my own. My plan from the beginning was to eat every 5-6 miles and take a long walk break while I ate. I enjoyed my break, then picked up the pace. I knew that was starting to enter the most difficult part of the course. This is where the race really started.
More to come,
Tyler
Monday, November 11, 2013
Rockledge Rumble 50k - Part 1: The Start of an Adventure
It was 7:00 in the morning as I toed the start line in the state park with about 100 other runners by my side. The sun had only just finished lighting up the sky on that cool Saturday, and we were prepared to start our race. Moments ago, a friend asked if I was ready, to which I answered with a quick laugh and a "no." I couldn't imagine that any of us were fully ready to start an Ultramarathon, and I didn't think I could ever wrap my head around a 50 kilometer (31.1 mile) run, even if I had just spent 5 months training for it.
But I've heard it said that we're never ready for the big challenges in our lives. We are only ready enough. The task ahead of me was daunting, but if I had been truly honest with myself, I was ready for an adventure. I had to wonder how I reached this point in my life.
I first discovered distance running in Junior High. I played tennis on the school team, and some of my favorite "off days" were the ones we spent running. Not sprints and suicides, just running. Sometimes our coach would point down the road to a driveway half a mile away, and we would head off for a mile. Other times, when weather kept us inside, we would run laps around the top of the basketball colosseum with the cross country team for most of an hour. I seemed to be the only one on the tennis team who enjoyed our running days.
I began using distance running to (literally) run off my pre-teen energy from time to time. I would put on my tennis clothes and take on a few laps around our neighborhood. My dad ran with me a few times, and this is when I learned that I didn't know how to slow down. I only had 1 speed when running, and while I could keep it up for about 2 miles, it usually kept my dad from enjoying even 1 half-mile lap.
He would tell me that he spent a semester on his high school track team and how slow his 6:15 mile was compared with the seasoned track athletes. I had never run faster than an 8 minute mile. I started looking up to distance runners, knowing that they had accomplished more than I had, and that they had all worked hard to get there.
By college, I was out of shape and hadn't run in years. Once or twice I ran a few 200 meter laps at our University's rec center, but that's it. I finished out my college years 40+ pounds overweight with no drive to exercise. I joined a gym after a while, and at times Katie and I kept up a routine of working out once or twice a week. A desire finally built up in me to get fit.
The next February, almost 5 years ago, a friend encouraged Katie and I to run a 5k. I could have accomplished this easily in my Junior High tennis days, but in 2009 this presented a challenge. I don't know whether I have more redneck in me than I realized or if it's just testosterone, but I can't pass up a good challenge.
This was February 1st, and the race was February 28th. Katie and I spent those 4 weeks running every other day, pushing back our first walk break farther and farther, until we were finally confident that we could (mostly) run for 3.1 miles.
The finish line was amazing! Even though I walked close to half of the race, I sprinted to the finish as hard as I could! I was greeted by cheers, congratulations, and even by a cold bottle of water. I was ecstatic when I finished that race, and by the next morning I knew that I wanted to make myself a runner just to experience that feeling again.
This is where my journey began. Years later, on November 9, 2013 at 7:00 in the morning, I started running my first Ultramarathon.
More to come,
Tyler
But I've heard it said that we're never ready for the big challenges in our lives. We are only ready enough. The task ahead of me was daunting, but if I had been truly honest with myself, I was ready for an adventure. I had to wonder how I reached this point in my life.
I first discovered distance running in Junior High. I played tennis on the school team, and some of my favorite "off days" were the ones we spent running. Not sprints and suicides, just running. Sometimes our coach would point down the road to a driveway half a mile away, and we would head off for a mile. Other times, when weather kept us inside, we would run laps around the top of the basketball colosseum with the cross country team for most of an hour. I seemed to be the only one on the tennis team who enjoyed our running days.
I began using distance running to (literally) run off my pre-teen energy from time to time. I would put on my tennis clothes and take on a few laps around our neighborhood. My dad ran with me a few times, and this is when I learned that I didn't know how to slow down. I only had 1 speed when running, and while I could keep it up for about 2 miles, it usually kept my dad from enjoying even 1 half-mile lap.
He would tell me that he spent a semester on his high school track team and how slow his 6:15 mile was compared with the seasoned track athletes. I had never run faster than an 8 minute mile. I started looking up to distance runners, knowing that they had accomplished more than I had, and that they had all worked hard to get there.
