Fearfully and Wonderfully

The index finger on my left hand was causing me pain all day yesterday, and hurts again today. And that's a good thing.

About 17 years ago, I was working as a contract forestry surveyor in Washington state, running cutting lines for Boise Cascade. The project we had been working on took us about 8 weeks to complete, and on the last day of work we were looking forward to a sizable (and much needed) paycheck.

The final hike back to the truck was down a rather steep hillside, and, though I knew it was a dangerous thing to do, being a "skilled professional", I was using my machete as a walking stick to help support my descent.

The truth is, I didn't grow up in the woods and was rather clumsy, falling frequently. The only reason I was doing this work was because I needed a job, and a friend offered to hire me. It turned out to be good exercise for me, and I actually grew to enjoy the outdoor experience. What I had learned, but had yet to master, was that walking in the woods wasn't like walking in the park.

So, on this last day of work on this particular project, predictably, I slipped and fell while traversing the steep decline, and sliced my left palm on my machete.

Though there was no pain (perhaps because there was no pain), I knew it was bad before I looked. The cut was on my "life line", right below my index finger. What I suspected, was later confirmed: the cut went deep enough to sever the nerve on the thumb side of my finger. I had no feeling from the cut to the tip of my finger.

Though a hand specialist told me it would be a mistake to not repair the nerve, I was inclined to avoid surgery. My father had nearly cut the ring finger on his left hand off when he was a boy, and lived the rest of his life bending it by overlapping it with his middle finger to pull it down. I figured I could function in a similar manner.

The doctor said that the inside and outside of the thumb, the thumb side of the index finger, and the outside of the "pinky" are the most critical areas to maintain feeling in order for the hand to function. Because I'm left handed this was especially true. He predicted that, if I didn't have surgery, I would wind up using my middle finger as an index finger, and my index finger would eventually become stiff and unbendable from lack of use.

At the urging of my wife, my father, and friends, I decided to have the surgery.

This is where my education on the body's nervous system began. I asked question after question, wanting to get my money's worth in knowledge about what had happened, and what was to be done to repair the damage.

What I learned was that our nerves are encased in a "sheath" about the size of a human hair, and that inside this sheath are tens of thousands of nerve fibers which convey information to the brain through the nerve cells. The "sheath" containing the nerves to the thumb side of my index finger had been severed, and because it is somewhat elastic, the two sides retracted from one another ensuring that they would never grow back together on their own.

Through micro surgery, the doctor was able to put three sutures into the nerve sheath (picture sewing two pieces of hair together), and my hand was put in a cast to keep me from tearing the sutures out while the sheath grew back together. I wore the cast for two weeks.

If you've never had it done to you, you cannot imagine what happens to your fingers if you do not move them for 2 weeks. The doctor explained that the cartilage in your joints is lubricated by synovial fluid that, if not kept fluid (by frequent motion) turns into a solid. When the cast was removed I discovered that all the joints in my hand had swollen to about twice their normal size, I could not bend my fingers, and that to try to bend my fingers caused pain that caused tears. Regardless, I was given 2 weeks to be able to make a fist, with the threat that if I could not do it on my own, I would do it with "help".

I won't bore you with the details of The Agony and the Ecstasy of Howard Making a Fist, except to say that I succeeded before my 2-week followup appointment. It was at this meeting that my education continued.

I learned that the surgery only joined the two ends of the nerve sheath, and that the rest of the healing would be accomplished by my body. The doctor told me that bringing the ends together only made it possible for the nerves to reconnect, but that a wall of scar tissue would have to be penetrated before that could happen. Amazingly, our bodies are designed so that the nerve fibers seek out these connections, and eventually grow through the scar tissue to find a mate on the other side. This process, though it would continue for the rest of my life, would probably only result in a 15% success rate. The good news, however, is that only 1% was necessary in order for my finger to be usable.

I also discovered that this process was already well on it's way. The doctor used a tool that "scratched" the tip of my finger to test for feeling. He also tested the area near the surgery site. To my surprise, I was able to feel the stimulation, but not like I expected. What happened was, when the doctor stimulated the tip of my finger, I felt it at the surgery site, and vise versa. He said this was normal, and that as the nerves were repaired, the sensation would grow progressively closer to the actual place of stimulation.

