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.

The Day the Distance Runner Died

Like Don McLean’s haunting song from the 70s, April 16 could easily be retitled, “The Day the Distance Runner Died.”  While I have not died physically, the events of the past few weeks have led me to the sober conclusion that my reality as a lifelong distance runner has come to an abrupt and unceremonial end. The ribbons, trophies, plaques and pictures in my office are now reminders of the end of an era. The euphoric joy of a ten mile run in the rain, the liberating feeling of running along the Carolinas' shorelines, the hundreds of trails, mountains, rivers and even deserts that these feet have glided over will glide no more.

It started back in the fall of 2011, when I noticed my race pace had dropped almost a minute per mile in a 15k race I had run just a year earlier. The hills were a little painful, as my ankle joint was stiff, taking longer to “wake up” each run. My good friend John Spikes even posted earlier that I was slowing down and my wife Kathy was speeding up. My self-diagnosis was that maybe I was experiencing some early arthritis, so I just plugged on.

Two weeks later, I strained a right calf muscle, which is always a nuisance to any runner. I spent the month of October icing and resting my leg. I was busy coaching our school’s cross country team, so it was an inconvenience not being out there running with my runners, something I have enjoyed for more than 25 years. I was strong enough to run a Thanksgiving Day 5k, although at 25:30, the pace was better than the 15k pace but much slower than earlier in the year. It was a small victory to race again after the calf strain.

The top of my ankle was still stiff through the past mild East Tennessee winter, but my pace was still dropping. I was now at a 9:00 pace, and easy runs were more like 9:30/mile. We signed up for our annual pilgrimage to Charleston to do the Cooper River Bridge 10k on March 31, but my ankle began to bother me more and more. I saw my orthopedic doctor, who said my posterior tibial tendon (PTT) was stretched out, and so I took almost 3 weeks off from running.

I usually celebrate birthdays with a celebratory five mile minimum run. In 2001, I ran 24 miles on my birthday, but that was in marathon training mode. However, in 2012, there would be no birthday run as I honored the doctor’s orders for a few more days.

We reluctantly and sadly decided not to run the Bridge Run, but we did run at the lnearby ake, and I had worked up to almost 5 miles during that first week of being able to run. It was not fast or pretty. Kathy noted that I still ran with a slight limp in my stride, although my ankle did not feel sore, just stiff.

Our school had a track meet on April 3 at a local school, so I decided to drive over and watch our kids run. I saw our discus team warming up, but I noticed none of them were using a spin technique. I walked into the cage and demonstrated a basic 360 spin in very slow motion. The third time around, as I was showing the proper disc ‘explosion’ and release, my ankle popped, and after I fell to the ground, I announced, “That is NOT the proper follow-through”. I knew immediately it was the tendon. I could feel a huge knot form next to the bone. I hobbled over to Laura Weisberg, our team’s volunteer trainer (Thank God for these wonderful professionals who donate their time!), and she had me come into her practice the next morning before dawn to get it looked at and for some PT.

The next morning, she massaged it, iced it, and wrapped it. My ortho had already put a call in to my ankle specialist for a referral on my ankle, but my physical therapist called her to get me in the same day. Again, my gratitude goes out to her for “fast tracking” me to the specialist, who examined the ankle and ordered an MRI. Her pre-diagnosis was at least a partial tear of the PTT and a possible stress fracture of the talus bone. Somehow, the possibility of never running again was not a reality as long as it may only be a partial tear. After all, I partially tore a hamstring and a piriformis before, and I was fine after a few weeks in both cases.

Today, April 16, I sat in the examination room, awaiting the doctor and the results from the MRI. She came in and smiled, asking if I wanted the good news first. I was halfway hoped that she was only joking.  I learned first that I did not have a stress fracture in my ankle. Then she delivered the bad news: my posterior tibial tendon was totally torn – in several places, much like a tire you see by the side of the highway.