By college, I was out of shape and hadn't run in years. Once or twice I ran a few 200 meter laps at our University's rec center, but that's it. I finished out my college years 40+ pounds overweight with no drive to exercise. I joined a gym after a while, and at times Katie and I kept up a routine of working out once or twice a week. A desire finally built up in me to get fit.
The next February, almost 5 years ago, a friend encouraged Katie and I to run a 5k. I could have accomplished this easily in my Junior High tennis days, but in 2009 this presented a challenge. I don't know whether I have more redneck in me than I realized or if it's just testosterone, but I can't pass up a good challenge.
This was February 1st, and the race was February 28th. Katie and I spent those 4 weeks running every other day, pushing back our first walk break farther and farther, until we were finally confident that we could (mostly) run for 3.1 miles.
The finish line was amazing! Even though I walked close to half of the race, I sprinted to the finish as hard as I could! I was greeted by cheers, congratulations, and even by a cold bottle of water. I was ecstatic when I finished that race, and by the next morning I knew that I wanted to make myself a runner just to experience that feeling again.
This is where my journey began. Years later, on November 9, 2013 at 7:00 in the morning, I started running my first Ultramarathon.
More to come,
Tyler
Monday, September 16, 2013
Grey
When I was young, I thought there was a right and wrong choice in every situation. Truth was right, and lies were wrong. Love was good, and hate was bad. There were lines drawn in the sand everywhere I looked, separating these two extremes into dichotomy, and my job (if I was to be a good person) was to find the line and never cross it.
Something about this world view didn't mesh with the world around me.
There's a part of my personality that doesn't fit with a black-and-white world. It's an inquisitiveness and a curiosity. Rules weren't clear until I understood the motivation behind them, and answers didn't make sense until I peeked behind the curtain to see how the cogs turned. My mom calls it stubbornness, but to me it's no more or less than a hunger for understanding.
The first time I showed this hunger is one of my mom's favorite stories from my childhood. I have no memory of the event, but the anecdote has been shared many times. I was just a year and a half old, and in exploring the house, I came across the stereo. When I touched it, I was told "no," a warning that I could either break something or hurt myself by playing with electronics. At my ripe old age of 18 months, I didn't understand. I reached out again, and again I was met with a rebuke. As I continued to seek understanding, the rebukes turned to a simple slap on the wrist, and as the story goes, I continued to reach for the stereo , each time earning a slap on the wrist, until the back of my hand turned red from the punishment.
In that moment, there was a line drawn in the sand. There was right and wrong, and wrong was touching the stereo. The line was there for a reason, but in my immaturity and ignorance, the reason was unknown. I saw the sand-line barrier, and I gazed across the line, unable to see the evil that lurked on the other side. Rather than being afraid, I was eager to test the limit.
This story repeated itself over and over as I grew up. Whether the line in the sand was drawn by parents, teachers, church leaders, or law makers, I constantly explored the land behind the line.
In 8th grade, I tested the limits of homework. I had gained some autonomy from my parents watching over my shoulder, and I let a couple of assignments slip. When my teacher didn't call me out for it, and when my parents weren't notified, I couldn't see the consequences. I let a few more assignments slip, then a few more. Before I knew it, I was sitting down with my teacher to be given the opportunity to make up weeks of homework in order to remain eligible for band and tennis.
This remained a fuzzy line for years. I had learned that there was a point at which I could overlook assignments and keep my grades. The consequences weren't black and white, rather they came on a sliding scale. I would later learn to manage this reality in balancing a heavy college workload, but through high school and early college, I continued to fall behind the line and stumble down the slippery slope. I eventually understood the reason for the rule, and I eventually learned to reconcile my understanding with the practice of earning grades.
But what I've learned more than anything is that rules are not just black and white. There may be a time when withholding information from a friend is best for them. There may be a time when breaking the rules is necessary to help others. There may be a time when you have to sacrifice good for better, or chose bad over worse.
My favorite example of this is how we treat the homeless population. I grew up hearing adults complain about how homeless people spent money that was given to them. They spend it on cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, or just blow it on an unnecessarily expensive meal. They ask for money on the side of the road rather than look for work. We don't like to give them money, because they will probably blow it on a bad habit.
I remember a day when I was about 16, not long after I started driving. We had a family lunch at Rudy's Barbecue, and I took some leftovers with me. At the first stop light leaving the restaurant, we saw a homeless man with his dog. His sign said something about needing food. The voices echoed in my head, reminding me of all the bad ways he could spend any money I gave him, yelling that he should find a job and dig himself out of his hole. But while I was thinking of all the reasons not to help him, I looked down and saw my leftovers. He just wants food, and I have food. I don't know how the puzzle pieces met in that moment, but before I knew it I was handing my leftover sausage to a homeless man, which he immediately shared with his dog. Money wasn't the right answer, because in that moment, he really needed food.