The other thing that was evident was that, though there was a tingly numbness, the sensation of feeling was very acute. I was told that the way our nerves work is to transmit messages to the brain through the nerve cells, as previously mentioned. More specifically, to indicate a touch, a few cells send the message, but for pain, many more cells send the same message, the number of cells used increasing as the stimulus increases. In my case, however, because I had sustained catastrophic damage, all the available cells are used regardless of the intensity of the stimulus.

Indeed, since the surgery, the slightest nick or splinter or burning of my finger has caused a feeling of pain that has been difficult to ignore. As more nerve fibers have reconnected, this annoyance has lessened as the nerves have been retrained.

This brings us to the pain I felt all day yesterday. I was told that whenever a new connection was made, that particular nerve would begin transmitting pain messages, in a sense announcing that it was "back in business". From experience, I know that this pain will last a few of days, then gradually subside. I've learned to embrace this pain with thankfulness that my body is still healing itself.

I wanted to take the time to write this in the hope that some of you will be awed (as I am) at how, to quote the psalmist, "fearfully and wonderfully" we are made. Our nervous systems are just one bodily system that we take for granted until something happens to interrupt its operation.

As we study the human body, our awe increases with our understanding (at least mine does), and there are many things we just don't understand, but accept as fact.

Perhaps most amazing is the body's ability to heal and regenerate itself with a minimum of help from us. If we just give it a little food, a little water, a little rest, a little protection, and a little nurturing, our bodies continue to function as designed for around "three score and ten" years (also by design). In many cases this function takes place without our even noticing, and in spite of our habits that hinder it.

My hope is, that after reading this, you will be able to be thankful for the pain you feel when injured, understanding a little of what is going on to create the sensation. I know I am!

Shadow Flight

In a year of many "firsts" without my dad, tomorrow is the first Father's Day since he passed away last year. Consequently, I find myself un-moored, drifting through the Father's Day preparations, wondering just how I'm supposed to behave.

Likely I will call my mother in lieu of the traditional call to my dad, checking in with her, and sharing in her emptiness. I will miss my dad, and in spite of many reasons to be joyful, will probably shed some tears because he is gone.

But, mostly, I will be thankful. Thankful that I had my dad for 52+ years. And not only was he a part of my whole life to this point, but our relationship was strong and meaningful. He was my father first, but also a great friend. He was a wise counselor who was always there when I needed him, and I cherished our bond. When he died, we had no regrets (none of any great consequence), and he knew I loved him, and I knew he loved me.

And I will also be thankful that this legacy is being carried on, knowing that I will spend this Father's Day with 7 of my 8 children, and all 4 of my grandchildren (my oldest, Andrea, would be with us if she could). I feel so blessed that all these relationships are intact, and that we all have learned to so highly value our love for one another.

I feel so blessed because there are so many in the world who do not share my experience, and I am grieved because they are trading true treasures for fool's gold.

The scenario (with minor variances) is all too common: A young man, feeling oppressed by a controlling father, cannot wait until he turns 18 so that he can finally be free to live as he wants. And a father, at his wit's end trying to direct a rebellious son, finally longs for the day he will be free from this responsibility.

Most of the time, what is called an oppressive and controlling father by the son, is in fact a father who, out of love for his son and desiring to help him avoid life's hard lessons, resorts to force and ultimatum because he knows no other way, and the father usually regrets this mistake.

And most of the time, what the father calls rebellion, is an unskilled man-boy who is trying to spread his wings, and is frustrated with his own immaturity and inability to make his father understand. The son, too often, discovers his mistake when it is too late to correct it.

For these, Father's Day is a reminder of what they are missing.

Both of them are right, and yet both of them are so very wrong. Unfortunately, pride prevents them each from giving in to the other, and so they seek an end to the pain by going their separate ways. While this resolution seems to solve the problem, the cost is too great. I know this, because I know what is being forfeited.

So for this Father's Day, I want to give a gift to any son who is currently longing for the day he will finally be out from the shadow of his father's rule, and to any father who has grown weary of trying, and secretly waits for the day he can tell his son, "I told you so." It is the secret to a beautiful father-son relationship that will last a lifetime.

