Looking Forward, Looking Back

Rearview mirrors are nice. I recently had the back of my car filled with furniture, and I could not see a thing out the back window when I backed the car in an unfamiliar driveway. Then I remembered my new car had a camera that allowed me to look on my dashboard and see the rear view clearly. I was able to see everything behind me, so I navigated through a tight spot without even turning my head outside the window.

Have you ever had a moment when you wished you could look back and say, "If I knew then what I know now, I would have/would never have  ______________"? I have spent most of my life now working in education, and many of those days and nights have been spent in conversations with teachers, adolescents and parents of adolescents. One of the refrains that populated many of those conversations contained the phrase "if I only knew".

It is, I believe, in our nature to be second-guessers, spiritual Monday morning quarterbacks, regularly wondering if one decision or another was the right one. This is especially true when choices we made seem to take us through a series of turbulent and stormy trials, many of which we wanted to escape rather than endure. Sickness, separation, alienation from people we once loved or trusted, divorce, even death - they all leave us with layers of "if I only knew" statements.

Who wouldn't love to have their life choices written with the finger of God across the sky so clearly that it could not be missed? On second thought, the sky would probably be cloudy all day from all the message he would be writing. But seriously, would it not make life easier to know in advance what was coming. Even thinking those words gave me pause to say, "Maybe not, Randy."

What makes many of those conversations with people more disturbing is when something drastic or even tragic happens - a lost opportunity to remain in a certain city, position, school, or home, sometimes making a choice because of a person's influence, or rationalizing it must be God's will, or maybe an act of desperation.

Others have lives marked with loss - of a friendship or a marriage, or even the loss of a job - or even a life, some accidental, others sadly intentional. The results of those decisions of the past often linger for years. Apart from the fallout from some of those choices is the resulting guilt, either self-imposed or externally placed by supposedly well-meaning 'friends' and self-righteous onlookers whose fingers and tongues cannot seem to get enough venom into your spirit.

Questions repeat themselves in our minds in an unending chorus:
- Did I choose the wrong road to drive that night?
- If I knew he would die  . . .
- How did I miss those red flags? 
- What if I had not gone to the store that day?
- Was this the right choice?
- If I had not listened to him . . .

For many, if we are honest, would say with conviction, I wish God would have told me this would have happened. The Bible is filled with men and women who probably would have taken "Door #2" if they knew the road they would travel in advance.

• Joseph, if told in advance that his brothers would hate him so much they would try to kill him and to spend years alone in an Egyptian prison - would he cry out, "God, thanks for the preview, but I would rather take door #2."
• Job, if told he would lose his children, his livestock, his crops, his fortune - would he have taken all that loss, disappointment and pain if he knew it all ahead of time?
• We know a missionary to Mombasa named Ralph Bethea, who was traveling with his wife to pick up their children at the Christian school 200 miles away for Easter Break. Ralph stopped when he saw a man lying by the road. When he did, four men jumped from the bush with machetes, mortally wounding he and his wife. As she lay dying, she told Ralph, "Don't hate them. Jesus died for them, too. Take care of our children. I love you." And she was gone.
  
  Ralph stayed in Mombasa, and after six months of no results in the marketplace where he shared his faith, he was ready to give up. Finally, one crippled man gave his life to Jesus, and within six weeks, 50,000 Muslims decided to follow Jesus as Lord, and there were many other miracles during the coming days.
  I wonder if Ralph would have knowingly gone to Mombasa had he known in advance he would lose his wife?

Looking back, we can many times see how the hand of God was shaping us, molding us, teaching us in His classroom. Ever the Master Teacher, He does not give us the answer. In 1 Corinthians 13, Paul reminds us that we have a time in life when we see, reason, and think like a child, and that we see the temporal as in a cloudy mirror. Life's lessons - disease, disasters, divorce, death - are part of the 'classroom' of life in this sin-infected world in which we live. There is a promise in 13:12 that encourages those of us learning in God's classroom. "Then we shall see, face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."

These words are not easy to write,nor are they easy to read. If God were to show me everything that would happen after I made a decision to follow Him, would I still follow His leading?  Listen to the words of Job, who bore the brunt of more than most have ever endured: "Though He may slay me, yet will I trust Him." (13:15)

The teacher in me sees the wisdom of trusting that the Good Shepherd knows what is best for His sheep, and I need to lean heavily by faith on His leading, often with trembling. Though the way into the valley may seem dark, though the mountain may appear to be too high - I know from looking back the character of my God to be true and constant. When everything behind us and around us is in chaos and confusion, looking forward we can see a loving Lord who stands on the stormy sea and bids us to take the step off of the boat - One. Step. At. A. Time.