There was another moment 5 years ago, when I sat on a bench to read while waiting for a friend to join me for dinner. I was approached by a guy wearing an eye patch, and he told me that he needed help to find dinner and a place to stay the night. Again, the words came out before I knew what I was doing. I asked him if he wanted to sit, and he did. He opened up about his situation, how he was assaulted with a crowbar years ago, and how this resulted in the loss of his eye. He told me that he used to be a welder, which he can't do with only 1 eye. He told me about his family in Houston, who he could no longer support. I learned that more than anything else, this man needed sympathy and a friend. His face glowed when I handed him a bill out of my wallet, but it glows more when I run into him around town. I used to think he just needed cash, but nothing pleases him more than talking to a friend. For Cedric, money wasn't the right answer, because he really needed the respect of a friend.
Now, I'm struggling through a relationship with a new friend who I met while selling an old TV on Craig's List. He's on the verge of becoming homeless, and once or twice a week he calls asking for help. I gave him a deal on the TV, and I've paid him for a couple hours of work twice since. This time, I don't know what he really needs. Sometimes he needs to vent, sometimes he needs money, but I still can't shake the feeling that there's something deeper.
These relationships, like many things in our world, don't have black and white answers. Instead of a line in the sand, I'm navigating a minefield. Every week, I struggle to discern the best way to help my friend, and every week the circumstances change.
It's times like this when I realize that I live in a world of grey. And when there is no black or white, I can only keep my eyes open and constantly seek the lighter grey.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
Something about this world view didn't mesh with the world around me.
There's a part of my personality that doesn't fit with a black-and-white world. It's an inquisitiveness and a curiosity. Rules weren't clear until I understood the motivation behind them, and answers didn't make sense until I peeked behind the curtain to see how the cogs turned. My mom calls it stubbornness, but to me it's no more or less than a hunger for understanding.
The first time I showed this hunger is one of my mom's favorite stories from my childhood. I have no memory of the event, but the anecdote has been shared many times. I was just a year and a half old, and in exploring the house, I came across the stereo. When I touched it, I was told "no," a warning that I could either break something or hurt myself by playing with electronics. At my ripe old age of 18 months, I didn't understand. I reached out again, and again I was met with a rebuke. As I continued to seek understanding, the rebukes turned to a simple slap on the wrist, and as the story goes, I continued to reach for the stereo , each time earning a slap on the wrist, until the back of my hand turned red from the punishment.
In that moment, there was a line drawn in the sand. There was right and wrong, and wrong was touching the stereo. The line was there for a reason, but in my immaturity and ignorance, the reason was unknown. I saw the sand-line barrier, and I gazed across the line, unable to see the evil that lurked on the other side. Rather than being afraid, I was eager to test the limit.
This story repeated itself over and over as I grew up. Whether the line in the sand was drawn by parents, teachers, church leaders, or law makers, I constantly explored the land behind the line.
In 8th grade, I tested the limits of homework. I had gained some autonomy from my parents watching over my shoulder, and I let a couple of assignments slip. When my teacher didn't call me out for it, and when my parents weren't notified, I couldn't see the consequences. I let a few more assignments slip, then a few more. Before I knew it, I was sitting down with my teacher to be given the opportunity to make up weeks of homework in order to remain eligible for band and tennis.
This remained a fuzzy line for years. I had learned that there was a point at which I could overlook assignments and keep my grades. The consequences weren't black and white, rather they came on a sliding scale. I would later learn to manage this reality in balancing a heavy college workload, but through high school and early college, I continued to fall behind the line and stumble down the slippery slope. I eventually understood the reason for the rule, and I eventually learned to reconcile my understanding with the practice of earning grades.
But what I've learned more than anything is that rules are not just black and white. There may be a time when withholding information from a friend is best for them. There may be a time when breaking the rules is necessary to help others. There may be a time when you have to sacrifice good for better, or chose bad over worse.
My favorite example of this is how we treat the homeless population. I grew up hearing adults complain about how homeless people spent money that was given to them. They spend it on cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, or just blow it on an unnecessarily expensive meal. They ask for money on the side of the road rather than look for work. We don't like to give them money, because they will probably blow it on a bad habit.