First, for the son: The example you should follow is Jesus of Nazareth, who, though he were the creator of all things, and the Lord of Life, said, "I always do what pleases him.", meaning his father. I know there are some real cases of abuse, but usually fathers love their sons, and want what is best for them. They just perform imperfectly. They are men, after all. They want to do well, but still fail. But if you will give up your own will, and do what pleases your father, his heart will be inclined toward you, and like Jesus you will hear, "Behold my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased."

And for you fathers: Follow the example of the prodigal's father, who, when when his son came back, "...saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him." Do not grow weary waiting for your son to mature, but look for it to happen, and when it does, don't make him grovel, but bend over backward to make him glad that he submitted himself to you.

I did not always submit myself to my father as I should have, and I know that I caused him considerable pain, especially in my adolescence. But he humbled himself and forgave me, and was patient with me as I matured, and never gave up on me. I believe he was rewarded for his sacrifice.

Neither was my father perfect. Many times he disciplined me in anger, and occasionally judged me unfairly, but I humbled myself and forgave him, because it was clear he was doing his best, and what he did he did out of love. This small sacrifice on my part has been repaid an hundred-fold.

If you can do this (humble yourself and forgive one another), then you too will find that this small investment was well worth the price compared to the life-long dividends you will reap. And Father's Day will be a time of thanksgiving and not of regret.

Extending Grace

I was remembering an event that happened last summer, that was, on the surface, a baseball travesty, but was ultimately the epitome of human forgiveness.

On June 2, 2010, Armando Galarraga of the Detroit Tigers sought to become only the 21st player in major-league history to accomplish a perfect game, recording all 27 outs without allowing a base runner. Remarkably, there had already been 2 perfect games pitched in 2010, so after Galarraga retired the 26th consecutive batter, it appeared history might be made, as there had never been 3 perfect games thrown the same year.

Then the inexplicable happened. On a ground ball to the first baseman, Galarraga himself covered first base to record the final out, but Jim Joyce, an experienced and well respected umpire called the batter safe at first. Though it is clear from replays, and Joyce readily admits to blowing the call, Galarraga's place in history was irretrievably lost. Major-league baseball has no provision for overturning such a call.

Though, to most of us, baseball is "only a game", it is hard to imagine a more tragic thing happening to someone who has made the sport his life. Of all the great pitchers the game has featured, only a very small percentage ever pitch a game where their "stuff" is un-hittable, AND where the defense plays flawlessly behind them. And since no pitcher has ever done it twice, it is reasonable to assume that Galarraga will never have a chance to duplicate his feat.

But, as incredible as Galarraga's performance was, what I want to focus on is what he did after suffering this bitter disappointment. Because, what followed his "perfect game that wasn't" went beyond the pinnacle of human endeavor, reaching the divine realm. He extended grace to the one who had robbed him of his historical achievement.

Grace is defined as "unmerited favor". Jim Joyce who clearly made an error, did not deserve to be forgiven, and by inference Galarraga had the right to condemn him. But he chose to let it go, and let Jim Joyce go free.

Click this link to view the news story surrounding this event.

We all face disappointment in life, and all of us experience being wronged by another person. What we do afterward, though, is what defines us. Armando Galarraga will always be remembered for having been "cheated" out of pitching a perfect game, but I will always remember him for his perfect example of forgiving the one who committed the wrong against him.

Valentine's Redux

Okay, so my Valentine's Day was hijacked this year. That's okay, that's what "Plan B" is for.

My wife and I play this little game where she says something like, "You don't need to do anything for me for Valentine's Day. It means more when you do something for me that's not expected." And I play along and pretend that I could actually do nothing on February 14th to commemorate our love, and get away with it.

Of course, the true romantic wants to separate himself from the pack by being unique, but, while unique, doing nothing for your wife for Valentine's Day makes you stand out in an undesirable way. Consequently, I usually plan something modest (but original) for the Day of Love, and look for opportunities throughout the year to more fully demonstrate my love for her.

This year, however, my modest plans were derailed when my son bought my wife chocolates and took her out on a "date", and my wife prepared a roast for supper when I had hoped to whisk her away to a restaurant.

Rather than try to force the issue, and cause an unpleasant, uncomfortable evening, I decided to shelve "Project Cupid" for a later date.

Surprise! Today is the day!