I know that my doctor knew how much I love running. She stood outside the door with my papers for a long time before coming in. I wonder if it is hard for her to find the right words to tell a person that their life’s joyful expression will no longer be possible?  I know that both my ortho and physical therapist, both sent texts to “keep this man running at all costs”, and “this man needs to run”.

However well-meaning their notes were, it could not have made the surgeon's  delivery of this news easy. After she said my PTT was torn, she looked at me and eventually said the words “no running”. The new tendon would be taken from the big toe. It is less than a third the size of the PTT, and therefore cannot hold up under the impact of distance running. Phrases like “no more marathons, half marathons, races and those long runs” all fell like small bombshells into my psyche.

The shattering sound of my spirit being crushed made it hard to really hear all the details of the post-surgery timetable, so I may be a little off in my actual re-telling of what will follow my surgery.

As she talked, I was having a hard time absorbing her words - no running. I will undergo surgery May 24. I will have two screws placed in my heel to turn my pronated foot into a more supine position due to the smaller FDL tendon grafted in from the big toe. I will be totally off my feet for 2 weeks, then 6 more on crutches or  a knee walker (that will be some fun. Maybe I can learn to "surf" with it!). After that, we will evaluate and be in a boot and transition into a shoe over the next month or two while undergoing therapy. After 12 months of therapy, I should be walking pain-free in shoes full-time.

The question of light running comes into play after six more months to strengthen the new but smaller tendon. The surgeon said that I should be able to do a light run of 2-3 miles, slowly building up strength in the supporting muscles and ligaments. Two or three miles at the most, and not every day or even every other day. What used to be a mild warm up will now be my destination distance.

No distance running. To me, it is like telling me to stop loving my wife, my kids, and my two grandkids. It has now been a few days, and I am still a littlenumb. I do not feel anger nor have I gone through much denial, yet a large part of me is grieving. It feels like I have lost a good friend, someone who has been with me in my most transparent moments. Running is so organic and yet so complex. I have created, debated, imagined, fought wars, and psychoanalyzed almost everything while on a long distance run. There is a clarity that occurs when one is on a long run that I have not equaled in any other activity. No running are two words that hurt in a strange, indescribable way.

And yet God knows I am thankful for allowing me to run 28 years after having dual knee surgery in 1984, when I had the meniscus removed from my right knee.  The doctor told me then not to run again. But I eventually did, after two years off, and since then I ran 14 marathons and hundreds of races, notching almost 40,000 miles since then. This time is different, though. No other supporting ligaments or muscles are in the ankle to assist this newer, tinier tendon from my big toe.

After 66,052 recorded miles, 16 marathons, countless half marathons, 10 milers, 10k, 15k, 25k, 30k, 8k, and 5k races, runs over mountains, in many states on hundreds of miles of sidewalks,  trails and highways, I am told “no running”. How could two words carry such devastating and cutting power?

At present, I am walking in a boot and praying for a miracle. Like Eric Liddell, I feel God's pleasure when I run, so I am again begging God to perform another miracle and allow me to run after I am recovered. For now, it is time to get into the mindset that I need the May 24th surgery to go well, to rehab my foot religiously, and to try to find that new “thing” that will fit into the slot where my joyful and therapeutic runs took place. I can swim and bike, but neither provides the “high” I get every run I take. Drinkers have 'Happy Hour'; runners like me have always had a ‘Happy Hour’ out on a trail, road, mountain or beach. I am hoping to spend some more ‘Happy Hours’ out there sometime in 2013. If you see me, I will be the one with bugs on his teeth, unable to close my mouth due to excessive and continuous smiling. If, despite all efforts I am unable to run again, I hope you will still see me with a smile on my face, because it means God has replaced my deep love of running with something new that provides me with joy and fulfillment.

But for now, I wait for the impending surgery, the 18 months of rehab, and the possibility of maybe jogging 2-3 miles. The words, "no running" are still not part of my new vocabulary, but it appears that the distance runner has died.

I still mean it when I say Happy Running.