I remember a day when I was about 16, not long after I started driving. We had a family lunch at Rudy's Barbecue, and I took some leftovers with me. At the first stop light leaving the restaurant, we saw a homeless man with his dog. His sign said something about needing food. The voices echoed in my head, reminding me of all the bad ways he could spend any money I gave him, yelling that he should find a job and dig himself out of his hole. But while I was thinking of all the reasons not to help him, I looked down and saw my leftovers. He just wants food, and I have food. I don't know how the puzzle pieces met in that moment, but before I knew it I was handing my leftover sausage to a homeless man, which he immediately shared with his dog. Money wasn't the right answer, because in that moment, he really needed food.
There was another moment 5 years ago, when I sat on a bench to read while waiting for a friend to join me for dinner. I was approached by a guy wearing an eye patch, and he told me that he needed help to find dinner and a place to stay the night. Again, the words came out before I knew what I was doing. I asked him if he wanted to sit, and he did. He opened up about his situation, how he was assaulted with a crowbar years ago, and how this resulted in the loss of his eye. He told me that he used to be a welder, which he can't do with only 1 eye. He told me about his family in Houston, who he could no longer support. I learned that more than anything else, this man needed sympathy and a friend. His face glowed when I handed him a bill out of my wallet, but it glows more when I run into him around town. I used to think he just needed cash, but nothing pleases him more than talking to a friend. For Cedric, money wasn't the right answer, because he really needed the respect of a friend.
Now, I'm struggling through a relationship with a new friend who I met while selling an old TV on Craig's List. He's on the verge of becoming homeless, and once or twice a week he calls asking for help. I gave him a deal on the TV, and I've paid him for a couple hours of work twice since. This time, I don't know what he really needs. Sometimes he needs to vent, sometimes he needs money, but I still can't shake the feeling that there's something deeper.
These relationships, like many things in our world, don't have black and white answers. Instead of a line in the sand, I'm navigating a minefield. Every week, I struggle to discern the best way to help my friend, and every week the circumstances change.
It's times like this when I realize that I live in a world of grey. And when there is no black or white, I can only keep my eyes open and constantly seek the lighter grey.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
Monday, September 9, 2013
We Live in a Broken World
We live in a broken world.
I've heard this sentiment as long as I can remember, most often in reference to today's society. The news is atwitter with stories involving celebrity drug scandals, violent crimes, and war. We see homeless populations or unemployment rates on the rise, food prices that increase while farmer's earnings decrease, and good guys suffering while the bad guys go free. The world is fraught with brokenness and evil as far as the eye can see.
But the "broken world" is more than today's society. If you buy into the Biblical creation story, you believe as I do that the world was created fully good, fully in connection with its creator God. And if you believe as I do, this world fell apart from the ultimate Good piece by piece, leaving God to His own devices and us embracing our own human desires.
It's hard to escape it! Everywhere you look, you can find yet another example of brokenness. Society seems to have lost all respect for its fellow man. People care about nothing but themselves. The world is just a big pile of selfish mess.
But is this the real world, or is it merely the view through a tinted lense?
Many times when I've watched a news report about a tragedy, I watch the emphatic interviewee make emotive statements with grand gestures about the situation, and I wonder: while the tragedy is real, does this person represent the way everyone feels? Is this dramatic speaker a true representative of the community, or do they simply put on the face the nightly news wants to see? In short, is the community as broken as they have been portrayed?
Occasionally I'll see a different kind of story, whether through an independent video or a mass publication, about happiness. I always dig in. The taglines all present the same tease: what is the secret to happiness? Each claims to have the answer, and not surprisingly, the answers aren't all that different from each other.
Without fail, the answer has nothing to do with circumstances. It isn't about your job, where you live, how big your family is, what hobbies you keep, how clean your house is, or how much money is in the bank. It's never about how you look or how people perceive you. The answer, inevitably, comes from within.
Studies show that approximately 90% of happiness is completely independent of external factors.
Others report that the best predictor of happiness with your current circumstances is how much gratitude you show for past or present circumstances.
Happiness, it turns out, is most influenced by you, not your circumstances.
So, I wonder, as I watch the dramatic reactions to major events: are these people in control of their happiness, or do they feel driven by their circumstances? Do they have an ingrained habit of perceiving the bad in any situation instead of seeking out the good? More to the point, if they didn't experience a flood/earthquake/layoff/shooting today, would they have felt just as badly about their day-to-day lives?
I also wonder about this person's neighbor. The one whose interview wasn't played on the nightly news. The one who always greets the neighbors with a "good morning!" and constantly carries a smile on his face. Did the news network interview him? Was his interview rejected because he refused to take the bait in an all-too-negative industry? Imagine what his interview would have looked like.