And now that the flowers you bought are dead, the candy is gone, and the romantic meal is forgotten in a sea of Hamburger Helper, the rest of you guys are gonna look thoughtless!

Life is a Toboggan Ride

A phrase that has recently entered the Ainsworth Family vernacular, and most often repeated by my wife and I, is: "This is not my life!"

What we mean by this is that the life we are living is not the one we pictured at the beginning. It implies the belief that this is someone else's life, and it is being imposed on us. Too many people have the power to insert themselves into our story, rewriting portions if not overhauling the whole theme. And furthermore, it begs the question, "Who do we need to talk to to remedy the situation?"

A prime example of this is our standard "date night", chronicled in my last post, Mr. Monk Gets Interrupted.

The conclusion I've come to recently, though, is that this really is my life, and that rather than try to determine with whom I need to file a complaint, I need to embrace my life. Like George Bailey, I've discovered that it really is a wonderful life, even if it's not exactly the one I had mapped out for myself.

What occurred to me the other day is that this trip called life is not a cross-country trip in a car, nor even on a motorcycle. No, the modern day vehicles we drive are well designed and easy to control. They do break down sometimes, you may get temporarily lost, or even have an accident, but the vast majority of the time you can easily navigate from Point A to Point B on schedule and without mishap. For most people, Life isn't like that. For most people, Life is a toboggan ride.

If you've ever ridden a toboggan, especially with 4 or 5 other people, down an ungroomed, snow-covered hill, you have an idea of what I'm talking about. If you've ever been responsible for steering such a toboggan, then you know exactly what I mean.

These days, when driving a modern vehicle, you program your trip in your GPS, then follow the step-by-step instructions until you reach your destination. If you should happen to get off course, a pleasant voice immediately informs you of your error, and announces, "Recalculating route". Some of them even help you avoid construction zones and traffic delays. And if your vehicle is well maintained, you have brakes, signal lights, and steering to quickly, efficiently, and safely make the necessary corrections.

It's true that some people have the advantage of "voices" directing them through life, but these are often fickle, deceptive, and unreliable.

On the toboggan ride of life, you pretty well have just one shot at getting it right. Spending time planning your run is paramount, because once you start gaining momentum, course corrections are difficult and protracted, and slowing down or stopping may be impossible, depending on the steepness of the hill. Also, despite the best of planning, unseen obstacles and undulations in the snow may throw you off course, sending you in an unwanted direction.

For best results, you also need the cooperation of everyone riding with you, working together to steer and brake by leaning and using hands and feet. Your passengers need to be willing to hang on, too, even in the face of danger. Otherwise, you'll need to find a way to get stopped, regather everyone, and start again, perhaps attending to injuries in the process.

While it is certain that everyone will get to the end of their ride, very few actually wind up close to where they had originally planned. You might consider yourself a failure for having "missed it". You might even cry, "Foul!" because you didn't understand that so many outside forces would inevitably send you off course.

However, that's the nature of sledding. In spite of your careful planning, once you launch yourself from the top of the hill, it will be a constant battle to stay on course. You'll be tossed to the side. You may lose a passenger or two along the way, and you may crash. Hopefully you'll be able to avoid hitting any trees, bringing a premature end to your ride. If you get too far off course, you may need to stop, and take a long, arduous hike back to the right path before setting off again.

But if you understand all this before hand, and you're prepared for it, it's a blast! The wind and snow spray in your face is exhilarating! The speed of the ride, and being on the edge of losing control causes a rush of adrenaline, sharpening the senses and making you feel alive.

Also, the occasional "flat spot" or "dumping" gives you time to catch your breath, and reassess your situation, measuring how far you've come and how much is left to go. It gives you a chance, too, to look back at your trail and reminisce. Every "swoosh" in the track, every sitzmark, every footprint tells a part of the story, reminding you of your successes and your failures. The best parts being told and retold, again and again. The worst parts being left behind and forgotten.

And the greatest reward is sharing the journey with others, the people you love. Laughing together, crying together, facing fear together, loving together, and making common memories. These things are what make the ride enjoyable. And life is not a destination, but a journey.

This IS my life, and it's wonderful, George Bailey!

Mr. Monk Gets Interrupted

My wife and I (especially my wife) have become fans of the TV series, Monk, which is available on Netflix. The show chronicles the exploits of a gifted detective who also has OCD. My wife laughs about how she identifies too much with Mr. Monk's affliction. I think the show is therapy for her.