If God were to show me what were to happen after I made a decision to follow Him, would I still do it?
Looking back, I can look forward. 2 Timothy 2:13 sings to my spirit: "If we are faithless, He will remain faithful, for He cannot disown himself."
I am His, and He is mine.
You are His. He is yours. He will never leave you or desert you (Heb. 13:5).

We don't need Door #2.

Where is God in the midst of tragedy?

As many in our nation, I was shaken deeply when I saw the events unfold last Friday, December 7. One person in Newtown on television asked aloud, “Where was God in all this?” Many more sitting at home were undoubtedly saying the same thing.

Kathy went to Franklin to see our grandkids’ Christmas pageant, so I was home. I spent most of Saturday meditating  on the events of Friday, taking stock of how I would respond if the same thing happened at my own school. I wondered how we as a school would react in the aftermath of such a terrible and tragic event.

I turned to my heavenly Father and asked Him to be with the families of those 20 children, and He whispered to my spirit, “I am already there.”

It was then I realized He has always been here. Sadly, we have not been with Him.

I remembered the story of the old couple who were riding along the road one night in their old pickup truck. The woman sat on the well-worn bench seat  while her husband drove and reminisced as she asked him, ”Honey, how come we don’t sit together like we used to?” The old man grinned as he looked at his wife seated by the window and replied, “I ain’t moved.”

When we as a culture move away from God, it is hard to see Him. Businesses, families, school systems and entire communities have intentionally moved God OUT of the mainstream of our lives. Groups are and individuals are now threatened with being sued for praying, the cross is being removed from view, and mentioning Jesus or God is declared as establishing ‘religion’ by some. While the state has effectively removed prayer and God from our classrooms, when this tragedy hit, God was suddenly welcomed back into a school searching for answers.

God has never moved. From eternity to eternity, God is still God. Isaiah wrote when the people had turned far from God for answers, and most of the book is spent reminding His people of what chapter 45:4-5 states: “… though you do not acknowledge me, I am the LORD, and there is no other; apart from me there is no God.”

Our culture has moved God OUT of our culture, but as soon as we have a tragedy, especially one we cannot explain – a tsunami, an earthquake, a hurricane, or an unexplainable shooting

But where was God in Newtown?

He was there. He was doing what He does best, even in the midst of a place where most have shunned Him, rejected Him and replaced Him with many other gods. Of course, He is used to that. His Son experienced rejection, misunderstanding, physical pain and torment. He even allowed His own creatures to torture Him.

But God came near even when we moved away.

God was there with His many angels as a madman came to rob, steal and destroy the innocence of many innocent children and the guardians we call teachers.

I wrote on Facebook that the martyr Stephen, who was being stoned, had what Luke described as the “face of an angel” as those big rocks tore at his flesh. And when he looked up he saw the Lord Jesus STANDING, not seated at the right hand of Almighty God, acknowledging him and taking away the sting of death, because Scripture states that Stephen “fell asleep” after asking God to forgive His killers.

I believe our God took His twenty small children home to be with Him, free from the pain and torment and the evil that surrounded them.

Listen to what Isaiah 57:1-2 states:

The righteous perish, and no one ponders it in his heart; the devout are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil.

Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death.

Where was God?

He showed up in the lives of policemen who did not know what they would see when they entered the building, or whether they themselves would come home alive that day.

He showed up in the lives of some ordinary teachers, who became extraordinary as they held, guarded and shielded their children from the horror surrounding them.

He showed up in the saints of Newtown, as they rushed to offer aid and consolation to those who were wondering, shouting, crying, and asking “Why?”

He showed up in candlelight vigils, listening to the thoughts and prayers from His children.

He even showed up in the White House, as our President used His book to offer hope to a nation.

And God was here in my heart, comforting me as I questioned why twenty young souls and their parents, brothers, sisters, and families had to suffer, and what would we do if this same tragedy happened in my school.

I have been reminded this week of one simple truth.

God is still God.

He always has been, and He always will be God. He alone is holy, He alone is perfect and just.

The God we know binds up wounds and is near to the brokenhearted.

And He will make all things new to those who realize He has never moved away.

But God is waiting for His children – to move back, to remain close, or to move even closer to Him.