I think this neighbor got something right. I grew up hearing that Christians are "in the world, but not of the world," and I think too many Christians focus on the 2nd part. They see the world, with all the tragedy and brokenness that comes with it, and they reject it. We are not of the world.
But I believe this brick wall distinction falls short. As much as people may want to become close to good and far from evil, we have to remember that the world is not inherently bad. If you believe as I do, this world was created by the God of love. It was created perfect and filled with limitless creatures made in the image of the God of love. We are in the world that was created out of and into love!
And it's here that I identify with the neighbor. I look at the situation through his eyes and see all of the families whose barriers were broken, leaving them free to love each other the way they have always wanted. I see the community pulling together, the most fortunate giving whatever they have to their neighbors who need it most. I even see hands reaching from around the country and around the world to lend resources, safety, and protection to people who they will never meet. Through his eyes, I see good in the world.
And here, I know it's true: we live in a broken world. But if you believe as I do, there's a whole lot of good left between the cracks.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
I've heard this sentiment as long as I can remember, most often in reference to today's society. The news is atwitter with stories involving celebrity drug scandals, violent crimes, and war. We see homeless populations or unemployment rates on the rise, food prices that increase while farmer's earnings decrease, and good guys suffering while the bad guys go free. The world is fraught with brokenness and evil as far as the eye can see.
But the "broken world" is more than today's society. If you buy into the Biblical creation story, you believe as I do that the world was created fully good, fully in connection with its creator God. And if you believe as I do, this world fell apart from the ultimate Good piece by piece, leaving God to His own devices and us embracing our own human desires.
It's hard to escape it! Everywhere you look, you can find yet another example of brokenness. Society seems to have lost all respect for its fellow man. People care about nothing but themselves. The world is just a big pile of selfish mess.
But is this the real world, or is it merely the view through a tinted lense?
Many times when I've watched a news report about a tragedy, I watch the emphatic interviewee make emotive statements with grand gestures about the situation, and I wonder: while the tragedy is real, does this person represent the way everyone feels? Is this dramatic speaker a true representative of the community, or do they simply put on the face the nightly news wants to see? In short, is the community as broken as they have been portrayed?
Occasionally I'll see a different kind of story, whether through an independent video or a mass publication, about happiness. I always dig in. The taglines all present the same tease: what is the secret to happiness? Each claims to have the answer, and not surprisingly, the answers aren't all that different from each other.
Without fail, the answer has nothing to do with circumstances. It isn't about your job, where you live, how big your family is, what hobbies you keep, how clean your house is, or how much money is in the bank. It's never about how you look or how people perceive you. The answer, inevitably, comes from within.
Studies show that approximately 90% of happiness is completely independent of external factors.
Others report that the best predictor of happiness with your current circumstances is how much gratitude you show for past or present circumstances.
Happiness, it turns out, is most influenced by you, not your circumstances.
So, I wonder, as I watch the dramatic reactions to major events: are these people in control of their happiness, or do they feel driven by their circumstances? Do they have an ingrained habit of perceiving the bad in any situation instead of seeking out the good? More to the point, if they didn't experience a flood/earthquake/layoff/shooting today, would they have felt just as badly about their day-to-day lives?
I also wonder about this person's neighbor. The one whose interview wasn't played on the nightly news. The one who always greets the neighbors with a "good morning!" and constantly carries a smile on his face. Did the news network interview him? Was his interview rejected because he refused to take the bait in an all-too-negative industry? Imagine what his interview would have looked like.
I think this neighbor got something right. I grew up hearing that Christians are "in the world, but not of the world," and I think too many Christians focus on the 2nd part. They see the world, with all the tragedy and brokenness that comes with it, and they reject it. We are not of the world.
But I believe this brick wall distinction falls short. As much as people may want to become close to good and far from evil, we have to remember that the world is not inherently bad. If you believe as I do, this world was created by the God of love. It was created perfect and filled with limitless creatures made in the image of the God of love. We are in the world that was created out of and into love!
And it's here that I identify with the neighbor. I look at the situation through his eyes and see all of the families whose barriers were broken, leaving them free to love each other the way they have always wanted. I see the community pulling together, the most fortunate giving whatever they have to their neighbors who need it most. I even see hands reaching from around the country and around the world to lend resources, safety, and protection to people who they will never meet. Through his eyes, I see good in the world.
And here, I know it's true: we live in a broken world. But if you believe as I do, there's a whole lot of good left between the cracks.
Always moving forward,
Tyler
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