Watching Monk has become our default choice for date nights, sitting on our love seat with a bowl of popcorn and a glass of wine.

As romantic and enjoyable as this might sound, or should be, we hardly ever get to enjoy an episode without interruption, much to my vexation.

The usual culprit in the undermining of our date is our handicapped son, Ethan. Because he eats at a different time (later) than the rest of the family, we usually have to work around his special meal, often opting to feed him during an "intermission". But this is just the beginning.

Ethan's sensory issues make it hard for him to quietly listen to anything, especially the loud noises or suspenseful music that accompany many movies and TV shows. His response to it is to begin "bucking" in his chair, or vociferate in a crescendoing "Aahhhahhhahhaaahh!". We've learned that subtitles and more volume are no match for his complaints, and eventually we must press pause and give in to his demands.

Another ploy Ethan uses is to choose our date as the perfect time for vomiting or using the toilet, both of which, in addition to interrupting our date, also score a direct hit to my mojo.

Lest you think I bear ill will toward Ethan for this, I don't. I know he is more aware than we give him credit for (he laughs at times that are entirely too appropriate), and at times I think he does some of these things to get attention, but overall I know he is not to blame. I love my son, and I am often thankful that we have it as good as we do with him.

Besides, he is not the only date night interloper. My wife, God bless her, tries to accommodate my plans for romance by notifying people she communicates with that she is on a date with me. However, inevitably, someone will chat her, text her, or call her, or one of our other children will present themselves requiring immediate attention. And my wife, God bless her, will respond, because it's in her DNA to sacrifice herself as a servant to others. But I don't hold this against her, either, because it's who she is, and I love this about her. And I don't feel badly towards the people who need her, either. They love her, and I love them for doing so.

So we finish what we're watching with popcorn and wine long gone, fires of passion extinguished, and more often than not, with me falling asleep just before the case is solved (Leslie has to tell me whodunit). Then we trundle off to bed, turning down the thermostat, making coffee, flipping light switches and taking turns in the bathroom on our way. Talk about about the proverbial "wet blanket"!

I used to be resentful about this scenario, feeling like a playwright whose script is mangled by actors who liberally improvise their parts. If I'm honest, I still battle with feelings of disappointment when things don't go as I have hoped.

However, these recent realizations have helped me gain a new perspective on all of this:

1. The most important purpose to our dates is that we spend time together doing something we enjoy, and the stilted manner in which we're forced to spend this time doesn't need to lessen the enjoyment.
   
2. Though we once thought we didn't want any children, we changed our minds, and so have chosen this path of "family life".
   
3. I'm being selfish wanting to have such a wonderful person as my wife all to myself. What makes me think I'm worthy of such an honor?
   
4. If romance frequently takes one on the chin, love does not. I cannot be thankful enough for this.
   
5. Our children, though feigning embarrassment at our demonstrative (but not indecent) behavior, they actually love that we love each other. Consequently they willingly take care of Ethan for us while we go to the symphony, eat out or hole up in our bedroom for our date. I revel in this, even though I might still fall asleep before the criminal is brought to justice.

So, here's the thing: If the actors in my play tend to "wing it" rather than stick to my script, and if an occasional flubbed line causes a disruption to the flow, it's still our story. It's us! And I love us! And if night after night the audience (God's angels) applaud our performance of love, what's to be discouraged or disappointed about?

Can I get a "Bravo!"?

Duck, or Decoy?

There is nothing that brings out the little boy in me like a good, old-fashioned snowball fight. I just can't resist getting involved.

Fortunately for me, my children (boys and girls) have obliged me and joined in many a "fight", to the delight of all of us.

On rare occasions we have even managed to involve their mother, but usually only for brief moments, when she pulls a sudden and unexpected sneak attack, then retreats to the safety of our home to "make cocoa".

Our battles usually begin as an "every man for himself" shootout, then fall into natural teams trying to drive the enemy army from the land, but inevitably turn into "everybody against Dad". It's at this point I have to show what I'm made of, and take my licks. Because I cannot win. Not any more.