Like children, He longs for a people who will trust Him with a childlike faith, with an almost reckless abandon.  

Children are like that – trusting, loving, faithful, hoping. Like the song’ “Jesus Loves the Little Children”, Jesus loved the little ones in Newtown so much He took them to heaven to be with Him and His Father.

Listen to how Jesus admonished His disciples in Matthew 18:10, when he said, “See that you do not look down on one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven.”

“Where was God?” may be the wrong question to ask.

Perhaps we should ask, “Where are we?”

When I Hear "Coach"

Coach. It is a word that I have heard for more than thirty years, yet it never gets old or worn out. In my week, the hat I wear the most is that of high school principal. I have also been a headmaster, a school administrator, chaplain, high school teacher, college professor, web designer, test car driver, janitor, assembly line worker, store clerk, paper deliverer, writer, husband, dad, and more recently, "Paaa" to two little toddlers who run me ragged whenever I see them.

But the one word that has been a constant reminder of a secondary yet important role I have been blessed to have been given is one I respect and cherish - Coach. Since 1978, I have been selected or volunteered to be another kind of teacher.  It has been a colorful journey as a coach to boys baseball and basketball, cross country and track to both genders, volleyball, ultimate, and girls basketball. Each team had its unique persoanlity and crazy cast of characters, and many of them have earned affectionate and unforgettable nicknames that I will carry with me forever - Crash, Thunder Calves, Shee-Ra, Rehema, Johnny Consolidate, PowerBar, C squared, Bobby Juan, Tour Mode, Noodles, Giggles, House, Heinz 57, Twin Towers, All Wise, Franceeeseee, and more than I can recall here. More importantly, many of them have earned titles that supercede these nicknames - engineer, accountant, banker, marketing expert, mother, designer, salesman, teacher, doctor, attorney, therapist, writer, researcher, and yes, some even with the name of Coach.

My mother, Mary Down

Coach has been my first name to hundreds of student-athletes, some of whom now have kids themselves, and some who today also bear the name Coach - in Illinois, Texas, California, and Oregon. My precious mother is a famed high school and college volleyball coach in Michigan, and the local paper did an article on her coaching legacy a few years back. At the time, eighteen of her former players were coaching volleyball somewhere in the country.

 In my current role, I am 'Mr. Down' to most of our 315 students as we pass in the hallways. While I appreciate all those greetings, the one that grabs my attention most is when I hear a voice in school call out "Coach!"  I immediately go into another mode, ready to respond to a question about practice, running shoes, missing practice to make up a test, or advice about a stretch to do for a nagging injury (of which we had more than our share this year). As 'Coach', I become a confidant, psychologist, personal trainer, academic counselor, and somewhat of a 'guru' for our sport.

Our boys and girls cross country teams just completed our fourth season this week. The girls barely missed a trip to the state meet, and the boys finished close to the coveted top three spots that make it each year. While we did not capture the goal of a state meet, the season was filled with many personal records, surprises, and a scrapbook full of memorable moments. We were blessed to have a couple runners make All-Region, with one being an eighth grader.

While another season in cross country may have ended, the memories of this season will become part of a bigger tapestry that God has allowed me to become a part. The lessons of life we have shared over three deacdes has enriched me so much as a person that I can never repay it to those whom He has placed in my life. It is a sacred privilege to be allowed access into the lives of young adults as they forge their values and world views.

To all of you whom God has blessed me to be allowed to coach, counsel and share, I say a deep thank you. I pray for many of you often and am grateful to have been a part of your exciting lives, and to have heard you call me by name - Coach.

Serving With a Smile

I don't know about most people, but I love school. It could be why God selected me to be an educator, a coach, and now a high school principal. I have loved watching and listening to teachers teach, students listen and many times teach the teachers, and I love to catch the energy of a classroom in action.

We started school yesterday with a half day here in Knoxville. I can remember growing up in Michigan and not starting school before Labor Day. Somewhere, I guess people got a lot less smart, because now we have to start school in the middle of summer in order to learn enough to consider ourselves "ready" for college and vocations. I once had a teacher with a placemat on her desk that read "The Three Best Things About Teaching Are June, July, and August." Now we get to "relax" in June and July before entering into combat mode, arming ourselves with lesson plans, curriculum maps, and common core standards.