It used to be, even when there were greater numbers of them at home, they were small, had poor aim and limited range. Now, however, they are big (they will all eventually be taller than I), strong boys with deadly skills. Even the littlest one throws bullets. No, I will be crying for mercy in a short time, and they will love it.

My one triumph, however, is my signature move - the decoy. After all these years, it still works. As a matter of fact, I used it successfully again today. The concept is simple, but very effective. After a time of slinging snowballs one at a time, you hurriedly make two, without being seen. Then, after choosing your victim, lob one at him (or her).

(Okay, while you are picturing that snowball, suspended in mid-air, let me explain something. In our family it is a moral victory to catch a snowball thrown at you, and blast your enemy with his own artillery.)

Now, back to the arcing projectile, which your target will undoubtedly attempt to catch: Part two of the scheme is to drill your opponent with your second snowball while his eyes are diverted to the first. Surprise!

I think the thing I love the most about the decoy is that I learned it from my Dad. Growing up in Idaho and Utah, I saw the trick demonstrated countless times, with equal success.

Sometimes this ploy works even when it doesn't work. The most memorable decoy attempt in history is the time Charlotte tried it on Andrea. As prescribed, Charlotte lofted her first snowball high into the air, anticipating the raised eyes of her gullible quarry which would signal the time to strike with the "kill shot". But to Charlotte's dismay, Andrea was wise to her trick, ignored the decoy and waited for the second throw. What happened next has never before or since been duplicated in the annals of Ainsworth Family Snowtainment. Charlotte's first throw came down immaculately, scoring a direct hit on the top of Andrea's head! The effect was equally surprising, as all participants were knocked to the ground by the blow, in genuine RITSLOL convulsions.

Yes, the decoy has served me well over the years, claiming each one of my snow-throwing children as casualties, some several times. I have wondered, on occasion, if they were really falling for the trick, or were just letting me have my fun because they knew how much I enjoy it. Either way, I know they are now well enough versed in it that they will pass on this tradition to their own children, who I hope will pass it on to theirs.

Yep! There's nothing like a good snowball fight to make me feel young again. Uh oh! It's time to take my licks! Incoming!

A Bright Life

Had he not passed away last July, my dad would have been 78 today.

My father had a gift for expressing his heart in poetry, a gift which I failed to fully appreciate until now. For the past six months I have been composing a poem in my head to commemorate this day, and now that it's finished, I'm unsatisfied.

How do you capture a person's life in a few stanzas? Maybe that's my problem. The subject is too large to be written on one page. And yet, it was so brief, like a flash of light.

A Bright Life

We watched in awe
As your meteor
Swept across the sky
Drawing a beautiful arc
Illuminating the landscape

Many were not watching
Did not look up
Many more were too distant
To see the sight
And remained unenlightened

But those of us who saw
Who followed the trajectory
Were witnesses to your brightness
We were transfixed
And were left breathless

Though the splendor was fleeting
The afterimage continued
Still visible to our eyes
Giving hope that
You might remain with us

But now your light fades
The blackness returns
Stillness gives way to motion
And though we desire to linger
Life goes on

Thanks, Dad, for teaching us
That whatever we do
Though it's insignificant
And will not long be remembered
It's important that we do it

Following your example
We will streak across The Cosmos
Braving the atmosphere
Blazing until we're exhausted
Shooting stars all

Happy Birthday, Dad. We miss you.

Don't Do the Math

We had a great day yesterday, my son and I, and his friend Daryl. But what made it great wasn't what you might expect.

Samuel and I had a pressure washing job about 1 1/2 hours north of us. To get there early enough meant getting up at 3:00 a.m., loading the truck with our equipment, and hitting the road by 5:00. It was about 35 degrees when we left the house, and not quite 40 when we got to the site, with the wind out of the north at about 6 mph. It was cold and felt colder.

When we got to the site I discovered that I had forgotten a fitting required to connect the new telescoping wand to my pressure washer. A trip to Lowe's to get another fitting, and we were ready to go, but already behind schedule.

The job we were tasked to perform was washing the bird droppings from the cornices over second story windows at an upscale strip mall. The ledges over the windows apparently provide the perfect place for birds to perch and "do their business", creating quite a mess. In no time at all it was literally raining cold water and bird poop.