Yesterday we had a new girl who had a terrible day. So bad was her day that her father called to share how heartbroken she was. She came from a much larger school where she had many friends. Here, among our 315 students in abbreviated 30 minute classes, no one had made her feel at home or welcomed, and she was ready to transfer back to her old school. I conveyed to the parent that the first day is information heavy, with teachers sharing rules, passing out syllabi, and mostly talking to the students, not necessarily listening. The next nine months is spent more in groups, collaborative learning, lots more listening and discussion.

I assured her father that we had really sweet kids and that his daughter needed to give us a few days and she would soon love coming to school at Grace. In the meantime, I looked at her schedule, what other students were in those classes, and when she ate lunch. After all, lunch is the center of all that is important in the school day! When I interview new students, they often share that the thing that most terrifies them is who will sit with them at lunch. Our kids are pretty good at "adopting" new students, but I wanted to be sure in this girl's case, so I called one of her classmates into the office this morning to ask her to do me a favor. I asked if whe knew the girl, and she said that she had introduced herself to her in Bible class yesterday. I then asked if she would be willing to invite her to sit with her for a couple days while she got acclimated to the Grace community.
 It was her answer that blew me away. Or should I say, the way she answered me.

She looked at me, smiling, wide-eyed with excitement, and said, "Oh, I would love to do that. I will look for her this morning and introduce myself to her again! Mr. Down, thank you for asking me."

Thank you for asking me.

How many times have I been asked to do something outside of my "comfort zone" and excitedly said "THANKS" for being asked. This young servant was grateful for an opportunity to minister to someone, to be a friend to a new student. But like the old infomercial salesman used to say, "But WAIT, there's more!"

Fast forward to lunch time. I am standing by the line, trying to convince some terrified freshmen that it was OK to get into line. Not on Day One, apparently. They were waiting for an upperclassman to lead the way into the new territory, the undiscovered country of the high school cafeteria. Pretty soon, some upperclassmen did arrive, and the freshmen slowly took a space in the line, just not too close to a junior or senior.

My cheery volunteer showed up in line and exclaimed that she found her new lunch "buddy" earlier in school and shared that she was sitting with her at lunch, and asked if it was OK. She said the new girl was going to be there shortly. A couple minutes passed, and finally the new girl entered the cafeteria with her lunch bag and sat at a table a few feet away. My volunteer was about to be served, but she left her place in line, went and sat down with the new girl, and waited until the line was empty before getting up to gather her lunch tray.

Seldom have I been more stunned and impressed with the selflessness of an individual. She exited the lunch serving area with her tray, sat down, and soon began chatting up a storm with our new girl. A casual observer would have thought they were lifelong friends. I hope this act helps cement in our new student how valuable she is to our family of faith here at Grace.

I don't know where you are in your life, but I am far from where this giving student is right now. Matthew 25:31-46 references how Jesus measured true discipleship when he tells his followers to "do this to the least of these". It is staggering when you get to see it up close and personal.

I once heard a sermon decades ago that I have never forgotten (I guess that's obvious if I am about to repeat it). The basic message was about the kind of disciple God looks to use. Referring to people like Joseph, Samuel, Peter, and David, he shared the common qualities God saw in them He desires in us all.
Faithful. Gifted. Available.

I am so grateful to be involved in Kingdom work in a Christian school. I was reminded by a high school student today to continue to be open for business all the time,
To be faithful.
To use my gifts.
And be available.

Light at the End of the Tunnel

Three months from the injury and six weeks have elapsed since my ankle surgery, and my sweet wife drove me to the surgeon for x-rays to see how far I have progressed since the operation. No weight bearing since May 24 has been trying, but I have been diligent, and hopefully my self-discipline will have paid off.

I rolled into the office waiting area, picking up glances from other patient using crutches or in casts. One man told me he had a wheel roller like mine but had to return it because he flipped over backwards twice while trying to use his. He was a significantly larger man than I, so I could figure the physics involved with his predicament.

The x-ray tech snapped a couple pics and I waited a bit anxiously for the surgeon to appear, hoping for an optimistic report. When She walked in, she clapped her hands, smiled, and said, "Let's start putting some weight on that foot." It was if I was given a winning lottery ticket. Rather than progress a month at a time, as I was told earlier was the norm, I get to place 25% weight on it for a week, then 50% the second, 75% the third and 100% the fourth week. Four weeks from today to 100% weight bearing, all in the boot, of course, but still a major milestone.

I will start PT the second week in August, and I can even try to wear a running shoe on occasion. This will be just in time for school to start, so the timing might just be perfect. I can get rid of my wheel roller and save the crutches for emergency use after that. My screws should be ready to come out by December, and the doctor said I may even be walking fully healed by January, ahead of the April 2013 she had predicted. I guess since I did not fit the obese, over 70, diabetic, female, and sedentary norms of this injury, I am ahead of the curve.

I am grateful for the many who have prayed and still pray for me. I never underestimate that amazing tool in God's healing. It's still a long way from trying to jog a few steps, but I have seen the light at the end of the tunnel, and for that I am grateful. I am also grateful to be moving so much more quickly. Armed with my trusty crutches for stability, my boot and my good shoe did some walking today, and it was so much nicer. I felt like I was ready to start running again -- or at least walking loosely toting the crutches. I will take what I can at this point. Look out, August, a walking man is coming!

Running All Out

I have been home the past two weeks since school ended, and usually that means taking a break from school stuff for a few days, maybe a short mini trip to see the kids and grand kids, or some activity to let go of the stress of finishing another school year before plunging into the next one. This year, however, my two weeks after school ended have been spent primarily sitting.

My ankle surgery was the exclamation point to the school year, but maybe a period or series of dots would better describe it. Those who know me do not see me sitting for long, as I am usually moving, sometimes even jogging from place to place. Now I have had to adjust to sitting. OK, so the first couple days I was in a drug-induced painkilling stupor. Which begs the question: why do people want to take mind altering drugs? For half a week all I did was sleep and wonder where I was. Sure, I felt no pain. The problem was I felt nothing. No joy, no laughter, no wonder,nothing. So, out with the painkillers and in with feeling. I jumped into the final two books of the Hunger Games trilogy, Sun Stands Still, and a couple free iBooks. I finished the books, surfed the web, worked on a couple school lists, and then began watching daytime television.

Among other bastions of news reporting, I watched with fascination the "Today" Show, GMA, Ellen, Kathy Lee and Hoda, and a myriad of other mindless programs. Did you know there are shows about storing things, hoarding things, killing things, and lots about eating things? One of the programs I did find enjoyable was the French Open, although tennis can be a bit mind numbing. At times I felt I was watching an old Pong game, but I did like seeing Maria Sharapova win her career Grand Slam. It was in watching her along with a couple track meets on TV that a philosophy I personally hold resurfaced.

When Sharapova was playing her championship match, a commentator said that Sharapova was playing so well that she was not permitting her opponent a chance to win. In other words, she was playing "all out". She was relentless until the final ball landed harmlessly out of bounds, sealing the championship. She fell to her knees in a heap of emotions, the goal and dream attained. Then, in a couple track meets, one the Prefontaine Classic in Eugene, Oregon, I witnessed a couple really good races. My favorites are the mile, 1500, and the 5000 meters. It is here that I have witnessed a change in racing that has cost several elite athletes a chance to shine.

Rather than run all out, these finely conditioned athletes get sucked into a hypnotic and usually deadly game of tactical running that suits only the one with the superb kick. The results are almost predictable, because those who fall victim to the tactics of the few end up alone at the end of the race, frustrated and with plenty left inside their tanks. One race in particular bucked the trend in a New York meet, when Kenyan David Rudisha ran an 800 meter race his way. He started out fast, in he lead. The elite competition had several international and American Olympic hopefuls, yet with 400 meters to go, Rudisha had a 20 meter lead. He kept increasing his speed until he won by more than forty meters against the world's top runners, setting a US record and missing the world record by a half second. When asked why he ran such a race less than a month from the Olympics, Rudisha said with a smile, "I wanted to run to break the record. That is the only way I know to run."

What a philosophy. Steve Prefontaine is till recognized as America's best middle distance runner, and he ran forty years ago. Yet it is his attitude I wish more would emulate. All out. No second guessing. I wonder how many opportunities in life are lost by playing it safe, living a tactical life, watching what everyone else does before moving.

Thank you, David Rudisha. You have remained me of what Jesus also taught. Live an audacious life with no regrets, no doubts, and no fear. Train hard. Run hard. Then Run tour life from the front, increase the tempo, and don't bother looking back. If you are running all out, no one will catch you. They will be too busy strategizing, being tactical, and finishing back in the pack.  

Run. All. Out.