While the new telescoping wand was the right tool for the job (we had previously tried cleaning from the top of our ladder), it quickly became evident that the counter pressure required to keep the tip still while the water pressure tried to move it was going to be exhausting work. Also, because I only got the 18 footer, and not the 24 footer, we were required to stand in the back of my truck, or on a step ladder to be able to reach the offending feces.

With determination Samuel and I worked, alternating operating the pressure washer and climbing the ladder to clean the windows behind. By 1:00 p.m. we were just beyond half finished, but tired and in need of food and water. I offered to go get lunch while the boys watched our equipment, but when I got in the truck I realized that I had left the keys in the "on" position, and the battery was dead. Oy vey! (I may have uttered some other, similar exclamation).

No problem. My truck has a manual transmission, so the three of us could just push-start it! Unfortunately, because I have been neglecting to give it a much needed tune-up, I couldn't keep it running after popping the clutch. First the boys, then all three of us pushed the truck back and forth across the parking lot (about 8 times in all) trying to get our meal-ticket running. Finally I gave up and went in search of a Good Samaritan with jumper cables. Being successful with that, we were soon able to quiet our hunger.

Weary muscled, we went back to work. With the sun moving rapidly to the other side of the building, though, the shade and the inevitable cooler temperatures enveloped us. We spoke about quitting and returning another day, but with the end in sight we decided to press on. With cold and fatigue settling in, the work surges grew shorter, and the respites grew longer (at least for me). Samuel kept willing himself to ignore the pain, and began doing part of my work to keep us going. Daryl may have had the most difficult job - changing the pressure washer tips and holding the ladder for us. At least the work we were doing kept our muscles warm and our blood pumping.

Finally, we finished about 5:30 p.m. The truck was packed by 6:00, and we were on our way home. Once again, however, we encountered an obstacle. Maintenance on the North Dallas Tollway brought traffic to a standstill, turning our 1 1/2 hour commute into 3 hours. We finally dragged ourselves into the house at 9:00 p.m.

So what made this day great? I believe it was the grace we found to face every obstacle, one at a time, and overcome it. In our camaraderie we found strength and courage. And in spite of the difficulties that haunted us throughout the day, we had fun. And we laughed. In fact, one "laugh-out-loud" moment, starring yours truly, may soon be a viral video on You Tube. And at the end I felt a deep, satisfying feeling of having accomplished a difficult task without succumbing to the temptation to quit, nor complaining about my plight. And the boys share in this victory, making it that much more special. Today, instead of our aching muscles causing us to mope around and complain, we wear them like medals of valor given to faithful soldiers.

Borrowing a line from an old Bill Cosby routine, "I told you that story so I could tell you this one.", I finally get to my main point.

Last night I remembered the words of the apostle Paul, who said, "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.", and I realized that the faithful life is accomplished by stringing together faithful days, like the one we shared yesterday. No one lives their life in a moment.

Our tendency is to look too far into the future and worry about what we will face. I believe this is one reason so many of us fail at keeping our New Year's Resolutions. Taking the perennial "I will lose 30 pounds this year" promise as an example, we begin with fervor, but when, after 2 weeks, we have only lost 2 pounds, we "do the math" and realize it will take 7 more months of battling our fleshly appetite to reach our goal. And because 7 months worth of dieting is too much for today, we give up. But you don't need to do all 196 days today, you only need to do one. And that you can do!

In the same way, God will not send all your trials to you at once. "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." This verse from Matthew 6 is not intended to warn you about impending trouble, but to encourage you to live life one day at a time. God knows that facing all the storms of life all at once will be too much for us, but he also knows that it's easily within our reach to end each day saying, "I have kept the faith."

What will make 2011 different?

Even though the beginning of a new year is the perfect time to make a fresh start, I've been having difficulty getting inspired to write something, well, inspiring.

Instead, I think I'll allow someone else to say what's on my mind. Here's an excerpt from Sand in the Gears writer, Tony Woodlief's article, Are You Resolved?:

It’s worth asking ourselves, each of us alone, in the lonely night’s dark when bluster and delusion have left us, when the hard truths of our lives press in close as shadows. What are you prepared to do?

There’s so much I need to do, and so little I feel prepared to do, but those sad truths are neither here nor there. The question isn’t about what we aim to accomplish, so much as it is about what we strive for with everything that’s good within us.

For the entire article, click here.

Happy New Year, everyone!