Reminiscing About Running

Today is unofficially Ankle Surgery Eve, and I have mixed feelings. While I am eager to get over the constant pain of a severed tendon and limping all over town in a boot, I also know the finality of my running life will come to a close tomorrow. I have been swimming every morning at 5 am, and can I just say, Why do people get up at 4:00 to drive to a place where no one talks in a YMCA pool, and the only excitement comes if someone from the night before left a diving toy on the pool bottom. The scenery never changes in lap swimming, and counting the little blue tiles that form the line on the pool bottom ranks up there with watching a car rust. But I digress . . .

In the weeks since I tore my posterior tibial tendon (PTT), I have been reminiscing a lot about how I began running, the places I have run, and the many memories associated with thousands of runs in my life. Beaches, mountains, low desert, high desert, flat lands, next to quiet streams, fast-rushing rivers, and in all kinds of neighborhoods. My mind stretched back to my childhood, where I grew up in a middle classed neighborhood in a two bedroom bungalow at the end of Virginia Street. It was next to a small forest that was eventually cleared out, but it made for a fun place to explore - and run.

We lived two miles from Potter Elementary School, and believe it or not, we did not have buses to get us to and from school, so we had to do what seems like a fantasy to many today. We walked. Rain, wind, snow, steaming hot or below zero, we hoofed it to and from school every day. Being fascinated and inquisitive, I wondered how many steps it would take to get home every day. Sometime in fourth grade I began to count my steps, walking at first, then running a little, then a lot, always trying to best my previous day's total. I used to come in and exclaim to my mother how I had come home in the fewest steps ever, and she always did the proper mom thing and showed her excitement about my major distance/step accomplishment, every time.

We had Zawol's Market, a quick five blocks away. I could run to Mike Blackburn's house in less than a minute. The Standard gas station had a cold water fountain, and I would stop in for a swig before heading down Davison Road to Averill,  dodging the occasional rabid neighborhood dog. Hitting the crosswalk on a green light was cause for celebration, because I did not have to break stride. Then I made it to the home stretch, and saw the house, picking up my speed for a dash to the kitchen, where my mother would be there, I am sure awaiting the report of my new two mile land speed record.

I ran through elementary school, loving whenever we had running days in PE. My favorite day was the running of the 600 yard dash. I was so disappointed it was only 600 yards. I do not remember the 600 much, but he did say I was the fastest one year. Mr. Hackett did let me run a mile once. I think he tired of my incessant begging to run a mile, so he sent me out to run a mile. To this day I do not know if it was one mile or four. I only know I ran that day for a long time from Averill to Dexter Avenues until every group in grades 3-6 finished the 600 yard dash.

When we moved to the country in seventh grade, we had something new - space. We had a huge yard, a huge forest, and another two mile distance to my new junior high school. We also had buses. What a treat to ride the bus to school. The only down side was that we were the first to get picked up and we drove forever to pick up everyone else, and we would get to school just before the first bell. I did not and still to this day do not like getting anywhere at the last minute. So every once in awhile I would go down the street, and if the weather was nice, I would run to school and always beat our bus - and most every other bus.

I don't know why I enjoyed running everywhere when everyone else walked. When our family of seven would go shopping or anywhere, I always got in trouble for running way ahead of the family. I reasoned that you could see so much more if you ran. Besides, walking took far too much time to get anywhere. Running was and still is a way to get from point A to point B quicker, leaving more time to enjoy something else. Even as high school principal, I have enjoyed the 300 yards between our two buildings, running most every day downhill to the K-8 building (all 220 steps, with a PR of 181). One little boy saw me one day and his mother told him I was the "running principal". No greater compliment, IMHO.

Even though I was fast in school, Tom Shepherd was faster, running a 4:20 mile. My fastest was in the 4;40-5:05 range all the time, but I was into sports like basketball, baseball, golf and girls, so running did take a mini vacation until college, where I went to a school, Saginaw Valley State, that had a wide open campus, and space to run. It was the same year, 1970, that Jim Ryun ran a 3:51 mile in HIGH SCHOOL, for goodness' sake! I was out running my feet off, trying to get my time down below 4:35, but to no avail.

I have many other memories to share another day, but today was just a chance for me to get these thoughts out on the keyboard. I think that if I had grown up in Kenya I probably would have fit right in to the culture, because I loved to run anywhere, everywhere, and if I had to run to get food for the family, I believe I could have done it, enjoying each mile along the way. One of the things I try to embed in the runners I do coach is not necessarily short-term, like a PR or a medal. I want them to take time to enjoy this thing, this gift God has given us. The ability to run, the freedom that comes with enjoying what you experience along the road, beach, trail, or street, is unmatched.

May every step you take be a memory that you savor.